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“Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me berating you.”
“I needed it,” he said. “And I even liked it. But you liked it, too.”
She shook her head. She had to put a stop to this. “Arthur, you know we can’t get married. You’re being ridiculous.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “That…” he said, pointing at her easel, “is going to look perfect hanging in our home—right over the fireplace. And eventually in the morning room at Wingthorn.”
Regan was too shy with her art to employ a model, so she’d done what artists had been doing since the mirror was invented and had painted a self-portrait. A simple portrait of a woman painting herself, but if anyone looked closely, they’d see it was full of symbols. On the side table in her painting lay a strand of pearls, a wristwatch, her plait, all discarded. She called itA Portrait of an Artist.
“‘I paint flowers,’” she said, “‘so they will not die.’” She smiled at him. “Frida Kahlo said that.”
“You’re not going to die. I won’t let you. Eventually, yes—when you’re a hundred and seventy-three. Not a day before.”
“You are living in a dream world,” she said.
“Yes, and you’re going to live in it with me. Ready?”
“You want children, don’t you?”
“No,” he said, “I want you.”
“Don’t you want someone you can grow old with?”
“You’re wasting time. I’m in the army. I could get my head blown off tomorrow, you know.”
“I’ll make a terrible wife for you. Look at me. I’m covered in paint, look a mess, never want to wear high heels again…”
He reached past her and picked up the bowl of blueberries she’d been snacking on that morning and put it into her hands. Then he dropped to his knees and looked up at her, waiting.
She felt like Eve in the Garden, about to feed the forbidden fruit to Adam and about to make the whole world fall.
Ah, who was she kidding? She wasn’t Eve and he wasn’t Adam. She wasn’t Morgan Le Fay and he wasn’t King Arthur. But shewasRegan Ferry and hewasthe man she loved.
She popped a blueberry into his mouth.
He swallowed it and smiled. The next thing she knew she was on her back with her pants round her ankles and his cock was out and pressing hard against her stomach. She reached down and grasped the thick shaft, stroked it and held it firmly.
“You belong to me,” she said into his ear.
“Only you.”
She wanted him beyond words. Her blood rushed through her veins, and her cunt throbbed in anticipation of being entered. He pushed up her shirt, yanked down the cups of her bra to bare her breasts. He sucked them until they were hard and tender. She moaned as he lifted her and thrust into her, impaling her. Regan gave a cry, shameless, for all the world to hear. His cock split her and filled her. She’d never been so wet, so slick and open so that it felt like he pounded right into the deepest core of her. Her moans were loud and anguished. He grunted in her ear with his rough thrusts, an animal sound. He held her hard against his chest and the fabric of his shirt abraded her nipples. Regan wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him. And when her climax came and shattered her, she was too broken to stop herself from crying out his name, from crying out that she loved him.
He gasped at her words and came inside her with thrust after thrust until he was empty, until she was full again.
After that final, savage orgasm, they stayed bound together, her legs around his hips, his arms around her back.
“I always wanted to make love in Paris,” she said.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. “You love me?”
“Of course I do, Brat,” she said as if it were as obvious as two plus two. She left the tangle of his arms reluctantly, stood up and pulled herself together. “Why do you think I left you? I wanted you to be happy more than I wanted me to be happy.”
“Guess what? There’s a way we canbothbe happy…”
Before she knew it, he was standing on his feet, and she was thrown over his shoulder.
