Muse Takes Her Clothes Off

She's paid for this. That's the detail that matters. Isabelle sits across the room in a Venetian palazzo, skirts hiked slightly — accidentally, perhaps, or not — and the glint in her gaze says she'll damn well get it. Laurent kisses her clit, sucks, pulls her breasts free. The polished veneer melts away, replaced by raw desperate need.Venetian palazzos, Florentine studios, French court workshops, rapier duels. In a studio stinking of oil paint and turpentine, his paint-smeared fingers stroke her nipple through silk. "e;I've painted you in my head a thousand times,"e; she rasps, "e;every curve, every shadow."e; She rides him in a brutal slide, his cock pumping relentlessly. In a workshop of cracked gilded mirrors and moth-eaten velvet, jasmine scent hits her and her hips buck of their own accord. They face off with rapiers — his control dissolving into a desperate urge to pin her against the wall, rip down her breeches, and bury himself in her wet pussy.