“Hush.” She took her turn to gently push him away—he was hovering and making to wipe her neck clean, and she needed a moment to collect herself. “Lie down. Catch your breath.” She had a handkerchief on her night table, and she used it to clean herself.
When she turned back to him, he was sprawled in a way that called to mind her starfish pose. He looked very satisfied, like a cat who’d had his fill of cream. He was a starfish-cat.
“I didn’t know about that,” he said as she lay next to him, propping her head on her hand.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“No,” he said promptly. “Not at all.”
She swatted his chest—or she meant to, but before she could retract her hand he captured it, pressing it against his chest with his own. He was back to being silent, but it wasn’t the stern, impenetrable silence of before. It was harmonious, fond.
She let the quiet unfold for a few minutes as his breathing returned to normal. Eventually, he heaved himself up and shimmied down the bed, stopping when he was lying on his stomach, his head level with her hips.
He pushed her legs open and let his fingers lazily stroke her folds, watching her closely. When he found what he was looking for, she gasped. It was a genuine gasp, but it also seemed to work to signal him that he had arrived at his destination. It made sense. He had spoken yesterday about wanting to find this spot on her body.
And then he shocked her by lowering his mouth to it.
Pleasure—still laced with shock—sliced through her, making her back arch off the bed.
He followed her pelvis with his head, using his hands on her hips to guide them back down to the bed. Reapplying himself, he began kissing her, gently at first and then more insistently.
“How did you know to do this?” she heard herself saying. She wanted to kick herself. Why was she asking this questionnow?
He lifted his head. “Should I not be? Is this wrong?”
“Not at all.” Nothing had ever felt more right, in fact, but she couldn’t quite make herself be that effusive. “Please continue.”
“I simply thought that if your mouth on the source of my pleasure was so shattering, perhaps my mouth on the source of yours would be, too. Are you certain I am not incorrect?”
“I am certain!”
“In truth, I have been finding being with you not unlike the act of painting. An image arrives in my mind. In this case, it is an image of you prostrate, me with my head between your legs. The image . . . begins to overtake me. And then I make it manifest.”
“You, my friend, are the most remarkable man I have ever met.”
“If that is true, I worry for the state of men.”
He was back to his usual charming, self-deprecating self. That was a relief.
Wasn’t it?
She put on her best seductive smile. “Perhaps we can debate the state of men later, if you don’t mind.”
She thought he would launch a witty rejoinder, or perhaps flash her one of his signature Effie smiles and return to his task, but he did neither. He cocked his head and stared at her for a long moment before saying, “Will you take your hair down?”
Her hair was still up—somewhat—in the chignon she’d worn to dinner. She worked the pins out and combed through the tangles with her fingers. It was likely to be a curly, wild mess. “All right?”
He nodded, but he sat up and guided her back to the pillow, where he spent a moment arranging her hair against it. She understood now. He was making his painting. Makingtheirpainting.
When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he nodded and slid back down between her legs.
“You’ll tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t like, won’t you, Jules?”
She murmured her agreement, and that was the last word she spoke for a very long time.
* * *
Julianna awakened sometime later and reflected upon the fact that she had never fallen asleep as readily as in recent days. There was something about the utter satiation she felt after an encounter with Effie that tipped her right into a deep, dreamless sleep. She let herself return to wakefulness slowly—she was on holiday, after all—luxuriating in relaxation and contentment.
