Read To Bed a Libertine for Free Online Page B

rise from their bed. And she never really wanted to, either. She never wanted to leave.
    He fell down beside her, his eyes closed and his jaw tight, as if he still felt the tremors of their pleasure. Erato curled against him and rested her head against his chest. She listened as his heartbeat slowed, its rhythm echoing her own as if they were two halves of the same whole.
    “I wish we could stay in this room forever and ever,” she said.
    He laughed, his fingers smoothing through her hair. “We can, if you like. We can send out for food and fuel for the fire. I would keep the flames high so you would not need to wear clothes. All we need is right here.”
    “You would soon tire of me, I fear.”
    “Never. I have the feeling that even if I knew you for a hundred years I would never discover everything about you. You’re not like anyone else I have ever known.” He had no idea how true his words were. Erato kissed his chest and snuggled closer to him.
    “Would you tire of me?” he asked. She felt his hands move soothingly through her hair, wrapping the strands over his shoulders as if to bind her to him.
    “I never could. You’re not like anyone I have ever met, either.” Outside the windows it had begun to rain, the drops a soft, musical rhythm against the glass. It was beautiful, and she felt her eyelids grow heavy. “I’m so tired.”
    “Sleep now.” He kissed her brow and held her close to him. “I will watch over you.”
    Feeling entirely safe in his embrace, she did just that and slid down deep into dreams once more.
     
    Tristan studied the contessa’s sleeping face as she lay beside him. He had seen beautiful women before, of course, fine ladies in ballrooms and his models who came from the theaters and back streets. Expensive courtesans, lovely debutantes, and doxies in cheap brothels. Even his own mother had been a renowned beauty, so he had been surrounded by loveliness since he was born. Yet he had never seen anyone quite like her.
    He couldn’t decipher what it was that made her special, even when he looked at her with an artist’s eye and not a lover’s. She had fine, sharp bone structure, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes under silky auburn brows. Her skin was ivory-fair with pale pink cheeks that grew even pinker when she climaxed.
    Yet it was more than that. She had some kind of sunny glow that seemed to come from deep inside of her. A brightness that touched everyone around her and made them feel lighter, happier. She seemed to see and understand so much.
    And when they made love—he was surprised he had not died of the pleasure, it was so burningly intense.
    “Where did you come from?” he whispered. He lightly skimmed the back of his hand over her soft cheek, and she murmured in her sleep and nuzzled against him. She had come to him like a dream, unexpected and beautiful. Would she vanish like a dream, too? He had the terrible feeling there was something unreal about her.
    He had to make the most of every moment he had with her.
    He eased off the chaise, careful not to wake her, and put on his rumpled breeches before lighting the lamps. His sketch of her lay on the floor, and he retrieved it to study its black-and-white lines. Her image smiled back at him, and he liked the pose, the expression on her face—that half smile as if she held a secret.
    Yet it cried out for color. The white of her skin, the red of her hair, those blue eyes, they were an essential part of her. Suddenly inspired, his tiredness vanished, he removed the half-finished judgment of Paris scene from his easel and put a clean, freshly stretched and primed canvas in its place.
    In a fever of creativity, he crushed and mixed the paints until he had exactly the shades he needed. Never had an image taken hold of him in such a way before. He had to paint her. His brush took on a life of its own as it moved across the canvas.
    After a time, hours or minutes or days he could not tell, he heard her stir on the