“For inspiration,” she mustered.
God, I cannot believe I am about to say this.
A wickedly handsome smile spread slowly across Tristan’s face.
“Go on,” he urged.
Ophelia drew in a breath for courage, and raised her chin boldly.
“I am giving you permission. To touch me.”
Tristan’s predatory smile shifted into a wide-eyed look of awe.
“You apologized at the ball, for not having my permission before. I said at the time it did not so much matter, but now that I have thought about it, I like that you expressed your regret. But you said you acted without thinking and I-” she paused, blushing. If she was going to be bold she decided she was going to do so brilliantly.
“If I enjoyed those moments before,” she ventured on, “those brief moments of accident. I believe that I would- or could possibly, enjoy your touch when it is deliberate.”
Tristan took a step forward, his eyes darkening.
“I need you to be specific, Ophelia,” his deep voice sinking her deeper into that warm space of arousal. “Walk me through precisely what you are thinking.”
So lulled by the tone of his voice, it took Ophelia moment to answer.
“I am going to paint,” she finally explained, “I found the swings particularly interesting and I would like them to be my next focus.”
Her heartbeat raced as she approached the most direct part of her request.
“However,” she said slowly, “while I am painting, I want you to…to…” she nibbled at her lower lip.
“I need to know,” he said softly, his eyes locked on hers.
“I want you to touch my neck again,” she finally confessed. “As you did the other night. After you lost yourself for a moment your touch was incredibly…something. I liked it. And I want to feel it again.”
Tristan raise a questioning brow.
“And you are sure that this will not be a distraction?” He asked.
“I do not know,” she admitted, “It is why it is an experiment. But I do want to try. Just do not turn me around. Let my eyes keep focused on my work.”
Tristan studied her for another intense moment, then nodded.
“I think I understand what you are asking for,” he replied, “However if I do something you do not like, youmusttell me, Ophelia. Right away.”
Ophelia’s nerves started to tremble within her as she nodded in agreement.
“I will,” she promised.
Tristan took another step toward her, so close now that the warmth of his breath fluttered against her cheek. Then his eyes dipped down, and he drew the ties of her cloak out the knot at her throat. Lust tunneled through her veins as she drew the fabric from her shoulders, then tossed it on his desk. His hands, gentle and guiding, then went back to her shoulders, and he turned her around to face her canvas.
Ophelia’s knees grew weak as he pressed his chest to her back, and slowly drew the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear.
“Begin,” he whispered.
Heat rushed through Ophelia’s body as she heard his command, dampening the edgy sensation of her frazzled nerves, and shepicked up her stick of charcoal. As she began to sketch, Tristan began to give her exactly what she had asked for. Pleasure sizzled over her skin as his lips and teeth began to trace where his hands had once soothed and massaged. She began to feel dizzy and sleepy, aroused and sated, as she drew her charcoal over the blank canvas.
At one point, when his lips found a particular spot that made her loins quiver, she slowly tilted her head, giving him more access. As if he understood, he curled his palm around the other side of her neck, holding her in place, and sank his teeth slowly into the spot. Ophelia’s lashes fluttered at the sensation as her body threatened to collapse into him- yet there was something powerful about not giving into such and staying upright.
She was split in two. Half of her focus on the sketch. Half of her focus on what Tristan was making her feel. Then, after what seemed like moments of the two focuses battling one another, they began to blend. His bites and licks and kisses sent silent signals to her hand holding the charcoal, and an image began to form.
