Page 74 of A Foolish Flirtation

“Would you like to own a painting of Venus like this?” she asked daringly.

He gazed at her, breathing heavily as though incapable of speech. “Truthfully?” he croaked. “No painting could compare to the reality of having you in my bed like this, Ballentine.” His eyes traveled over her greedily, devouring every detail. “Though, I would pay a good deal to own even a pale copy.”

“Who would you be in the painting, I wonder?” she mused, still feeling boneless and satiated.

Jeremy gave a choked laugh as he clambered over her, settling between her legs. “A lustful satyr perhaps,” he said with a grunt as the head of his manhood brushed against her tender, swollen parts. To her surprise, she felt a twinge of interest in proceedings, despite her languor.

“Are those the ones with the horns and the tails?” she asked breathlessly as he started to push into her.

“Nnnhhhhh.” He made a sound of vague agreement. “Yessss,” he hissed, though whether this was still in answer to her question she was not sure. He was far too beautiful to be a satyr, she thought, watching his expression turn blissful. He would have to be Apollo. “That feels so good, sweetheart,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’re so wet,” he whispered as he sank into her. “Taking me so well.”

When he opened them again, his blue eyes looked unfocused. “Fuck, Ballentine,” he wheezed, concentrating on her face. “Are you ready for this?” She nodded and he shuddered, slamming his hips against hers, making her yell out as he plunged deep.

“Too hard?” he panted, trying to pull back, but Emmie wound her arms about him, dragging him closer.

“No,” she moaned. “Don’t go.”

Jeremy’s eyes flashed. “More?” he asked carefully. She nodded. “You have to say it, Ballentine.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“More,” she whimpered. “Please.”

“Please, Jeremy,” he corrected her but gave a hard buck of his hips all the same, as though he could not hold back.

“Jeremy,” she whispered, digging her nails into his shoulder before she could stop herself. He did not even seem to notice it, as he adjusted his position and drove into her again and again with increasing urgency.

“Tell me you want me, Ballentine,” he insisted, his hands sliding around to her backside and dragging her closer still. “Tell me you al—” He bit off his words. “Tell me you still want me,” he gritted out instead.

“I do,” she gasped, wanting to please him. Wanting to say the right thing. “Still,” she blurted. “I—I always did.”

His eyes flew wide, staring into her own. “Yes,” he breathed, “so did I. Always.” And just like that Jeremy Vance came apart, his eyes boring into her, his hands gripping her buttocks tight. “God, you always make me feel so good,” he groaned, and collapsed heavily on top of her.

Moments later, he rolled off her, still struggling for breath. “Want some water?” he asked, and grinned. “Your face looks a little red.”

“Yes, please.”

He sat up and sloshed some water from her etched water carafe into a glass. “I wonder why around you it is easier for me to breathe, Ballentine, and”—he paused—“I find I hate myself less.”

“Hate yourself?” she repeated, alarmed.

He waved a hand. “I’m exaggerating, of course, but you know what I mean.”

Actually, she didn’t, but he did not press the issue, merely passed her a glass of water. As she gulped it down, he traced a finger down her cheek. “How do you do it?” he asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, handing him back the empty glass.

He took it, refilled it, and drank a glass himself. “You’re even prettier post-coitally,” he sighed. “I always knew you would be, of course. From the dancing.”

“Dancing?” she repeated, feeling confused.

“Eyes bright, cheeks pink, lips parted…” he teased.

Suddenly, Emmie realized he was talking about all the dancing they had done years ago. She felt panicked that he would see fit to bring up those times at a moment like this, when her defenses were so completely down. If she was not careful, he would be bringing up that wretched conservatory business again!

Instead of receding further into the past, that fateful season seemed to draw ever closer, looming up at the oddest times to remind her of how things had once stood between them. Perhaps forbidding him to speak of it had somehow fixed those events even more firmly in their minds?

“What is it?” he asked tenderly. “Cold?” He slipped an arm about her.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, flashing him a smile. “Nothing at all.”