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“No.” It wasn’t a rebuke, not when it was delivered with such ease. This was a woman accustomed to having people heed her commands. Manuela had met generals with less poise. She raised an eyebrow in question when Manuela remained silent. Her lips were so full and plump, it was almost obscene. It was such a stark face in some ways, but that mouth was as inviting as perfectly ripe fruit. One could not look at it and not crave a bite. “Tell me about my fresco, princess.”
Had the request been about anything other than her thoughts on a piece of art, Manuela would likely be too awestruck to come up with a sensible answer, but this was the one thing she never faltered on. And she was vain enough to want to make an impression on this mysterious woman who had quite literally swept her off her feet.
“It’s the point of view,” she declared and her companion turned her face up to the ceiling at the comment. The tip of one shiny burgundy boot tapped on the floor as she considered Manuela’s words. “Simply from the effect it has on me, the places my eyes are drawn to. I know it was a woman who conceived it.”
“Fascinating,” she said, still looking up.
“It’s the way they’re looking at each other, you see,” Manuela explained, pointing a finger at the ceiling. “It’s so active. There’s no flaccidity, no languidness to these women. These Graces are positively galvanized with each other. The desire is palpable.” Another one of those curious sounds escaped her companion, encouraging her to go on. “They are in front of what they want and are free to reach for it, utterly unguarded in their desire. This artist understands that women are only mysterious to those who don’t deserve their naked honesty.” This earned Manuela a surprised look and an almost rueful smile.
“My friend Cassandra made it.”
“Cassandra Aguzzi Durocher,” Manuela guessed.
“Very good, princess.”
Manuela’s entire body lit up from the praise, paired with the very appreciative glance at her décolletage. She was wearing at least five layers of clothing, but this woman made her feel exposed, undefended. “I saw her work at the Biennale in Florence last year. I’d recognize her style anywhere. It’s exquisite.” Cassandra Aguzzi Durocher was a very well-known Brazilian landscape artist. She was quite gifted, but she was of particular interest to Manuela because a few years earlier she’d caused quite the scandal after fleeing to Paris with her lover—a Peruvian lady doctor.
“You are quite exquisite yourself.” There was so much promise in those words, Manuela imagined her body electrified like Eiffel’s tower in the evenings. More emboldened now, she challenged herself to press closer. Their heights differed by a few inches so the top of her breasts brushed against the woman’s smaller chest. It was delicious friction, she almost whimpered at the thought of being naked with this languid, sultry creature. Of looking her fill, while her hands roamed the lines of her. Pressing their bodies together until their hills and valleys were meshed.
A fingernail softly dug into her chin, bringing her back to the moment as her face was lifted. Her throat went dry with aching need, her insides blooming again. Firm fingers now cupped her cheek.
“Have you ever been kissed by another woman?”
“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. Lips tingling from the promise in those amethyst eyes.
“Did you like it?”
Manu attempted to answer, but when she parted her lips a nervous puff of air was all she could produce. She was confronted with a foxy, wily smile that weakened her knees.
“Is that why you came here tonight? To be kissed?”
Nothing she’d envisioned as she entered that hallway could’ve prepared her for what she’d actually found, however she was finally remembering what she’d come searching for.
“I wouldn’t mind being kissed by you.” Blood rushed to her temples at her boldness, but the corners of that ripe mouth tipped up with amusement.
“You look like an angel.”
“And would you be the devil in disguise, poised to be my downfall?” Manuela probed flirtatiously, annoyed by the disappointment she felt at the woman’s fixation with her looks. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Why did that bother her?
Because that was the only thing people saw. Because it was the only thing they ever cared to see. What had she expected? This was a brothel. A place for anonymous trysts. Not a place to find love. Not that love had any place in the life Manuela has chosen for herself.
Still, she wanted the kiss more than her next breath. She stretched up eagerly and felt a hand at her lower back, bringing her closer. She strained for it, lifted herself farther. She closed her eyes, parting her lips expectantly, her mouth dry while her pulse fluttered frantically in her throat.
The jarring sound of a clock striking midnight broke them apart, sending Manuela stumbling back with a yelp.
Antonio.
“My friend,” she said regretfully as she moved for the door, then remembered she was in her bare feet.
When she turned, the Amazon was standing behind her with her slippers in one hand, the other on her hip in a provocative stance.
“There is no Prince Charming here, Cinderella,” she teased, handing over the slippers.
“I have no use for a Prince Charming,” Manuela declared, her more brazen self finally making an appearance as she slid on her footwear. “The villains are always much more intriguing.”
The other woman sent her a long, heated look but didn’t move, and she was quite done with waiting. Impulsively she rushed forward, rose on the tips of her toes and stole a kiss from that tempting mouth. At first, it was a soft, tentative kiss, but soon she was being pulled closer and skilled lips were taking hers with dizzying skill. Yes, this was what she needed. She was floating, her legs, her body loosening to this seductive caress. Her body coming alive with every touch.
“Mademoiselle, a gentleman is looking for you,” someone called from the door, wrenching her away again.
