She cried out and felt his hand clamp itself over her mouth. And then he was plundering her with vigorous thrusts, again and again and again, filling her so completely, so sublimely, that she felt she’d go insane. He leaned into her, his mouth at her ear, his breath hot and luscious, and said, “Go ahead and scream. You need to scream, don’t you? When was the last time a man made you scream?”
She surrendered unequivocally and screamed into his hand. Outside the rumbling coach, Paris passed by. Ladies strolled the streets with parasols perched, and children frolicked with puppies in the parks. But in here, in this lavish, sheltered haven, she was screaming out loud because this man—this unbelievable man—was slamming into her like a battering ram and driving her wild.
She came on his cock, spasming on him, around him, consumed by him, engulfing him deeper and deeper, as deeply as it was possible to take him, feeling shivery and glorious, swimming with pleasure, with joy, with life-affirming bliss.
Then she was being moved. Her head was spinning so that she didn’t know where he was taking her, and didn’t care. Mason found herself lying back along the length of the seat, Richard’s raging erection still inside. He moved like a shot and he was on her, never ceasing his delivery of each delicious thrust.
She clung to him now, sinking into a whirlpool that sucked her down, down, until he sent her spiraling once more. He caught her cries in his mouth this time, tasting them, the proof of her elation at his hands.
“What are you doing to me?” he rasped in her ear.
And she answered, like a woman possessed, “What are you doing to me?”
Some remnant of cognizance swam to the surface of her mind. I’d like to paint him. I’d like to put on canvas the way he makes me feel.
As if he’d divined her wish and understood, he took her face in his two large hands and gave her a deep, poignant kiss.
They spoke no more, except with moans and groans and sighs. But she opened her eyes and found him watching her wondrously as if he, too, were rocked to the foundation of his being. Their eyes met and a spark of something raw and real passed between them. She felt her spirit soar staring into the mystery and mastery of his eyes.
In that instant, all pretense vanished. She lay beneath him as her true self, feeling that they looked, not into each other’s eyes, but into their very souls as they came together now, unflinchingly naked and revealed.
In the hushed and intimate aftermath as their breathing slowed, they held one another close, neither wanting to let the magic end. Mason’s heart was beating as it never had before. She felt riveted by an emotion she couldn’t comprehend.
But it had to end. It was inevitable that they’d slowly, painfully, become aware of their surroundings, of the swaying of the coach, of the heated sheen of their skin. Of the silence that was so dense that it seemed a new and previously unheard sound.
Richard moved away too soon, standing stiffly, assembling his clothing as he looked down at her with a stirring affection in his eyes. “Where are you stopping?”
He asked the question as if he could think of nothing profound enough to say. She had to think what he meant. She had to pull herself together, to recall the outside world. Once again, she had to remember the role she was playing.
“The Jockey Club, on Rue Scribe,” she croaked, as if she hadn’t spoken for a year.
He arched a brow. “The Jockey Club? Isn’t that a private hotel?”
She eased up into a sitting position, righting her now badly wrinkled skirt. “Falconier keeps a suite there. He offered it to me while I’m in Paris.”
“Then we’re neighbors. My hotel is directly across the street.”
Their eyes met and she breathed softly, “Yes, I know.” Then added, “I saw the hotel’s name on the door of the coach.”
He rapped on the ceiling, lowered the window, and called to the driver to tell him where to go.
Then, with great solicitation, he busied himself in tidying her up, grinning sheepishly—endearingly—as he attempted to replace the pins in her hair, putting her bonnet gently on her head, watching as she awkwardly stepped into her undergarments as the coach shimmied from side to side.
When they finally stopped, he said, “We’ll meet tomorrow, shall we? To…continue your education.”
She smiled bashfully, delighted by the prospect.
He gave her a mock frown. “In art, I mean. I can show you Montmartre. We can walk through Mason’s world.”
“I’d just as soon take this enchanted coach.”
He laughed, a deep, rich, rumbling sound that made her feel all tingly inside. “I have some business in the morning, but I’ll have a coach pick you up and bring you to meet me. Shall we say one o’clock?”
She nodded. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
He bent to kiss her forehead, then opened the door and handed her down in front of her hotel. “Until one, then.”
She watched the coach lurch away, an antiquated fantasy from another age, like the carriage that had taken Cinderella to the ball. Hugging herself, she marveled at what had just transpired. It had all happened in a fever. She felt both shattered and exhilarated.
She’d come to Paris to live the life of a Bohemian, wanting to savor all that life had to offer so she could capture it in paint. But in many ways, that life had been a fraud. Because she’d never really felt the passion she’d been after. None of her earlier explorations had seemed real.
But this was real. She didn’t know this man, didn’t know anything about him. But the communion she’d felt with him was more meaningful, more fulfilling than any she’d ever known.
She was already dying to see him again. But a walk through Mason’s world…It complicated things immensely.
Because she wasn’t who he thought she was.
And she was already beginning to wish he knew the truth.
Chapter 5
Garrett bolted up in bed, his heart racing, his body burnished with sweat. He was surrounded by darkness, so silent that all he heard was the sound of his own ragged breath. What was happening?
The nightmare.
Quickly, he turned on the lamp. Fumbling, he reached for the book of color reproductions he kept at his bedside and opened it. The page he’d turned to featured a Chardin still life: a silver goblet, a bowl and spoon, three pieces of fruit on a tabletop. He forced his mind to sink into the tranquil picture, and it calmed him.
They were the curse of his existence, these nightmares. He’d had them every week or two since he was a boy, and though they’d varied in detail, they were basically the same. Trapped in apocalyptic darkness, desperate to escape, surrounded by unseen terrors, reaching out for him, pulling him back. In the distance, a dim blue light—so radiant, so pure—that he knew it was his salvation from this pit. But the harder he tried to get to it, the faster it receded from him, until he was struggling with all his might, the light vanished completely, and he was engulfed by the unspeakable. Then he jolted awake.
When he did, he felt as terrified as he had in the dream. Until he could turn on the light and find a piece of art to look at. To soothe him, to bring him back to reality.
He tossed back the sheet, threw his legs over the side, and rose naked from the bed. Stepping over to the dresser, he took the pitcher of water in hand, holding it high, letting it pour down like rain over his head. It cooled his throbbing head and washed away the last remnants of the dream, trickling down over every tight muscle of his body. With his hands, he plastered back his wet hair, then rubbed the water over the sinews of his chest, his fingers