“Then let me educate you.” His teeth sank into the soft flesh of her shoulder, and she gasped. A flash of pain sank straight through to her core. It was as though he knew everything that she would like the most, as though he could read her body far better than she ever could. “When something is mine, Thalia, it has no opportunity to become anyone else’s. Do you understand?”
She slid her hands up his back, holding him to her. This was what passion looked like, she thought. Just like this. “So that’s a no to the prospect of other muses?”
“Any othermalemuses,” he corrected. “You may have other interests.”
She was sure, ordinarily, she did. But with his arousal pressing insistently against her, and that strange hollowness assailing her again, she rather thought her only interest was Maxwell and everything they could do together.
“Kiss me,” she said. “Then, if you please, inspire me.”
His hands came to cup her backside, rubbing her against him. His voice was gravelly when he spoke. “Your wish is my command, Duchess.”
He lowered her to the ground, and there, on the floor of his former schoolroom and her soon-to-be art room, he made love to her in languorous movements.
The first night, they asked for a tray in their room. The second, mostly to appease the servants, who wanted to greet their new mistress, they ate in the large, imposing dining room. As always, this house was filled with memories of Maxwell’s father, but with every passing minute, Thalia banished more of them.
Whenever he lost himself in the past, she kissed him to bring him back. She drew her skirts up her legs in the library, tugging her stockings down and holding his gaze as she widened her legs, touching herself until he came back to himself. He took her with almost savage urgency then, and ever since, the library held fewer unpleasant memories.
The schoolroom was one of the worst. A miracle, really, that she had stepped into that space and declared it perfect before she realized what it was.
It only took a handful of days for the sculpting equipment she had ordered from London to arrive, and when it did, she directed the footmen to carry it into her room. Knowing she would want time to set up her equipment, he took himself to his study to address the needs of his estate.
Only when he finished, and she had yet to emerge, did he finally come to find her. She sat in the middle of the room, a strange wooden contraption set up before her. A wheel, upon which sat a lump of clay, a bowl of water, and leather stretched out below. Her arms were smeared with gray, and her hair fell into her eyes from where a handkerchief held it back.
Here, she was not a duchess; rather, she was an artist, lost in her craft. As he watched, she dipped her fingers into the clay, kicking the wheel so it spun, and beneath her fingers, the clay took shape, wet and slick. It formed a tall oblong first, then with gentle, precise movements, she flattened it, made it shorter and fatter, and used her fingers to draw lines across the surface. A vase took shape underneath her.
She was so immersed in her work that she didn’t see him coming. It was only when he came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, that she noticed him at all. He felt her jump, then relax into his hold.
“Max! You scared me.”
She was the only one to shorten his name the way Christopher had, and he found himself loving it.
“Why?” He nuzzled her neck. “Did you think I was another lover sneaking in?”
“No, but—” She drew in a breath as he kissed the curve of her shoulder. “I’m not used to having any lover.”
“Did I disturb you?”
Her hands were still on the clay, the wheel underneath still turning. “Only a little. I was accustoming myself to working here.”
“Do you like the space?”
She leaned into him a little harder. “I do. Do you?”
“I like you being in it.” He slid his hands down her arms, reaching the dried clay, then the mess of wet clay at the edges of her hands. “And I like seeing you create. What are you making?”
“Why don’t you help me?” Her fingers spread, accommodating him, and he did not hesitate, sliding his between hers and letting her guide their joint hands.
The clay was soft and malleable under his touch, shifting under every pressure. She guided him to the water, then back to theclay, still twisting. Under her tutelage, he helped form a hole down the center with his thumbs, gradually widening it until the lump of clay now resembled a vase.
His finger slipped, and the vase turned immediately crooked. When he attempted to rectify the damage, he pressed too hard. The vase, so perfectly shaped before, slid to one side, twisted and lumpy and in imminent danger of falling.
Thalia broke into a sudden, bright peal of laughter, and Maxwell chuckled, sliding closer against her body, the clay a wet, slick mess against his hands.
He kissed her neck. “It seems I am not destined for sculpting.”
“You could be, if you weren’t so clumsy.”
“Do you know who you are talking to?” he asked, mock haughtily. “I’ll have you know, I’m a peer of the realm.”
