Her gown fell into a pool of green silk about her feet.
His head lowered slowly and he placed his lips with the greatest gentleness on the exact place where her shoulder met her arm.“S’il vous plaît, Juliette.”
She shivered as his hands moved to the tie of her petticoat. She knew he was trying to tell her something, but the fever of need was rising and she couldn’t think,
The petticoats fell to the floor and his hands moved up to caress her breasts through the thin linen of her chemise, squeezing and releasing rhythmically. She made a sound low in her throat and closed her eyes as sensation after sensation rippled through her.
“I’ve been thinking about how you looked lying on the bunk on the ship, how brave you were at the Place de la Révolution. And I recalled the child I first knew at the inn at Versailles. I thought about how you told me you felt when you painted. Swathed in moonlight and sunlight…” As the last of her undergarments fluttered to the floor he whispered, “Drunk on rainbows…”
“Did I say that?” Dear heaven, that had been over five years before at the inn when she had first met him. “That was a long time ago. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I probably remember every word you’ve ever said to me.” His fingers moved down to pet and caress the curls surrounding her womanhood. “I’ve decided I’m jealous of your painting. I want to be the one to show you rainbows.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. “Pleasure. Pleasure so intense it’s close to pain. The way you feel when you’re painting.” He laid her on the black velvet spread, then followed her down and gently parted her thighs. He entered her slowly, carefully, until he filled her entirely. Her nails dug into the velvet coverlet. His very slowness and deliberateness was unbearably erotic and sensual.“Yourpleasure, Juliette.”
And in the fevered hours that followed she came to realize that it was her pleasure alone of which he was speaking. He used his knowledge of her body and responses to arouse and sustain her pleasure at heights they’d never before reached in their months together. Time after time he roused her to a frenzy of passion and then gave her an equally fiery release.
But he never once allowed himself release, never permitted himself that final climax of passion.
Afternoon became evening and their coming together became less frantic but still urgent.
“Jean Marc…” She could scarcely speak through the hot haze of pleasure still surrounding her as she held him tightly within her body. “Why…?”
He looked down and his warm smile embraced her.“I told you once I’d learned to control my responses over the years of playing the game.” He leaned down and kissed her lingeringly. “I saw no reason why I shouldn’t use that control to bring you pleasure.”
And then, finally, she understood. He would probably never say the words, but this self-imposed restraint was an apology for all his past attempts to dominate and subjugate her. The tears stung her eyes as she looked up at him. Jean Marc truly must care for her if he would give up his blasted battleground and yield so much to her.
“Was it enough?” Jean Marc whispered.
She nodded. “Rainbows…”
“Then”—his voice was almost inaudible—“s’il vous plaît, may I take my own pleasure?”
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Please, Jean Marc.”
He moved swiftly, strongly, the expression on his face harshly contorted as if he were in pain. Perhaps he was in pain. The past hours of restraint must have been incredibly difficult for him.
Only a moment later he stiffened, throwing his head back, the cords of his neck distended, as shudder after shudder of release convulsed his body.
He collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in gasps. “Mother of God, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.”
She didn’t see how hehaddone it. She gently stroked back a dark lock of his hair that had fallen down on his forehead. “Jean Marc, I believe you must be as idiotically noble as that crazy old Don Quixote in the Cervantes book. You didn’t have to—”
“Noble? Nonsense. Pleasure has nothing to do with nobility of the soul.” He moved off Juliette and lay down beside her. He drew her into his arms and held her close. He was trembling, shivering, as if he had been through a terrible ordeal.
“You think not?” Her arms slid around him and she held him possessively, protectively.
The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing.
“You’re sure it was enough?” Jean Marc asked when his breathing had steadied. “I wanted it to be another ‘something beautiful’ for you to remember.”
She nodded as she drew closer to his long, strong body. How could it not be enough? she wondered as she blinked back the tears. This surrender had been no easy thing for him. He had made himself vulnerable to her and at the same time given her his trust. “Oh, yes, it was, Jean Marc.” She pressed a loving kiss in the hollow of his throat. “Something very, very beautiful.”
The bitch was back.
Dupree felt the joy rise within him as he moved out of the shadows of the house across the square from the Andreas residence. His mother had been right as usual. Everyone was coming to him. The de Clement bitch had returned to her lover, Andreas. Even the Vasaro girl had arrived on the scene. If he wished, he could go to Robespierre and denounce both women—and Andreas for harboring them.
