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A single swipe and Margot was dragged under.
“Come with me,” she panted, chasing the climax that burned like wildfire through her. Margot wasn’t even sure how her body was capable of such a thing, again, though clearly it was, with the right partner. Wanting to return the favor, she bit into Ara’s soft throat, suckling hard and knowing she’d leave a bruise, right as she added a third finger and pressed down with the heel of her palm.
“Bloody hell!” Ara yelped at the combined stretch and pressure on her clitoris, her entire frame seizing and shuddering as a second orgasm crashed onto the heels of the first. Those pink lips parted on a soundless cry as her head fell back, a sheen of dusky color staining her skin. Her pulse fluttered wildly, abdominal muscles contracting and flexing with the force of her release.
Margot stared in complete reverence. Ara in front of an easel with her face creased in concentration was mesmerizing, but Ara writhing against crumpled bedsheets, spine arched, eyes unfocused, and lost in the throes of bliss was a thing of wonder. Her entire body, wrought in the brilliant hues of pleasure, was a study in the most primal form of art. Heavens but she was the most glorious thing Margot had ever seen. All glowing, sweaty golden-brown skin and sleek, shivering limbs.
“How was that?” she asked when Ara had quieted.
Ara laughed, the rich sound filling the room like music. “Considering you fucked me so hard I’m having trouble seeing straight, I would say rather phenomenal.”
Chapter Six
Ara wasn’t lying. She hadn’t been so well-pleasured in, well, ever.
Then again, this was Margot. A thunderstorm in a woman’s body.
Said thunderstorm stretched out languorously like a cat beside Ara, all endless limbs and mouthwatering curves. Despite just having come so hard that there were still white spots in her vision, Ara was starving for her again. That lush body of hers was positively sinful, entirely capable of tempting whole civilizations to kneel at her overflowing altar. Fuck, she could still taste her sweetness.
Lazily, she curled herself around Margot’s warmth, draping one leg over hers as Ara smiled to herself, her sated core giving a lustful, needy throb. This was the problem with giving in to one’s addiction. One could never get enough, and she had the feeling she’d never get enough of Margot. When this ended—and Ara knew it would eventually—the loss would be soul-crushing. But that time wasn’t now, and she intended to stay in the moment for as long as she could.
“So, this is where you sleep,” Margot murmured, peering curiously around.
“Sleep and other things now,” Ara replied cheekily.
A brow arched over passion-blown, blue-gray eyes, making Ara’s breath hitch. It was indecent what that one eyebrow could do. Ara sucked in an inhale and told her body to behave.
“Not even with Sandrine?”
The question was so quiet, Ara barely heard it, but the vulnerability there was obvious. “No one but you,” Ara said. “She is a friend, nothing more, I promise.”
Margot exhaled as if something heavy had left her shoulders. “I like your décor.”
Ara glanced around the open space she called home. Considering Margot lived in Mayfair with an army of servants, she was probably used to opulence and excess, while Ara preferred simplicity, comfort, and clean lines. Unlike the artistic chaos in her studio downstairs, the walls here were bare of clutter except for three or four pieces of art that she had collected over the years. A colorful throw lay over the sofa on the far end of the room, opposite the alcove that held her bed, and a handmade tapestry covered one wall. The bathing and dressing rooms took up the other side of the space. As with most houses, the kitchen was in the basement.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been up here after all these weeks,” Margot murmured, propping herself up and curious eyes taking in every inch. “It’s the opposite of your studio.”
Normally Ara didn’t enjoy having anyone in her private space, but observing Margot, who seemed to be cataloguing everything with genuine interest, made her inexplicably happy. She liked the idea of Margot knowing who she was, seeing all of her with all her quirks and idiosyncrasies. But most of all, she wanted Margot to let her in, too. To trust her with the secrets she carried in that barricaded heart of hers.
Ara rubbed her nose. “Sometimes I need a calm space. This is my haven.” She disentangled herself from her embrace and walked naked over to the mantel. “Drink?”
“Water, please,” Margot said with another long stretch before she rose, too. Ara hid her smile when she reached for the robe draped over the end of the bed. The mighty Marchioness of Waverly was endearingly bashful. Ara would make sure she lost that shyness in short order. Her body was art in motion, and Ara planned to tell her that as often as she could. “I seem to have a fondness for your robes,” Margot said when she noticed Ara watching.
“I like you in them.”
Ducking her head to hide her pleased expression, Margot wandered over to the bookcase where her fingers danced over the spines of Ara’s favorite novels. She moved on to a figurine of a couple so intertwined there was no way to tell whose body was whose at first glance. “Infinitely Wound,” she read off the small metal plate at its base. “Did you make this?”
Ara looked up from the pitcher of water. “I did. It was my first foray into sculpture.”
“It reminds me of your paintings,” Margot said, her palm skimming over the entangled alabaster forms. “So much passion. You never do things by halves, do you?”
“I try not to, but being open to passion means that you also open yourself up to pain.”
A curious gaze met hers. “Is it worth it?”
“For art, absolutely.” Ara shrugged. “For my heart, however, that remains to be seen.” She handed Margot the glass, delighting in the flush when she surreptitiously skimmed Ara’s nude body, her pupils dilating with a burst of desire.
“You’re so comfortable in your own skin,” Margot murmured. “I thought that about you the first day I met you. You love who you are.”
