I slid my hand down to his groin, my eyes widening with pleasure as my fingertips encountered the rigid column of his flesh.
“More what?” Deliberately, he loosened his grip, making me groan in frustration. Rational thought was rapidly deserting me. He rolled the pebbled bud hard between his thumb and forefinger, and I threw my head back in exquisite agony. “My God, Cad,” I gasped, and he lifted his head to smile into my eyes. He flicked the point of his tongue backward and forward slowly over each nipple in turn, and the answering throb between my legs made me squirm. When he bent his head to gently suckle the puckered flesh, I dug my fingers into his hair to keep him there. Softly, delicately, he ran his fingertips over my nipples, igniting simultaneous flames of lust that ran down my spine to tug sharply at my clitoris. I leaned back against the pillows, watching his expression from beneath half-closed eyelids as he stroked my neck and then moved his hand lower to tease my breasts. “You are so beautiful, bouche, ” he murmured, tracing the contours of my body with adoring hands. I blushed as I recalled the events of the last few hours, and his smile deepened.
Cad was propped on one elbow, watching my face. I feared it might all have been another helpless, hopeless dream. It will lay her bare as no portraitist has done before.Daylight was just streaking the sky when I cautiously opened one eye. Then there is Cad, the handsome second son whose reputation is impeccable in business, but scandalous in everything else.ĭrawn by friendship, ensnared by lust, Dita uncovers a sordid tangle of murder, desire and madness. There is Tynan, the kindly Earl, Lucia, his capable wife, handsome, volatile Eddie and sweet, sheltered sister Eleanor.
Dita struggles to decipher the Jago family. The fresh-hewn stone, however, cannot absorb the blood of centuries or quiet the echoes of past crimes. On the grim Cornish coast, from the ashes of a ruined castle rises the Jagos’ sumptuous new manor house. As deceptions go, it is innocent compared with what is to come. The charade is a favor to Dita’s best friend, Eddie Jago, a dissolute painter, and the aforementioned heir. But now she’s not so much striking a pose as playing a role, as fiancée to the next Earl of Athal. In the artistic circles of 1860s Paris she is known as the Divine Dita, Montmartre’s most sought-after nude model.
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