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But there was no more time to ponder that because then Cassian was on top of her, his elbows sliding in the smeared paint as he supported his weight, his bare chest pressing against hers.

Oh, skin against bare skin was entirely a different thing, searingly hot and yet notquiteenough.

He kissed her, his hand sliding down her bare stomach again, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close.

Emily felt as though she were about to burst, the feeling bubbling up inside her with nowhere to go, when he abruptly sat back on his heels. She propped herself up on her elbows. Her hair must have gotten in the paint, for a wet lock slapped against her skin, leaving a long streak of vibrant leaf green on her shoulder.

“What is it?” she whispered, breathless.

“You,” Cassian responded, his voice catching. “You’re so beautiful.”

She bit her lip. “I am covered in paint.”

“Yes.” He paused, tilting his head. “I wanted to paint Aphrodite in Spectacles. I think I may have gotten my wish.”

His hand strayed to his waistband. Emily watched, fascinated, as he undid the placket of his trousers.

She had seen the occasional sketch of a man’s member in various anatomy textbooks, but the real thing was something a little different. Larger, for one thing.

“As I said,” Cassian murmured, his voice still hoarse, “you may stop at any time.”

She swallowed, holding his gaze. Desire pulsed inside her, a hot ache that throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

“I don’t want to stop,” she declared, meeting his eyes. “I want you, Cassian.”

He threw himself on her, paint-smeared limbs tangling, her stockinged leg hooking around his hip. She noticed, dizzily, that there were patches of blue, gold, and black on her stocking, which was probably ruined.

Cassian angled his hips, sliding inside her. It was the strangest sensation—a little uncomfortable at first, but not as painful as Emily had feared.

“Emily?” he whispered, smoothing back her hair from her forehead. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh, don’t stop. Don’t.”

He chuckled throatily, pressing his lips to the side of her neck.

He began to move, slowly at first, then growing in confidence, while she threw back her head and closed her eyes, feeling her pleasure slowly but surely grow to a peak. His hands slid from her hip to her shoulder, leaving sticky patches of paint. She was fairly sure she had left two full handprints on his shoulders, and more on his chest and sides. Beneath them, sticky, slippery paint shifted, painting the strangest picture anybody had ever seen.

Her eyes flew open when her climax shuddered through her, something new and more intense than before. She breathed his name, arching her back and pressing herself against him.

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, his hips still moving and stuttering, until he pressed himself against her with a ragged gasp, spilling inside her.

They lay there for a few moments, their breathing labored, until Cassian gingerly pulled out of her.

“Emily?” he asked, sounding groggy. “Are you well? Was that…”

“It wasexcellent,” she breathed, giggling.

Grinning, he extended a hand, and she pulled herself into a sitting position. There was an odd sucking sound as her back slid away from the paint-covered canvas. Twisting around, she grimaced at the strange, colorful picture they had made.

“Well, it’s safe to say that your painting is ruined.” Emily giggled.

Cassian grinned widely. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it looks better than ever. We should hang it in the gallery, and see if our friends can guess what it is.”

“You had better be joking.”

He took her paint-covered hand and lifted it to his lips. “I am afraid, my dear duchess, I am deadly serious.”

EPILOGUE