Taboo Page 6

  “I’m starved,” she said, reaching for a chunk of cheese and a slice of bread. “Did I sleep long?”

  “Just long enough for the light to become absolute perfection.”

  As Bridge disrobed, she dressed. And just like that, they returned to their former roles. Bridge resumed his pose on the settee while Fallon donned her smock and took up her paints and brushes, just in time to be interrupted by a discreet knock at the studio door.

  Chapter 6

  She used the time it took to reach the door to compose herself. Her houseman, Franklin, stood just outside and she swallowed the sensation of alarm, knowing he wouldn’t dream of interrupting her on a whim.

  “Franklin, what is it? Is something wrong?”

  The man was a dear, but he had a problem with stammering and now proved no exception. Fallon forced herself to be patient as he floundered.

  “B-b-begging yer p-pardon, misssus, b-but the Captain Mum has just now arrived.”

  “The Captain Mum.” Dear Lord, her mother-in-law. What timing! Fallon pulled her thoughts together frantically while poor Franklin stood wringing his hands together. “How does she seem?”

  “P-p-pardon?”

  “She’s bound to be tired after her journey. Have Mrs.Buttle prepare her room and fix her a tea tray. Please inform her I’m working in my studio and shall see her after she is rested.”

  “V-very gooood, missus.”

  She shut the door behind the man and turned to Bridge, who was watching her with unabashed interest.

  “Just who, pray tell, is the Captain Mum?”

  “My late husband’s mother. She’s rather demanding, at best. Quite in her second childhood.”

  “Some of us, on the other hand, never quite leave our first.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Fallon resumed her spot at the easel. Bridge was right: the lighting was nothing short of perfection. As was her subject. There was no sound in the studio save that of their breathing and the soft swish of sable bristles against the canvas.

  Fallon felt remarkably uplifted. Her work had reached a new, higher dimension and so had she. All due to Bridge.

  As a model, he was an inspiring subject. The light loved him, dancing along his skin, emphasizing the contours of his rugged muscular torso, his strong legs and shoulders. And his hands. How she loved his hands. As she concentrated on painting them, on detailing each knuckle, she recalled the way those hands made her feel; the erogenous zones that sprang to life beneath those talented fingers.

  She felt herself flush and tingle at the memory. The bowl of whipped cream caught her eye. She could so easily put aside her brush, scoop up a handful of cream, mound it onto Bridge’s cock, and eat him the way he had eaten her.

  Her breath snagged. A trickle of perspiration ran from her hairline to her brow and she wiped it away impatiently with the sleeve of her smock.

  “Are you warm?” Bridge inquired.

  No detail ever escaped his notice. “A little,” she said.

  “Perhaps you ought to slow down. You’ve been working extremely hard.”

  “I’m afraid you might leave while the portrait is only half done. You seem anxious to be on your way.”

  “Rest your mind, Fallon. It was only a test to see if you are as committed to our arrangement as I am.”

  “I never start a project and not see it through to completion.”

  “Good,” he said easily. “And neither do I.”

  His words gave her pause. Could she pretend not to be finished? Would he delay his departure at her request? No, they both knew that the sooner they got through this, the sooner his obligation ended, leaving him free to go. Fallon ignored the inner pang she felt. For here and now, he was hers. There was no point in ruining what little time they had with needless fretting.

  She forced her entire concentration on her creation. When had her hands, her eye, become so sure? Had this talent inside her simply been sleeping? Awaiting a kiss from Bridge’s talented lips to bring it to life? What if it became like Samson’s strength, and her talent left her at the same time as Bridge?

  What if her skill proved only as good as her subject, with lifeless subjects equating lifeless skill. What if it was Bridge him-self, his energy, that was solely responsible for this newfound rush of creative genius? For without a doubt, this portrait would be the best work she had ever done.

  “There.” At long last Fallon laid her brush aside and arched her neck, stretching her head from side to side and rolling her aching shoulders.

  Bridge rose gracefully, with no hint in his movements that he must feel more cramped than she, after holding his pose for hours.

  “May I see?” He started to pad barefoot toward her. In the room’s fading light, the beautiful yet neutral subject of her work somehow took on an entirely different persona. Man. Raw. Primitive. Sexual.

  “Not till it’s done. A superstition of mine.” Fallon rounded the easel, fumbling with the ties of her smock. Bridge pushed her hands away and unfastened the ties. Before she knew how it happened, his hands were everywhere, strong fingers and knuckles kneading the knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders.

  “Oh ...” She groaned at the pleasure wrought by his touch.

  “I’ll rub your back if you’ll rub mine,” Bridge said suggestively. The husky timbre of his voice, coupled with his nearness, garnered the expected response. She felt herself draw closer, her fingers itching to touch the sleek lines of his back, to make him feel every bit as good as he was making her feel.

  “Is that a fair exchange?” she asked.

  “I would say so.”

  “But you’re stronger. I’ll gain the most benefit.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He started to unfasten her frock.

  “You have this penchant for seeing me disrobed at the slightest whim.”

  “A man can hardly be faulted for longing to admire, to touch, to taste your soft skin.”

  “A quick backrub only. Then I must see to my guest.”

  “I thought I was your most important guest, whose needs required seeing to on a regular basis.”

  “As you take every opportunity to remind me,” she remarked dryly as she slipped from her garments, wrapped herself in a sheet, and lay facedown upon the settee.

  The satin and velvet beneath her was still warm from Bridge’s body. It felt sinfully sleek and soft beneath her. Small wonder he didn’t seem to mind posing there, doubtless dreaming up new and delicious ways to pleasure her while she worked away.

  She felt him straddle her, one knee on either side of her hips. She caught a vague whiff of some new fragrance, a mysterious spicy floral concoction, before she felt his oil-slick hands smooth the planes of her back.

  She attempted to lever herself up and around. “What’s that?”

  Bridge urged her shoulders back down flat. “It’s a special oil I picked up in my travels.”

  “It smells very exotic.”

  “It’s credited with stimulating and relaxing the subject at the same time.”

  “That’s quite the contradiction,” she said, sinking into the settee as his hands moved surely across her shoulders, probed the tender places of her neck, then smoothed their way down her spine, pulling and pushing and kneading in all the right spots. “I do believe you’re as much a contradiction as that oil you have,” Fallon murmured sleepily. “You’re very good at this, by the way.”

  “I told you before, I’m an artist of people. Few people realize the true importance of the sense of touch. Of skin against skin. It’s an infant’s first memory, one which lingers with us our entire life. People who live with a lack of touch grow ornery and moody and have no idea of the reason for their crotchetiness.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Fallon said. But it was true. Her parents had died, and her aunt and uncle were not at all touching people. Perhaps the constant stirring of dissatisfaction she’d felt with her life could all be harkened back to that.

  “I come to life beneath y
our touch,” she said impulsively, then immediately wished she could take back her words.

  He laughed, his hands finding and relaxing the tensed knots of muscle. “Touch need not be sexual to be effective.”

  But all of his touch had a sensual feel. The way his hands sleeked her back and spine, traced her shape, lingered over her waist and hips, then found their way to the rounded cheeks of her bottom.

  She let out a deep, contented sigh. How could she fail to feel sexual when Bridge was touching her thus? He shimmied lower and she felt his lips replace his hands on her derriere, kissing and tonguing and licking her there.

  She shifted slightly, signaling her pleasure as he continued his attentions. His tongue moved in whirling circles across her skin, up her back, then settled on the back of her neck.

  “More relaxed now?” he murmured, stretching his naked length atop her.

  “Mmmmmm,” Fallon murmured. “I’m afraid I shall not give half so good a back rub to you. I’ve not had the practice.”

  “You have yet to disappoint me.”

  She felt him playing with the soft wisps of hair against the back of her neck, twining them around his fingers. “I’m glad. Let’s see what type of back rub I can manage.”

  They traded positions, with Fallon straddling Bridge.

  She reached for the exotic oil he had left within reach, poured a small measure into the palm of one hand, rubbed her hands together, then swished them across the planes of Bridge’s back.

  “I love your musculature,” she said. He was lean yet sinewy, the muscles slack as he relaxed, yet she knew the awesome strength he wielded. “But I don’t feel very confident about what I’m doing.” She had no concept of any particular area that might require more pressure or special attention, the way he had intuitively known with her.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  She didn’t want to do “fine”; she wanted to surprise him. She wanted to seduce him. She wanted him to crave her the way she constantly craved him. She bent over him and breathed hotly against the back of his neck before pressing a line of kisses there. Then slowly she let her breasts replace her hands on his back, rubbed them lovingly up and down the length of his spine, and across the blades of his shoulders, glorying in her power.

  She heard him groan and continued her assault upon his senses. Her nipples budded against his skin, begging for more. She felt herself grow wet, her mons riding the globes of his behind—her legs spread apart, all of her pressed wantonly against all of him.

  “Fallon,” he said huskily. “You have an unfair advantage over me.”

  “One I fully intend to exploit,” she replied, rubbing against him, loving that he was pinned beneath her, helpless to touch her, powerless to do anything other than enjoy the sensations.

  She wriggled lower so that she could drag her breasts across his backside. He raised it slightly, and she recalled how it had felt when he kissed her there. She reached between his legs and positioned his hard cock so she could rub his rear and cock and balls. He groaned deeply, widened his legs to allow her better access. Leaning forward, she kissed him, tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm at his response.

  She couldn’t get enough of him, kiss him enough, everywhere. As she tongued his buttocks and rubbed his balls, his excitement was contagious, rendering her hot and wet, focused solely on him. She dipped her pinkie finger into the jar of oil, then slid it daintily into his anus the way he had with her. He nearly rose off the settee with a groan of pleasure as she settled beneath his legs and licked his cock and balls with lusty enthusiasm, while she continued to slide her finger in and out of him. When he tried to stop her, she persisted. She had him helpless, the way he’d had her.

  The power she felt, as he came!

  Fallon realized that the mere sex act itself involved mostly taking pleasure from one’s partner. The act of making love, on the other hand, highlighted one’s partner’s pleasure over one’s own. A truly glorious experience!

  Bridge rolled over and attempted to pull her up atop him. “Your turn,” he said huskily.

  “I think not,” Fallon said, still high on the power of her newfound skills. Why on earth would she surrender that power? Lie writhing and helpless beneath him, desperate for something only he could give her, when it was far more empowering to remain as she was, to savor the heightened sense of arousal stemming from the pleasure she’d granted him?

  She evaded his grasp and slid quickly back into her clothing. “Unfortunately,” she said, “it’ll have to wait. I’ve neglected my houseguest long enough.”

  She left the studio and passed through the kitchen, pausing to praise Mrs. Buttle and cook for the meal preparations that she saw under way.

  “Captain Mum had a hearty tea tray and a lie down. She’s just come down to the drawing room, madam.”

  “Did she seem miffed that I didn’t greet her personally?”

  “Franklin and I explained that you were busy with a commission and had to work while the light was right. She didn’t make no mind that I saw.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Buttle. I knew I could count on you.”

  She found her mother-in-law in the drawing room, flipping through the pages of a book of landscape paintings by Claude Joseph Vernet. “Eloise, my dearest, please forgive my shameful neglect of you. How long will you stay?”

  “Just the night, Fallon. I’m traveling through to meet friends on the Cape. And I must apologize for dropping in unannounced, but you once said I was always to feel a part of this household.”

  “I meant it most sincerely.”

  Eloise was a tiny bird of a woman with bright eyes, smooth skin and fluffy blond hair, which, although unnatural on a woman of her years, she somehow managed to pull off. Perhaps due to her little-girl mannerisms.

  “It’s a relief to see you looking so in-the-pink, my dear. Rumors do fly through the city.”

  “What sort of rumors?” Fallon asked, her immediate thoughts on Bridge and his presence at her estate.

  “Oh, you know—that you’re depressed, or secretly drinking out here, unable to contain your grief. That sort of thing. You have been reclusive.”

  “As you can see for yourself, I am quite well and sober to boot.” Fallon laughed.

  “And painting again, Mrs. Buttle tells me, which is surely good news. I hear you have a resident model.”

  “A young friend of Aurora’s has commissioned me to paint him,” Fallon said. “It’s challenging work, but very rewarding.”

  Eloise blinked girlishly. “I can’t wait to meet this young friend of Aurora’s. He’ll join us for dinner?”

  “Oh no, he’s, uh . . . he’s much too shy.”

  “Nonsense,” Eloise said. “He shall join us if I must go over there and fetch him myself. I always enjoy the stimulation of a young person’s perspective. Most enlightening and thought-provoking.”

  “I hardly feel that—”

  “Fallon, dear.” The innocent sparrow turned into a hawk, predatory and dangerous. “My mind is made up. Surely you have no reason not to invite him to our table?”

  Did she read a veiled threat in those smoothly modulated words?

  “Of course not. I’ll fetch him myself before the meal. Now, do tell me what gossip I’ve missed in town.”

  Since gossip was Eloise’s specialty, Fallon settled back, pasted a smile on her face, and tried to devise a way to avoid having Bridge and Eloise meet. In the end, she decided there was nothing for it but to warn Bridge to be on his best behavior. Both their reputations were at stake, and even if he cared naught for his own, she hoped he had a care for hers.

  She said as much to him, once Eloise had run dry of her stories and entreated Fallon to “fetch the dear boy to join us.”

  “Fallon, my sweet,” Bridge crooned. “I adore little old ladies. I shall have the Captain Mum eating out of my hand in no time.”

  “I beg you, don’t volunteer any information. Be polite, yet distant.”

  “You mean,” B
ridge murmured suggestively, “I’m not to tell her just how you scream when I make you come?”

  “You are incorrigible!” Fallon turned away to hide her slight flush of excitement at his words. Just the memory of their lingering pleasures had her limbs aquiver, and a rush of moist heat seeping between her legs.

  “Come along,” Fallon said. “She’s waiting.”

  Eloise was seated before the fire, sipping a sherry. At the doorway to the drawing room, Bridge came to an abrupt halt and snatched Fallon with him around the corner, out of sight and earshot. “That’s your mother-in-law?”

  “Come along, Bridge. She’s hardly that formidable-looking.”

  “Worse yet,” Bridge said. “She’s the one who lost in the bidding against your friend Aurora.”

  Fallon felt her eyes widen in amazement. “Surely you jest?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Surely Aurora would have said something, would have warned me.”

  “I doubt she knew who her most vigorous opponent was. I had a clear view of the entire assemblage.”

  “This is a disaster,” Fallon murmured.

  “I do recall being somewhat relieved when she finally dropped out of the bidding, leaving the way clear for your friend.” He started forward.

  Fallon grabbed his arm to detain him. “You can’t go in there now. She’ll know!”

  “Ah, but she’ll also know that I know. And she’s hardly interested in jeopardizing her own position; trust me. I’m only here to have you paint me, nothing more. For all she knows, I still owe my week of servitude to your friend.”

  Fallon straightened her spine along with her fortitude, already longing for the meal’s end and the evening to be behind her.

  “Eloise, darling. It was difficult to persuade him to join us, but here is Aurora’s young friend, Montague Bridgeman. Mr. Bridgeman, may I present my mother-in-law, Mrs. Edward Gilchrist.”

  “A pleasure, madam.” Bridge bowed low over the older woman’s hand. “May I say what a delightful surprise it is to find myself dining with two beautiful women. I fear after a day spent in each other’s company, Mrs. Gilchrist and I both normally seek our solitude.”