3 comments/ 17619 views/ 1 favorites The Artist's Muse By: EllieKnowsBest I find inspiration through painting. The curve of a brush stroke can be intense, beautiful, arousing, sensual or embracing. I guess it all depends on the circumstance. The circumstance with Janelle was all of those things and more. I had never been with a woman before, although I've always been one to enjoy myself sexually. I had been with three men by the age of twenty-one, I wouldn't call myself promiscuous, but I knew how to have a good time when I wanted one. I often used painting as an outlet for sexual expression. A painting can often capture an emotion far better than words. I have painted my lovers before, but something was missing, some sort of spark, it wasn't what I was looking for. I signed up one summer for a month long retreat for experienced art students. There were various classes offered, many taught by well-known names in the art world. I decided on a range of classes, watercolor landscapes, life drawing, and even a class in sculpture. A bit of everything to sort of get myself a bit more well rounded in a sense. Our rooms were single so I thankfully didn't have to deal with the kind of obnoxious roommates I had back at college. I could focus... On the first day, I felt sort of overwhelmed. Many of the people on the retreat were much older than me and clearly had a lot more experience. The classes were nothing like I had ever taken before and I felt embarrassed at times not having some fancy art show I could talk about. It was quite a relief when in my life drawing class I met Janelle. Janelle appeared to be no older than twenty-one or twenty-two. She obviously had the spark and drive of a natural artist, but she didn't have the wall of pretentiousness that many of the other artists there had. I was instantly drawn to her, so I grabbed the easel next to her's. Janelle was very attractive in a nontraditional sort of way. She was shorter than me, she was well built, but didn't try and show off with any slutty outfit. Her style was her own, and her short red hair fit her perfectly. "Is this your first time?" her eyes sparkled at me. I was taken aback by her remark. "At one of these retreats? Is this your first one?" "Oh, yes. I mean, I go to an art school during the year, but the classes here looked so good, I wanted to squeeze in some more time." I stammered. She clicked the end of a pencil onto her bottom lip gently, as if testing to see if that one was the one she would use today. She had pouty heart shaped lips that curled delicately into a kind of mischievous smile. They were nice. I caught myself immediately looking at them. "I'm glad I'm not the only other college student here." She paused, "hey, would you like to get some lunch with me after class, I don't really know anyone here and I'd rather not be a complete loner this month." "Yes, definitely!" my words sounded a little too excited. Why was I so intrigued by her? I've known attractive women, tons of attractive women. A fair number has even propositioned me during school. I've always gotten used to sort of being lusted after. I have the sort of typical beauty, very different than Janelle. I've always been a bit tall for my age, long blonde hair, green eyes, and the kind of girl guys want to take home to their parents. I've never felt the need to be with a woman, but something about Janelle made me at a loss for words. We had lunch that day at a nearby café. It turns out Janelle went to a very prestigious art school out in California. Her artwork was astounding. She had passion and color in her drawings of the models from class that couldn't be found in any of the other student's work, no matter what training they had in the past. We talked endlessly about everything. Not just art, but about our families, past relationships, sex. Everything. And as we continued having lunch everyday over the next few weeks, my attraction towards her grew. I kept having to stop myself from placing my hand on her leg, or stepping slightly closer, or softly touching the side of her face. It seemed natural, like I should be doing that to begin with. One night, I found myself frustrated looking through my sketches from the day. My figure drawing had no life to them. They were bodies without spirit. They lacked everything Janelle's drawings had. That Janelle had. I dialed her number. "Hello?" Her voice always amused me. It seemed so pleasant, like she had just heard a really good joke. "Come over, I need inspiration." I smiled as she assured me she'd be over in ten minutes with tea and a box of Oreos she had just picked up. I stole another Oreo as I flipped through Janelle's drawings and compared them to mine. "What is it? You have such life in your drawings! Where does that come from?" I asked. "I'm not sure, I just always try and...you know...connect with the model. Understand them a little better, share some inner thought with them, you know?" Janelle had this beautiful richness to her voice whenever she discussed art. This was one of those times I just wanted to grab her. I knew I couldn't last another week and a half of this. She suddenly looked a bit shy. I knew she was carefully choosing her words. "Well, I mean, if you wanted me to...I could model for you. Maybe it would make it easier, you know me, you may be able to add in the life to it." I held in my initial response of screaming "Yes!" but I knew I craved more than anything to have Janelle slowly peel off her knee length skirt and button up blouse. I wanted to take her in. I wanted to draw her, to have her. "I'd like that." I carefully pulled out a chair for her to sit on and I sat on my bed, about three feet away. "Maybe just some quick drawings, five minutes or so each?" Janelles hands seemed to sweep over her body. First she unbuttoned her silk blouse. It floated away revealing a thin lace bra underneath. I couldn't pull my eyes away from her beautiful round breasts. I contained myself as she removed her bra to reveal her flawless figure. She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor, quickly followed by her lacy panties. I think she could tell I was aroused when my breathing quickened slightly. I found a charcoal pencil on my desk and motioned for her to sit. I tried acting as professional as I could. I found myself getting lost in her, my eyes never leaving her. I couldn't stop drawing; I found a kind of light and sensuality in my lines that I had never found before. Drawing after drawing after drawing. I realized at one point it had been at least two hours since she had begun to pose. "Oh Janelle, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it had been so long," I stood up and took a step towards her and she stood up as well. "I guess I was just, well, caught up in it." I couldn't stop myself, I lightly places my hand on her hip. She and I looked at each other for a while. I saw passion in her eyes, she too had been wanting this since the moment we met. Janelle brought herself closer to me, until the tips of her breasts lightly brushed on my shirt. She pressed her lips against mine. Her beautiful lips that I had noticed that first day we met, so full of passion. The kiss was strong but tended. I felt the light flick of her tongue separating my lips and caressing me. I felt my hands moving up and down the sides of her body. She pressed herself tighter to me as she began nibbling and licking my neck. I felt her press herself up towards me. It was a daze as Janelle lifted my shirt off of me and unbuttoned my jeans. The next thing I knew, the two of us were stroking each other and kissing on my bed. I thanked god that the rooms were single. I laid on my back as Janelle straddled me, rubbing her warm body up against me, grinding into me. I felt her grow wet with me. Janelle leaned down and took my nipple between her lips. Her soft sucking was unlike anything I had ever had from a lover before. My arousal intensified as she licked and caressed my breasts in a way I could have never imagined. Janelle's hands began rubbing on my thighs, slowly moving up to where I craved she would touch. She looked at me again with that sexy mischievous smile as she started to rub my clit. I moaned as she slid two fingers inside of me, moving, pulsating with the rocking of my hips. I seemed to writhe involuntarily, as the touch of a woman brought about a pleasure a man had never found in me. Her face became wild and aroused as she began moving her fingers in and out of me while she rubbed my clit with her thumb. She pumped harder and fasting as I climaxed, moaning wildly. I breathed hard for a few seconds as Janelle let me relax after my first orgasm. She leaned close to my face and whispered coyly in my ear "have you ever gone down on a woman before?" Janelle sat back on my bed, sitting up against the wall, her legs slightly parted. She tiled her head down and looked at me, luring me towards her. I stroked the inside of her legs, and pulled myself closer to lightly flick her nipples with my tongue. She reacted to this with a purring moan. I saw her face become flushed and she became wildly aroused. I lowered myself down as I stared at her beautiful pussy. I groaned as I felt my tongue lick up to her clit. The sound of her groan told me to continue. I held her legs apart, strongly, I wanted her to enjoy this. I craved making her cum. I began a light sucking on her clit, alternating with stronger lickings. I could feel her coming closer and close to the edge of an orgasm. Then I remembered. I quickly edged over and opened my nightstand drawer. "I never go anywhere without one of these." I said as I pulled out my 7" vibrator. She smiled coyly and moved her hips, telling me she wanted it. I turned on my pulsating toy. I felt the strong purring of it as I places it down onto Janelle's clit. She squirmed and moaned loader this time. I know I could have her now. I circled the long shaft on her clit until I knew she was only moments away from climax. At this point, I placed the vibrator at the entrance to her pussy and began working it inside her. Her groans deepened and I moved in and began licking and sucking her clit again. I moved in rhythm with the toy until her body rocked hard as she orgasmed. It took several moments for Janelle to recover from her climax. She breathed heavily and moaned even after it was over. I curled up near her and kissed her neck. I looked over and took notice of my drawings. The spirit, the sensuality, everything I had been looking for. I knew I had found my muse. --Elaina Fawlter The Artist's Muse Chapter One Chateau Bertrand, Paris, 1795 From the shadows, Roland Bertrand watched the young woman paint onto a canvas with delicate strokes. His library was illuminated by tapers, and they cast a soft glow on the dark- skinned beauty who was immersed in her art. She was now focusing on the figures, but from the distance, Roland could not make out the exact nature of the scene. No doubt this painting will be a gift from my brother, thought Roland, drawing closer to the woman. The candle light flickered against the library window, and her silhouette cast an exquisite curve against the wall. Roland's gaze was torn between looking at the finely-wrought painting and the artist. Judging from the exotic dark skin and ornate costumes of the figures, the painting seemed to be a mythical scene of the god and goddess Baron La Croix, Haitian deities of love and lust. The painting drew him to her. Roland took in the artist's exposed décolletage, in the moonlight her skin was radiant and smooth as a creamy dark calfskin. He longed to run his fingers over her neck, her jaw, through her hair that glinted against the soft lighting of the candle. She wore a dress of fine lace and blue silk that accented her womanly curves. He bent over her and whispered, "Explicit detail." Although it was just a whisper of breath across her flesh, she jumped a little on her stool and Roland could see that her skin flushed with his comment. The perspective that this ravishing artist had chosen clearly illustrated the goddess in a pose of wanton relaxation; her thighs were rotund and soft all at once. Her lips were half-open in an expression of ecstasy and excitement. The expanse of Baron La Croix's muscled back was not fully finished; maybe the artist blushed at her lack of knowledge of male anatomy. "Baron La Croix's behind is..." Roland started to say. "Don't say it," she countered in a firm voice. "Why not?" "Because I know that you will say it's unformed, poor and crude." "I wouldn't say that exactly," he paused taking in the way her dark eyes widened and then roamed over his body as if evaluating a fine sculpture, "but I could advise that you might want to take some lessons en plein air. You might complete some studies of the male nude to gain a better perspective for your work," he offered, as if he was not distracted when she wet her lips and smiled. That unconscious lick of her full lips made him feel hard in places where he had not felt that need in a long time. "And I was going to complement you on your fine rendering of this young goddess. Her breasts look so soft, like peaches, that one could reach out and stroke them," his voice becoming husky. He could feel her warm breath on his hand as he reached out and placed a finger near to the wet flesh on the canvas. "Sometimes the goddess has that effect," she said in her rhythmic French, smiling at him. Roland immediately recognized her accent from the West Indies. "Careful, her skin is lush." "Don't worry," he said as he took his hand away from the canvas, "I never touch a painting before it's finished, it's bad luck." "Well thank you, Monsieur..." she paused. "Let me introduce myself," he said, placing a kiss on her hand and taking in her voluptuous curves, "my name is Roland Bertrand, I am the owner of this chateau, returned from travels abroad. Enchanté." "Roland, it is a pleasure to meet you I am sure," she let his name roll off her tongue, her fluid accent driving his body desperate to touch her. "I am Letitia Dumas, commissioned by Monsieur Jacques Bertrand to paint your portrait," she said her smile widening to reveal a set of pearly teeth that glinted a beautiful white in the darkness. "While I appreciate your compliments," she paused and then her tone became firm, "I have neither the finances nor the time to take on such an activity nor would it be perfectly respectable for a woman to request such lessons from a man." Her voice went up a note like onto a sharp ledge. "Respectability, is that not just a matter of perspective?" he questioned her, his voice like a caress. He moved closer and pressed himself up against her back, placing his hands on her shoulders. He rolled his thumbs over her smooth dark skin and massaged her for a moment. "Just what do you think you are doing, touching me there?" "Where, here?" he said and then moved his hands to work the stiff tension in her neck. "Yes, there," she let out a soft sigh as his fingers pressed into her smooth skin around her shoulders. While her body felt tense under his ministrations, he was rewarded with seeing her nipples harden in response to his touch. The curved peaks pressed against the soft lace of her gown. He wanted to lick them, feel her soft curves pressed up against his body. "Excuse me Roland. While it has been very nice to meet you, I must get to my chamber." She scooted the chair back and it made a scraping sound on the dark wood floor. Grabbing her palette and brushes, she left her easel. "Adieu," she said. But, he grabbed her arm before she was out of reach. He brought her into his embrace. Pressed against his hard body, he could feel the way that her curves melded into his hard form. Her gaze met his eyes as she traced his face, from the smooth scar over his right eye to his mouth. She brushed her thumb over his lip and let it linger there as if tracing the contours of a globe, drawing a frission of energy that surged through his body. He grasped her hand in his and said, "I am a keen patron of the arts, I pride myself on my connoisseurship, and you are like a magnolia, exotic, and rich in talent and beauty." He ran his finger along her cheek, as if imprinting her face into his memory whispering, "I need visual stimulation and you could use some practice with portraying the male form." As if implying something not entirely gentlemanly, he smirked at her as he pulled her closer so that her hips met his. She ran her hands up along his chest, and then broke from his grasp, turning her face to the doorway. "Ah Letitia, I see you have met my brother Roland." Monsieur Jacques Roland announced as he entered the room. "Yes," she said stepping back from Roland and turning towards her painting. "Letitia, I trust that everything is comfortable for you here. Would you mind, I have to speak to my brother now," Jacques asked. "Thank you Jacques, I have everything I need. Goodnight gentlemen." Her hips swayed with a delicious curve that Roland made note of as she went to her chamber. "The West Indies don't hold the same charms as they once did?" Jacques asked and then taking note of Roland's silence continued, "She is talented, yes?" Roland caught his brother's smile and returned it. "I hope you are not disappointed with my choice of artiste Roland. I expected you to come back in one month, so we are a little unprepared. She has already completed a striking portrait of me, and mother demands that you must have a portrait made as well." "Indeed she is a talented artist," countered Roland, "and beautiful" said Jacques, "yes, she is," agreed Roland. "But I do not need a portrait done of myself. I have no use for it. I am, well," Roland paused and ran his hand over his face, remembering her touch and then fell silent. "You have to put your past behind you Roland," counseled Jacques. "Besides, how will the Bertrand aristocracy be remembered if we are not on canvas? It is essential to our family honor." Roland considered all the tragedies that had sieged his family in the past few years and he agreed. "All right, I agree, but I have one condition." "That is between you and the artiste brother."   Chapter Two Roland couldn't get the image of Letitia- illuminated by candle light, her rich long raven hair streaming down her back, her skin glowing in her blue nightdress - out of his memory. He decided to take a walk through the abandoned streets of Paris. A large corn moon hung in the sky, so close to Montmartre he felt he could almost reach out and touch it, so near it was to the horizon. Walking through the streets, Roland remembered when King Louis was killed a few years past, there had been a great turmoil and upheaval all through France. Paris was rampaged by angry revolutionaries, its' narrow alleys ran with blood. Roland being from an aristocratic family, had tried to protect his mansion from the marauding crowds and the Jacobins who screamed revenge. Walking outside his chateau he saw the large grey stones of his childhood home still bore the marks of their fury, pieces chipped and stolen, smoldered by the fires that were set in the center of the city. Roland ran his fingers over the scar on his face. The skin was smooth from the hot oil that the Jacobins had thrown in his face when he had tried to defend his house from the revolutionaries who demanded he give up his mansion to the common people. The Bertrand chateau, 23 bedrooms in total, had been in their family for generations and his blue-blood ran strong. He was never one to give up things easily, so he fought tooth and bone to keep his place. They had thrown the hot oil and started fires at the front of the house and while he was present, they had slit the throat of his wife. By the time he had gotten out, the entire front foyer was burning like a wildfire in the hot summer months. Five years after the revolution, the city still felt like it was on the edge of a sword. Fires burned through the slums and coal smoke had darkened the cool grey walls of the aristocracy's mansions, most of whom had been beheaded in the revolts. A few candles flickered in the slums as he strolled through, his shadow passing unnoticed. He loved the anonymity of the city, away from the dark memories of his mansion. The unjustness of his past confronted him as he walked through the streets filled with so many happy memories that had turned into nightmares. He hadn't had the confidence to ask a woman to his bed in many years, but something had changed when he saw Letitia, the artist. Nothing brought fire back to his soul but when Letitia had had blushed under his gaze, he had started to feel like a man again, like someone could care about him. She was so creative and artistic. The painting that she had rendered was finely wrought, full of sexual promise that he felt stimulated just remembering it. Her naiveté with the male figure added to his passion for her. The small storefronts that were in the Palais Royale were full of illuminated manuscripts and cheap satirical prints showing cartoon faces of aristocrats fondling livery maids. Roland had two passions in life, fine art and fine erotica. He entered the small shop and let his intuition guide him. It was one of his favorite haunts in the city. "Ah Monsieur Bertrand," the storekeeper greeted him with a friendly smile like a smirk. "Bon soir" "Bon soir" "Can I help you with anything tonight?" his voice reached out to him. "No thank you Georges. I will just look around," Roland said without lifting his gaze to meet the shopkeeper. His eyes scanned the political pages and new art manuscripts, the writings on liberty by Rousseau, and then filtered over to the more ornately-painted books and drawings. A book entitled "Society's Graces" caught his eye. The anonymous drawing on the cover of the work peaked his interest. He wondered. The pads of his fingers flickered through the drawings. The fluid lines of the artist seemed familiar but took him a few minutes to comprehend. It was none other than the artiste in his very household! With obsession overpowering him, he had to buy it. The pages brushed up against opening of his velvet jacket and he ran his fingers over it as if it was Letitia's cocoa-smooth skin. "This one. It is very popular these past few weeks," said the shopkeeper. He then wrapped it in a fine piece of red velvet and black ribbon, curling the ends, making a fitting wrapping for a sensuous read. "Enjoy." "I will," whispered Roland as he pressed the velvet-wrapped book into his jacket, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. As if invigorated by the physical presence of Letitia's work, he walked with a quick step back to the darkened portal of his mansion and opened the front oak door, it squeaked in the silence of the city. A black silky-looking cat ran out from underneath the portal ledge, startled by the noise. He leaned back on the settee in his room and drank a glass of burgundy, letting the full-bodied flavor complement the fully fleshed words and images that he was so thoroughly enjoying. He wet his lips with the wine, drawing a warm feeling into his core. Looking at the images, he felt that he was beginning to know Letitia better. The figures of goddesses with full curvaceous form were beautifully rendered, their simple outfits barely restraining breasts and full hips. The story ended leaving him wanting more, desiring more. The stairs creaked under his weight in the west wing of the old mansion, the wind shuttered the glass and he felt a cold chill as he entered her room. Hearing no sounds, he snuck in. While he felt entitlement to go into every room in his mansion, his forehead beaded with perspiration and his heart beat in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. At first glance, he didn't see where Letitia kept her art. The cherry wood writing desk was clear of material. Scanning the room, he saw a plain cedar chest near her bed. Glancing from side to side and waiting a few seconds, listening, he then crept over to the box and pried it open. Inside there was a plethora of pens and loose-leaf paper. Drawings of men, mythical beasts, mermaids with long legs that were webbed, horses and centaurs seemed to permeate the pages. There was a drawing of several women swiveling their hips in a smoky room, a harem of women. A sheik sat upright on a large pillow, puffing on a hookah as his eyes glittered while the woman danced in the room. Gazing at the image, he could smell the shisha smoke in the room and hear the tinkling of the woman's coins on their dresses as their arms and bodies curved in snakelike rhythms. The chiseled profile of Roland haunted Letitia's dreams. She couldn't sleep so she got up from her bed, threw on her night coat, and decided a walk through the herb gardens at the back of the chateau would give her relief. Her breath became steadier out in the garden, the scents of peony and bleeding hearts were sweet and fragrant. Lavender and wild chives tickled her nose. The moon hung low in the sky and Letitia felt she could almost touch it when she looked up. It illuminated the labyrinth of shrubs that grew in crooked shapes and uneven sizes at the back of the mansion. The cool wind blowing through her hair was like a cold refreshing draught and she went up the stairs to her writing chamber with a renewed sense of purpose. Coming closer to her door, she noticed it was ajar. The light from a candle glimmered and she could hear someone's heavy breathing, in fact, it reminded her of a similar noise she had heard the night before, she wondered. She saw his long dark locks first, drawing down onto his broad and powerful shoulders. His face in profile had a strong nose and high cheekbones, his lips full. His legs were clothed in supple buckskin that fit tightly to his thighs. His face was close to the page. To her page. Taking large breaths, she tried to cool her temper but she felt her blood rush hot through her veins. She longed to run her hands over his silk waistcoat, and feel his hard manhood through her nightgown, the way it was the night before. "Pray, tell me, what gull you are up to?" she said, her voice quivering a little and then getting louder. "Barging into my room like a Cod's head in the middle of the night! Your intentions are surely circumspect." The silence grew and then Roland turned to her. "I never thought that such a young woman as you would draw such material. In fact you are an accomplished artiste of the erotic genre." "How dare you accuse me of irrrepute! When I find you, in my chamber, in the middle of the night like a dark cully, perusing my private papers!" "Don't take offence. I was enthralled with your work and had to see more, to see you," he said, his voice like a silken glove running over her anger. "I could not get enough," he said, holding up the copy he had bought in the store. He ran his fingers slowly over it. "I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, looking at these papers as you so delicately called them, I would warrant that they might be described as smut at any School of Venus. Indeed, it seems you have taken lessons at a house such as that to make such fine illustrations in your books," insulting her, his haughty tone boiling her blood. "I am no courtesan. I am an artist!" she huffed, all the while her hands had started trembling. Her body felt compelled to surrender to his large powerful hands and yet his words were so infuriating. She was glad she was not holding onto anything for Roland would see how nervous she was. How impudent he was being. What a lobcock! She kept these thoughts to herself as she tried to determine how to rectify the situation. She could not afford to lose this position, if she did, she surely would never get another commission, especially from such an aristocratic family. He got up from the ground, took a few steps closer to her and said in a deep voice, "I believe we never discussed our arrangement from last night. I think we can come to an agreement here that might be suitable for both of us." He seemed to adjust his arrogant tone and Letitia did not know whether to believe him or distrust his mercurial temper. "I'm listening Roland," she said. He shut the door of her chamber, barely making a sound. He started unbuttoning his waistcoat and then laid it on her bed. Peeling off his long white tunic, he revealed his tan broad chest and well-formed biceps. Letitia felt her jaw drop open in awe of his form and then caught herself and shut her mouth, but not before he met her gaze, his bright blue eyes smoldering with an intensity that reminded her of how his touch on her shoulders had set her body aflame. She could feel her mouth water at this man who resembled Adonis with his toned and tight body. "I want a full body portrait," he said. "And only the left side of my face." "And you are going to pose right now?" she said, feeling her pulse race as her eyes took him in. "Clearly you weren't getting any sleep, so why not let me be your muse?" he winked at her and then placed his hands at his narrow waist; his iliac crest glistened like marble in her room. "Muses come at the most unexpected of moments," she said and smiled at him. Picking up a piece of charcoal she waved her hand to the window and gestured for Roland to move over to where the candle light reflected off the glass. His skin glowed a molten bronze color against the dark walls of her room. "Place your right leg on the chair and turn your whole torso toward me," she said. Roland complied, his body creating a twist of muscle and sinew that was breathtaking. The first few moments Letitia's hands quivered on the paper. While she had worked with female models before, she had never worked with a male model, nor one so attractive either. After a few circles and spheres of charcoal on the page, Letitia felt her rhythm and let her eyes take in the wondrous form of this man who was strong, powerful, and willing to do as she requested, at least for these few poses. "Now touch your toes," she said and she took in the flex of his derriere as he turned at a slight angle to her. "Turn to the right, slightly, Roland." "Yes Letitia," he said complying to meet her request. The more she drew him, conveying the complex curve and flex of his legs, abdomen and well-formed arms, the more she wanted to run her hands over his whole body, to truly appreciate his strength. The Artist's Muse "You have an exquisite form," she breathed to ease the tension built up by several pregnant minutes of silence in the room. "Riding my horse has kept my body in good shape," he agreed. Returning her intense gaze, his eyes seemed to blaze over her body, she felt he was undressing her from her thin negligee. She imagined how his long capable fingers might run over her soft thighs and touch her at her most sensitive place. Closing her eyes for a moment she saw him squeeze her ample breasts, lightly at first, pinching her nipples. Her body aroused, she paused from her work and let out a sigh, breaking the fantasy. Although she had only let a few men into her heart and fewer into her bed, there was something mysterious and so sensual about the way his gaze took her whole body in, understood her needs. She wanted him. Looking down at her page, Letitia didn't notice until Roland was standing right in front of her. "That is so sensual, the way you focus when you are drawing me," he said as if reading her mind. He ran his hand across her shoulders, settling on the seat beside her. His lips blazed a trail up her collarbone and over her lips, his fingers resting on the lace edging of her bodice for a moment. Parting her mouth, he kissed her lightly and then with more ardor as she felt his hand sliding up her nightgown between her thighs. These new sensations caused her knees to buckle and her whole core tingled. As he kissed her deeply, his finger slid over her mound, lightly at first, producing a rich heady sensation. Letting the pleasurable emotions overcome her, her head fell back awash in feeling. He continued to kiss her mouth and their tongues met as he slipped a finger and then two into her core. He moved his hand slowly at first and then faster, "you feel so tight," he said. "How long has it been since you've made amour?" he teased, his eyebrow lifting quizzically, his fingers quickening. "Too long," she gasped as her hips arched to meet his hand. As his long fingers plunged into her she slid her hand along his thigh, until she reached his manhood. Judging by his erect state, she could tell that he wanted to press his wholeness into her. Her skin quivered with these newly caused sensations as she tightened her body around his dexterous fingers, "Mon dieu Roland," she purred. "Oh," she said, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. Her nipples were taut hard peeks and Roland moved from her mouth to her breasts, licking them lightly and then suckling them. Never had a man paid such attention to her breasts. This was much more satisfying than just drawing images of lovers in abandon. He placed his mouth over the left nipple and then the right. His dark locks fell against her sensitive skin and she relished the feel of his mouth as he continued to suckle on her breasts. They slid onto the ground as the candlelight flickered above them. "You are a goddess sent to tempt me aren't you?" Roland said, his voice rich and commanding. She ran her fingers over him, her hands reveling in the feel of his smooth skin. Her hands glided over his smooth chest and then she wrapped her hand around his length, feeling it grow longer and harder under her attentions. "I don't know if I will be able to stop myself," Roland said, his blue eyes holding her dark ones. She breathed in his earthy scent of cedar and sage. "Perhaps it's best," she said, licking her lips and then kissing him on his neck, "if we stop then." She smiled and then rolled of off him. She stroked through his breeches, "I need to keep my muse in top shape, not dampen his energy." With a large sigh, Roland rolled over onto his stomach and watched the curvaceous form of Letitia. "You are just going to leave me in this state of want?" his voice husky with need. "Goodnight Roland, come again tomorrow at midnight, for your next portrait sitting," she said, throwing his tunic and waistcoat at him. With a groan he got up and she watched as his muscular frame glistened in the candlelight. The ink from Letitia's pen flowed for several moments after Roland had left her chamber. Recalling the way that he had traced his fingers possessively over her neck, breasts and thighs and their near coupling, she reveled in the sensations. She had felt an immediate attraction to this demanding man. She nibbled on the quill and watched the candle flame flicker with the draught that snuck in through the twisted stairway. Rain pattered against the glass and the flashes of lightening in the distance thundered softly. A storm was brewing in the inky sky. Chapter Four His feet in the stirrups on his favorite steed, Roland felt the weight of the world under his heels. He needed clarity. After feasting on Letitia's body and reading her stories, he felt like he knew a wilder more passionate side of himself and her than he had ever known before. Underneath her prim façade was a woman's soul made of fire and ice, willing to ignite his body and spirit with one gaze. Her delicious body and prodigious talent alerted his senses to provide for her, to inspire her as an artist. And yet his cold, dark, past of a life, crept up behind him as he dismounted from his horse near the central café. Quartier-Latin was brimming with people. The air was redolent of roast coffee, its rich scent was intoxicating, causing his mouth to water. He recognized a few of his artist friends and waved his hand. Cool green glasses filled with liquor were downed all around the table. He joined in at once, drowning his sorrows in the potent venom - Absinthe. It burned his throat and caused his eyes to water, so potent was its toxicity on his body. The edges of the world became a bit shadowy as he sat in the café; he felt a warm wave wash over him, immediately relaxing. The gambling and drinking continued long into the night until he felt drawn back to his old mansion. The liquor was spurring visions in his head while the vertical reality of the stone street was jarring underneath the horse's hooves. At last he rounded a corner that was familiar, the large old stones were burned and pock marked, evidence of the revolution in the streets. With a force that kept pulling him stronger and harder, he found himself putting one foot in front of the other faster and faster until he was standing in his lair. The world blurred in front of his eyes and he fell onto his bed in a deep slumber. Roland tossed back and forth on his bed, a vision of his deceased widow Marie appeared to him. She was shimmering in her nude skin, a beautiful sight. He felt her mount him and ride him without restraint tossing her head back and forth, placing his large hands over her soft breasts so that she was fully penetrating him. She rocked back and forth over his manhood and then she transformed into the body of Letitia. A warm rush of emotion swept through him as they both rushed into oblivion. As quick as she appeared she then dissipated into the night air. Running her fingers along her satin embroidered garters underneath her nightgown, Letitia felt the finely-worked pattern and wondered where Roland was. It was one o'clock in the morning and she had requested that he sit for his portrait at 12. Although she didn't want to admit it to herself, she thought more about the master of the house with every coming hour. When would he demand to see her work? Would he be happy with it? She hoped that he would. As she wrote with her left hand, she felt the pads of her right hand trace up her nightgown and linger there at the apex of curls. The first streaks of dawn appeared on the horizon and still Roland did not come. Chapter Five Rolling out of bed, Roland saw the wreckage of the night before him. Glass wine bottles lay before him, bobbing in a sea of dirty clothes and old plates. The sheets of his bed were twisted, he ran his hand along his jaw to feel the sharp stubble. Pools of tallow melted on the floor creating a white sheen. A human skull on his desk stared back at him, reminding him of its' nearness and with that he felt the haunting presence of his deceased wife, Maria. Remembering her loss, he doubted whether he would be able to love again. As if all the light in his mind had been extinguished, his head felt a searing pain. The Absinthe had left him in a stupor that was so heady he could barely remember his name. All he could recall was the vision of Letitia straddling his thighs, bucking over him, feeling her soft smooth breasts and pinching her dark nipples. His manhood was hard and needy for her. His pants tented and he had only been awake for a few minutes. He wiped his eyes of the smoke and grime from gallivanting in the city to find placed at eye level on his bedroom wall the painting of the god and goddess Baron La Croix. Their voluptuous bodies hinted of excessive pleasures in wine and love making. Pan, the god of Bacchanalia, gazed out lasciviously at him, joining the other gods and goddesses. The male Baron had bronze tanned skin, long legs, an athletic body, and dark black curls; it was as if Letitia had used his body for the model for this god of debauchery. But his face, Roland noted, was covered in a mask made of dark waxy leaves, like the Green Man, an ancient Pagan deity. They lay in a valley of flowers, a river flowing by. Their faces turned toward Roland and he felt as if they were watching him, approving of the night he had spent in mad revelry. The longer he stared at the painting, the more he felt an insatiable desire to see Letitia; it was as if she had cast a spell on him through painting the image. He decided to go to the garden and work out his anxieties in the dirt. The next morning Letitia rose and longed for some fresh air. She found the flowing, drifting sound of the water in the brook like a melody for her nerves. The shafts of light in the garden slid over her body and her face felt the warm sunshine. She breathed in the smells of lavender and jasmine, the wet dew, the rich spicy scent of cedar redolent of the harems in the lower quarters of Paris, where men with a penchant for the Orient went to smoke hashish and enjoy the company of exotic belly dancers. She deigned to go there, to witness their sensuous movements. Perhaps if she could come up with a decent disguise she would be able to go there and do some research for her next art series. After the one night with Roland, all her senses were awakened to the natural world. Her heeled boots pressed into the soft soil as she wound through the labyrinth of stone and herbs that grew wild and untamed. ` The tall red bricks of the garden walls extended back and as she walked she felt the rough surface of the brick. She rounded the corner and not looking where she was going, she tripped and fell into Roland who was busy working with the vegetables. "I'm so sorry!" she cried as she bent to pick up her sketches which had fallen all over the dewy lawn. "No I apologize. Truly, it is my fault," Roland said to her in a slow, sweet way of talking, which Letitia found so attractive. The way that his voice rolled the letters off his tongue, it made her feel a warm pull of friction through her spine, as if elevating her body to a different plane. His dark brown hair sparkled in the sunshine. Looking over at Roland, she wanted to run her hands over his shoulders and feel his hard muscle beneath. His eyes caught hers and she could see lines around his face, his mouth was in a firmer line, as if he hadn't slept well. He wore grey loose pants and his billowy tunic that revealed a sparse amount of black chest hair. She imagined how easily it would be to strip off his simple clothing, how quickly he might sheath himself in her. Her pulse racing, she tried to control her prurient thoughts and felt her breasts flush with anticipation. Placing his calloused hand on her mahogany colored hand, he rubbed them together. The friction of his rough hand over her smooth silky skin was nearly too much for her feverish body to handle, she felt her core pulse. He rubbed his hand over hers again and she replied with a warm throaty sound a "hmmm." "Roland," Letitia sighed. "Yes," his sky-blue eyes held hers. "Just what do you think you are doing?" "Nothing in particular, I just wanted to get your garden into shape here," he said with a wink and his blue eyes roamed over her, as if he wanted to possess her body and soul. "I believe," said Letitia, "that you could get my garden into shape, if you would pose for me, here," she breathed out softly. "Here?now?" questioned Roland. "Yes here, the lighting is perfect, your profile would be illuminated by daylight," she said as they took a turn about the vegetable patch. "I'll have to think about that Letitia," he said raising a dark eyebrow which only heightened the mystery behind his blue eyes, "now which vegetable is your preference? The cucumbers are a beautiful dark green but not exactly straight." "Ahah. I see." whispered Letitia. They were gazing down at the squash and beans. "This one is lovely too," he said pointing to a yellow curved zucchini. "Yes," Letitia said, "I love the way it curves so naturally," and then she laughed aloud. She ran her fingers over its smooth skin with the little bumpy ridges and then adjusted her voice to a more serious tone. "I mean it Roland, I need to paint your profile, and the daylight is the best way to see all your features." "First, let me evaluate your features," he countered as he ran his finger over her chin. She felt as if he had done so a thousand times before. Placing a kiss on her lips, he set her heart racing. Her whole body responded to his touch and set it coveting with dark needs and she, like the Haitian goddess of love, fell into his embrace. The grass was long and green beneath Letitia's thighs, a vivid contrast to the deep blue of Roland's eyes. Their clothes lay in a heap beside them and Letitia smiled as Roland ran his hands up her shapely calves and massaged the top of her thighs. Letitia helped him along the way, guiding his hands, sliding them to her apex, pressing his hand into her mound, allowing waves of pleasure to overcome her. She let out a little moan and gasped as he pressed lightly into her secret place. She couldn't believe that this fantasy was becoming a reality. She ran her hands through his dark hair and then squeezed his thick shoulders, bracing herself. "Lick me at my core," she purred. "Like this?" he said, removing his skillful hands and replacing them with his velvety tongue. "Yes, slowly, very slowly, like you are enjoying a ripe, rare peach," she said and let out a soft sigh in encouragement. She barely recognized this goddess who had taken over her voice and was now encouraging such wanton behavior. Roland licked her from the bottom to the top of her apex causing waves of sensation to flow through her body. Her hips arched up to meet his mouth as his tongue began to move into her, she could feel the velvety richness of his tongue, this naughty behavior driving her senses wild. She moaned in want of more. He met her gaze with his eyes - hooded in desire - and continued his assault on her senses. He placed his hands onto her breasts as he kept his tongue darting in and out of her, causing her body to flood with want. He massaged her nipples until they were hard little pebbles, pinching them. She placed her hands over his and massaged her breasts while bringing up her mound to meet his hungry mouth. A feeling of insatiable lust swept over her as she rocked her body and hips in undulations moving forward and back in a hypnotic rhythm. Feeling him press his manhood along her thigh, she arched her hips in response. "Mon dieu, Letitia," he said as he felt her shudder beneath him. "Yes, Roland," she said craving more. "I don't know if I will be able to stay in my untended state much longer," he let out a low growl. They rolled together in the long green grass, its coolness providing relief to their warm bodies. Letitia rolled so she was on top of him. Squeezing his nipples she said, "You relax, you have given me so much pleasure, now let me give you some. An officer like you..."she said running her hands along his muscular chest and abdomen. Roland's chest was like a city landscape that she had never explored. The smooth feel of his skin beneath hers was like learning a new language. The sunlight revealed his scars, and she rolled her tongue over them. "How did you know?" he asked. "While you were sleeping, I sketched portraits of you and I realized from all your sleep talking, that you must have been in the military for some time," she said and smiled at him, kissing her way down his abdomen. "Sleep talking?" he blushed under her gaze and his eyes widened for a moment, while gasping as she continued to kiss him. Her thighs held him in place and she could feel the strength of his manhood press up against her. It had been so long for Letitia since she had lain with a man, especially as handsome as him. She bucked her hips playfully against him, preparing Roland for her garden path. "I know about your secrets too Letitia. You draw erotica that would rival the Marquis de Saade's lurid descriptions. But I love that about you, your fantastic creativity." Roland's face flushed as he smiled at her. "Well then you'll enjoy this one, called the French kiss," she said placing her mouth over top of his manhood, licking him slowly. The friction created was sending waves of energy through his whole body. He gasped, his body tight. She ran her hands along his ass, scraping his thighs lightly, feeling his warm blood course beneath his taut skin. As she continued to work her mouth over him, Roland let out longer groans; she could feel him moving underneath her. She could feel his hands holding her head in position, drawing through her rich black curls. She loved that she could return the pleasure he had given her. "Letitia you are an art piece, let me enter you," he said panting. She met his eyes and took in all of him. His cock was a delicious length and smoothness inside her mouth. Touching the back of her mouth, he increased his pace and pumped into her. He groaned as she removed her mouth from him and then straddled him, holding his cock in her hand as she slowly lowered her core over his hard length. Although she did not have much experience, her creative imagination took over. He sheathed himself in her and she groaned as she adjusted to his length. She ran her hands along his muscular chest, feeling the ripples of his smooth muscle underneath her fingertips, bracing herself on him. He felt so right inside of her, like he belonged. He placed his long firm fingers around her waist as she settled unto him. She let out a little cry as his length seemed to grow in her, stretching her core, the slick friction building inside of her body like a heat wave. Arching her back, his manhood hit her sensitive spot inside her body. They rocked together as he thrust. Roland grasped her breasts, squeezing her nipples as he drove into her with all his strength. She clenched around his manhood, driving his cock further as he came in her. She felt warm spasms move over her belly and thighs as they both shook with the force of their union. They held each other close for several moments, underneath the warm rays of the sun. Her painterly senses loved the contrast of their skin together; his tan bronzed body was light caramel next to her cocoa skin. Roland's white skin sparkled in the sunlight. His upper arms were well formed and muscular. Tracing a fingertip over his bicep, she said, "you remind me of the Greek God of arts." He smiled, his pink lips catching hers in a kiss. "Just like the god Apollo, handsome, dark curling hair, a beautiful comely figure." Getting up on her elbows, Letitia reached for her clothes and retied her yellow billowy dress that had been thrown away in their passion. A few paces away, the roses seemed to lie sprawled open, mimicking the position of her legs kisses earlier. The Artist's Muse "Now Roland, you will pose for me in the garden won't you?" she said sweetly. "Absolutely not," he said and then rolled away from her. Hunching his shoulders, he turned away from her. Although they had just given each other pleasure, she felt she had run into a wall between them that eclipsed her from his true feelings. Letitia heard Roland breathe out with a heavy sigh and then he placed his hands on her neck for a brief moment and then was gone. Letitia turned to look at his retreating figure, but he had already left. "Indeed," she said, her mouth setting in a firm line. She was determined to paint his portrait, no matter the cost to his pride. She applauded herself for having done all those sketches of Roland when he was in a catatonic state. She had the material to begin her portrait. Chapter Six Wandering through the long mirrored hallways of Chateau Bertrand, Letitia daydreamed about how her portrait of Roland would appear on the walls of the French Academy's Salon. In her mind's eye she saw her painting of his face surrounded by works of all the other great masters. The critics' voices sounded in her head of her previous failed attempts, they had labeled her work "banal" and "not fully developed." The more she ruminated on these voices, the more she became enflamed to prove them wrong. As she gazed at the highly realistic portraits of former Bertrands, she couldn't help but notice the stiff poses and unnatural gazes of the subjects. She had to admit though that the brushwork was tight and beautifully done, if you appreciated that realistic genre. She was determined though to paint in a way that evoked emotion rather than purely a realistic image before her. Admiring a bucolic landscape painting at the end of the room above the fireplace, Letitia leaned against the wall to rest her mind, while her eyes took in the serene landscape. Suddenly, the fireplace revolved and revealed a secret passageway. There were a large number of cobwebs that Letitia tried to duck and avoid so she wouldn't get them on her grey debutante wig that she had purchased recently. Holding a candle in her hand the dark gloominess of the passage was almost overwhelming, however, she kept walking. Rounding a bend in the tunnel, Letitia came out into a round room, which had long black drapery on the walls, as if trying to keep out the light. Inches of dust seemed to have piled on the floor and the furniture. A large cabinet stood in the far area of the room and drew her eyes. Peering closer, she could see there were various specimens, precious artifacts from someone's journeys abroad. A dark roughhewn wooden mask of a man, stood up right next to a finely carved ivory couple that were tupping without restraint. When she pulled the lovers apart they were individual sculptures; judging from their tangled limbs and Asian features, she guessed that this traveler had been to the Far East. She ran her finger over the woman's rotund thighs. The ivory was cool beneath her touch. There was an unclothed statue of Venus too, and an assortment of illuminated manuscripts with images of Eastern couples indulging their passions without restraint. Although Letitia was not inexperienced in the matters pertaining to love, she felt herself blush at the new amorous discoveries she was making. In another area of the room she noticed a large assortment of weaponry: guns, muskets and shot. This must be the collection of Roland she thought. An array of dried butterfly wings, struggled to flutter before her, their wings pinned down. There were the fiery orange and reds of the monarch butterfly and the silken velvet of a common moth. Green, black and sapphire sparkled on the tip of a peacock's feather winking at her. An assortment of glass jars with exotic-looking spices beckoned. She opened the first jar and recognized the rich, spicy scent of cloves. The ends of grass on another mask reminded Letitia of Haitian rituals and fantastical beasts, stories her mother had told her when she was a child. She stroked her finger along the fine raffia, the sandy gold colours shimmered in the dusky room. Looking above, an assortment of finely bound leather books stood like sentinels on guard. Out of the corner of her eye, the candle light flickered onto the painting of a man and a woman. Letitia felt drawn to the couple. She gazed first at the face of a dark-skinned woman. Her grey wig was puffed and elegant, her lips were upturned as if she was holding a secret. Her dark eyes sparkled. She wore a yellow damask gown that revealed a curvaceous bountiful figure. She placed her arm daintily on the strong limbs of a man wearing a long red jacket with gold buttons. His tanned skin and high cheekbones radiated health. His eyes were a sharp blue colour. His lips were sensuous and full. His cravat was starched and white; he wore a blue silk waistcoat and gold watch that sparkled in the daylight of the painting. Dark grey tights revealed his muscular calves. Both man and woman looked askance as if they were drawn to some momentous event. The longer she gazed at the portrait, the more she felt sure that this was indeed a portrait of Roland and his wife. How come he had never mentioned her? Over the next day, Letitia set up her studio in this round room, stopping only to take her meals in the garden. She felt that her portrait was safe here, away from the prying eyes of servants and the owner of the house. She painted Roland's portrait, creating layer upon layer of oil paint, detailing the smoothness of his cheeks, his dark silky curls and his vivid blue eyes. Without holding back, she whipped the paint onto the canvas with loose strokes. She used a large brush for his shoulders, remembering how he had traced over her skin with his long capable fingers. With a smaller brush she worked in the details of his face; the scar that ran on the right side of his face from his eye to his lip. This scar to her was a defining feature for his unique beauty, it created asymmetry in his profile, a quality that she was always drawn to in a subject. It was late into the night when Roland returned from the café. Wandering through the hall of mirrors, he felt that he should see the portrait of his wife once more. The light in the tunnel alerted him that someone was working there. Letitia was standing next to her easel, her dark creamy bosom appealing to his darkest desires. Breaking his eyes from her luscious curves, he was struck by the painting in front of him. "How could you paint me like this?" he said with a sneer, barely taking a glance at the painting. "Roland, good to see you as well," she said, a little taken back by his tone. She could smell Absinthe on his body. "Answer me dammit! I want you out of here! Get away from my dead wife! " His chest heaving, Roland paced the room. "Out of here you artiste!" "I know when I'm not wanted. Fine then! I'm going to Baron La Brue's mansion, he's a patron that appreciates artists! And he will pay me decently!" Letitia said in a loud cry and grabbing the portrait of him, she sped from the round room. Gathering her things in her carpet bag, she fled Chateau Bertrand in the middle of the night, the rain pelting down on her carriage when she left. She had nearly completed her masterpiece and Roland's reaction was exactly the kind of strong emotions she intended to arouse in the critics as well, except she hoped they would appreciate the risks she was taking in developing a new, more immediate style. Although her heart was hammering, she had a feeling that she had struck a heart chord and she wanted to keep it that way! Roland had nearly destroyed her portrait, her best work yet, and she had no intention of letting him stall her from becoming the best artist she could. Chapter Seven Stepping out of his carriage, and walking along the Seine, Roland gazed into its murky waters. His heart quickened a little at the thought that he would see some new art works at the Louvre Museum, which was thankfully open once again after the Reign of Terror. It was now intended as a museum for the people, and Roland was taking full advantage of the opportunity. He wanted to gain some perspective on why he had acted so forcefully towards Letitia, kicking her out of his chateau. Visions of her lips on his neck and abdomen, the exquisite feel of his length within her, haunted his every waking thought. Looking up at the neoclassical façade of curvaceous nymphs, goddesses and muses, he was reminded of her curves. Their swaddling tunics revealed their bountiful breasts, and full hips. His body seemed to tighten as he remembered the way Letitia responded to his touch, raking her fingers along his thighs, turning him into a passionate rake. It had been five long years since he had shared intimacy with a woman. The death of his wife was almost the death of him, so deep was his mourning. Yet, Letitia seemed to bring him out of the dismal life he was leading, of heavy drinking and lonely nights in the cold. He smirked a little to himself as he walked through the corridor heading to the new paintings wing. He spent some time looking at luscious landscapes of Haiti, his eyes enjoying the sensational colors on the canvases. Of course there were some blasé landscapes by up and coming artists, Roland quickly perused through some of them until his eye caught on a newly framed portrait. Gazing at the expressive brushstrokes, the long shadows on the face, the full lips that held a promise of love, he realized it was a portrait of himself! Letitia must have submitted it to the Paris Salon the moment she had left him at his chateau. His heart raced as he recognized this abstracted realist painting -- the colours were garish, but they were innovative -- she had used blue and purple tones to bring out his eyes and the fullness of his nose and mouth. His eyes widened and he felt his mouth drop open in complete bewilderment. It was a risk taking work -- the most innovative portrait he had seen in a long time. The immediacy of his gaze was brought out through Letitia's skillful hand. As he caught his own eyes in the painting, he felt an uncanny feeling that Letitia knew him better than he knew himself. Her love, her passion and acceptance of him had changed him somehow. The darkness that had filled him had been replaced with a new fire. She had painted a three-quarter profile that rather than casting his scar in shadow, revealed it. He breathed out a long sigh -- she clearly understood his needs, battles and struggles. Taking another long look at the portrait, he then raced out of the salon and headed straight for Baron La Brue's mansion. Chapter 8 In her 10 years living in the city, Letitia had never seen the torrential downpours like she did that week after she left Chateau Bertrand. She was working on her next portrait for Baron La Brue who wanted a full length painting of himself, alongside the huntress Diana. Like Roland, La Brue had also served in the military, although judging from his large stomach and penchant for smoking opium, Letitia guessed that he had completed mostly "administrative" rather than soldierly duties. Nevertheless, La Brue was a change, if somewhat lackluster, compared to the passion-filled days that Letitia had spent with Roland. Pressing large brushstrokes onto the canvas, Letitia couldn't help but imagine the way Roland use to provide her with harsh criticism and then long kisses. She felt herself missing him but she didn't want to admit it. She needed to create. The sharp quick footsteps of someone in the hallway alerted Letitia to a visitor. La Brue noticing someone said, "Blast, I wasn't expecting any visitors!" with a huff, he took off his Grecian robe and hurried on his smoking jacket. Without stopping to introduce himself, Roland pushed his way past the waiting servants and proceeded into the library where Letitia was painting. His hair was soaking wet, his coat tails were dripping and his sharp blue eyes burned with a fiery intensity. She couldn't smell any liquor on his breath. She wanted to run her arms around his neck, draw him into her. "I believe you owe me an explanation Letitia!" he said in a deep voice, commanding and drawing all her attention. "I'm sure that you owe me one!" replied Letitia in a voice that matched his. "I feel I must be interrupting something," peeped in Baron La Brue. "Please forgive the intrusion Monsieur La Brue," said Roland flashing the Baron a quick nod of the head. "Quite, all right, all right, Monsieur, just don't keep my artist for too long now," he said, and then whistling to his Great Dane he left the room as quick as his stubby legs could carry him, shutting the door behind him. Roland caught Letitia's gaze and his body felt flooded with yearning and desire, but he reigned himself in to say, "I was walking through the Salon this morning and who do I come across, but a painting of myself! Loose brushwork, intensely felt. You placed my," he paused, overcome with emotion. "Yes I did because that is one of the defining marks about you, a beautiful feature of your profile," she said, not backing down. "I mean I felt, when I looked at my portrait, I felt that you knew about me. About all my deepest secrets. And that's when I came here," he said, crossing the room as he did so. He noticed her eyes were as bright as ever, her complexion clear and smooth. She was wearing a yellow dress that crossed in the front that reminded him of the Haitian goddess of amour. "It was one of the most moving portraits I've ever seen in all my years of walking through the Salons," Roland said, now only an arm's length from her. "I'm so glad to hear it Roland," she said, her resolve not to touch him crumbling away. Roland saw a few tears stream down her cocoa skin; he wanted to brush them away. "I don't think I've ever painted someone as truly as I've painted you," she whispered. "You captured me Letitia, and that is what," he paused again, his voice quivering and then he cleared his throat, "that is what makes you such a talented painter, whose works now grace the Academy walls. I'm sorry for how I acted and how I hurt you." Reaching out his arms, he invited her into them. She looked into his eyes, and she saw everything she needed, his humility and love. She stepped into his arms and they held each other, closer than they had ever been. After a few tender moments, Roland said, "Ma Chérie, I do believe, you still owe me a portrait for my collection." He stroked her face with his fingertip, the sensation sending warm energy through his body. "And you owe me a proper sitting," she said raising a delicate eyebrow. Picking up a clean paintbrush, he twirled it in his fingers and then graced it over her skin, pressing lightly and making loose spiral traces on her neck, "I'm sure that can be arranged," he said and then added, "and I wouldn't mind posing either." "You're my muse, aren't you," she said, and placed her lips on his. FIN