Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

Chapter 29

Tristan felt so damned good, so sinfully hot and forbidden there against the junction of her thighs, Violet knew she could not deny him. Although her flesh was tender and her internal muscles were already clenching with anticipation that it would most likely hurt, she did as he said.

He’s so beautiful like this. Demanding. Impatient, although a veneer of cool wariness shields his heart. He wants me. Me. Despite my flaws and ignorance of the ways between a man and a woman. How is it possible I’ve become a woman willing to give him anything he desires when he truly offers nothing in return?

When she was completely impaled upon his body, when her buttocks rested atop the muscles of his upper thighs, when she was so full of him it was hard to breathe, her bottom lip tugged between her teeth. He was huge, and her flesh protested the invasion.

It hurt more in this position. She felt stretched. Tiny. Powerless, especially when his large hands gripped her hips so tight that her skin would be surely marked by bruises. A tear formed, the salty drop clinging to her eyelashes.

But even though it burned like fire, there was a wicked ecstasy in the way his shaft throbbed inside her. A pleasure found in the fullness that prickled her skin with awareness each time he shifted or breathed too deep a breath. This frenzy of sensations robbed her of all common sense.

She began to move and was startled when he stopped her.

“I know I am hurting you, kitten. You are so goddamn tiny; it can’t help but hurt. I need you to be still for just a moment. I need you to take your time, wait until you are sure of your movements before you even make them. Let your body adjust to mine, and when you are ready, I want you to do whatever is necessary to make yourself feel good. Until the pain I’m causing right now is gone and forgotten.”

“Yes, Tristan,” she whispered. How would she know when to move? Or when she was ready? That first time, he’d made those decisions for her. Now, insecurity reared its head. “But I—”

With the pad of his thumb, he swiped away a tear from her cheek. “I want to feel you come around me. And I will wait until you decide when that happens. Understood?”

Violet nodded. Of course, the pain would ease. Just like it did before. And unimaginable pleasure would follow. As it had before.

The only agony she would experience after that was the heartache caused by his exit from her life.

For an eternity, or maybe only minutes, Violet was still. Absorbing him. Remembering him. Tucking away bits of Tristan she could savor for years. Every breath he took was an echo of her own. Every kiss he pressed to her skin, a mirror of those she wanted to give him. Every squeeze, every caress, every whisper, tied with ribbons and stored in her heart.

When her heart was full, she began moving. Slowly at first, learning how the undulation of her hips and the clench of her inner muscles made him groan with desire. She discovered that with his hands helping her rise and fall, she could also lean back and watch his cock plunge into her body. And when she needed something else, something more, something harder, Tristan took her hand, teaching her how to touch herself where they were joined. Showing that her own fingers could glide over the silky folds of her flesh. It felt her heart would pound from her chest as the pleasure spiked higher.

“Come for me, my wild Violet,” he crooned darkly. “Come for me.”

She watched him watching her, entranced by the intense, possessive light in the depths of his coffee-colored eyes. Her fingers moved as if commanded by him, his cock striking so deep it felt otherworldly, until something within her exploded without warning.

The climax washed over her in glorious waves. Violet shook from the sheer force of it. She tried hanging on, she truly did, but Tristan’s hoarse shout of conquest dragged her even further along a glittering precipice. The waves battered her, draining her and then somehow filling her back up.

She let the rolling tide have her. Let Tristan take her until she was no longer sure if she was still on earth or had somehow plummeted into a world full of fire and brimstone.

Words that should never be spoken aloud flowed from her soul. Words she’d kept secret from this man.

“I love you, Tristan. I love you…”

With a sob, Violet fell forward against his neck, but he jerked her head back up. His mouth claimed hers with a ferocity that was both thrilling and confusing. A split second later, he yanked her up and off his shaft before crushing her against him, trapping his pulsating flesh and his seed between their bodies.

His groan, muffled by their kiss, reverberated through Violet. For a moment, she wondered what he might have said at the moment of his climax had their mouths not been sealed together.

Would he have whispered how much he cared for her?

Would he have declared her as his own?

Would you have confessed your love for me, Tristan?

The words meant nothing to him but everything to Violet.

Now, he had them and the last remaining piece of her heart.

* * *

An awkward silencefell between them as Tristan once again cleaned away all evidence of their union. After lighting another lamp, he pulled on his trousers before gathering her belongings and placing them on the settee.

He tugged her hand until she stood, then began helping her dress, pulling her corset strings tight while she stood in docile surrender.

Violet’s gaze, however, frantically bounced around the studio, committing every detail to memory.

This would be the last time she ever saw it, and her breath caught in a painful gasp at the thought.

“I’m sorry. Did I pull too hard?” Tristan’s lips hovered over the curve of her neck. With the corset strings loose in his fingers, he waited for an answer, his breath warm and still carrying a tinge of whiskey.

The anguish devouring Violet made speech difficult; she shook her head.

Tristan’s movements gentled just the same, his knuckles grazing her skin with such reverence she thought she might scream with the unfairness of it all. Her dress was settled over her head, twitched into place by his capable hands, and buttoned with lingering fingers.

My heart and virginity… all lost within the confines of this room. But I’ll take this memory to keep me warm during a lifetime of frost in another man’s bed. This was my choice. My choice, one I’ll never regret—

Violet stilled. Her gaze widened, her pulse thumping with alarming force as she tried making sense of what she saw across the room.

“Kitten? Are you all right?” Tristan inquired in a soothing manner, taking her by the shoulders and turning her toward him. He frowned at her distant stare, clucking his tongue. “Perhaps you require a brandy. Maybe something stronger. I have whiskey here some—”

Perplexed by the continued silence, he followed her gaze then stiffened. His fingers curled around her shoulders, then realizing he might be hurting her, he let go.

“What is that, Tristan?” Violet brushed past him, moving so slowly and deliberately it felt she was part of a strange dream.

“It’s nothing,” he replied with deceptive calm. No attempt was made at stopping her, but a quick glance over her shoulder revealed the tightness of Tristan’s jaw. His eyes glittered with an emotion Violet could not identify.

She halted in front of the canvas propped on the biggest of the three easels. This painting was the largest, with the details just beginning to sharpen under the artist’s brush.

But Violet recognized herself.

It was her, as Tristan had pointedly described his fantasy only weeks before. It was her, splayed on the table and naked. A sketched outline of a wine goblet and the almost transparent rendition of a crystal bowl concealed the small swell of a stomach and the junction of her thighs. An arm crossed over her breasts, and her head was propped in the opposite hand. Auburn red hair tumbled over ivory-hued shoulders, and her face —

Oh, God. Her face… A tiny smile redolent with lust illuminated that portion of the canvas. Mysterious and maddening, full lips tilted at the corner though reluctant to share a scandalous secret. And for her eyes, he’d given her dark amethyst jewels so deep and rich a man could drown in them.

A dizzying blend of love and lust shaped the delicate brushstrokes he’d lain. Possession tinged the colors. Denial honed the lines.

It was a masterpiece no one would ever lay eyes on.

In the real world, she was a timid, insecure wallflower.

But on Tristan’s canvas, she was transformed.

She was a goddess of wildflowers, blooming where she pleased.

Violet touched her lips with trembling fingers. Were they truly that full and stained with blood? “Is this how you see me?”

For a long moment, she wasn’t sure he would answer, but then Tristan sighed heavily.

“I told you once before, Violet. I see you.”

He sounded almost weary, maintaining the distance between them as Violet’s attention turned to the second painting.

This one was breezily innocent and closer to completion. It depicted her stretched on the green grass with her back against the trunk of a huge oak. Scattered about was a stack of books, an open basket with grapes spilling from it, and sleeping in her lap was a tiny orange kitten. A bird’s nest was barely visible, almost hidden in the foliage of one high, sweeping oak branch. And beside it, a lovely, little red-breasted robin gazing down at the girl below.

The third painting was the forfeit from their wager.

It was Carrot by the Rose Garden fountain, the sunlight setting his fur aglow, a mischievous glint in his wide, green eyes. The fountain sparkled behind him, red roses tumbling everywhere. Her dear, little kitten sat posed with a sort of regal grandeur that reminded Violet of a lion surveying his kingdom. It was magnificent and whimsical, and it shattered her heart into a million pieces.

“Why?” Her voice cracked with the question. “Why have you painted me? I don’t understand…”

Her heart thumped faster, waiting for his answer.

Waiting…

“I’m a painter,” he replied at last in a voice cool and detached. “It’s what I do for amusement. I paint all manner of subjects. Hell, whatever catches my attention at the moment might end up on a bit of canvas.”

Violet whirled on him, choking back a sob at the subtle note of cruelty in his tone.

“And I… I caught your attention for the moment.” I will not cry in front of this man. I will not. I cannot.

A strange, almost pained expression crossed Tristan’s features before his shoulders lifted in a shrug. He had yet to don his shirt, and the movement made his bare chest ripple with muscles. “Of course. You are a beautiful woman. Why wouldn’t I immortalize you on canvas?”

Violet’s chin lifted. “Is that all you can say to me? Is that all there is to it? I interested you for a brief time because you thought I was beautiful. Temporary, but beautiful.”

He scowled. “Should there be more to it than that? For God’s sake. This—” He waved a hand toward the easels. “This is nothing. Do not look for hidden meanings behind a few brushstrokes, Violet. I painted a meadow full of lovely, but rather ordinary sheep once. Doesn’t mean I formed a lasting affection for sheep.”

Had he stabbed her with a hunting knife, slipped it right between her ribs while twisting the blade, he could not have hurt her more.

Head held high, Violet stalked past him to the settee and scooped up her shoes and gloves. She debated taking the time to don them, not relishing the idea of traversing the manor’s halls in her stockinged feet. A sobering realization struck her; she could not spend a minute longer in this man’s presence. There was the very real threat of bursting into sobs if she so much as glanced his way.

Making it to the door without a single teardrop sliding onto her cheeks was an accomplishment of massive proportions. Pride that she could restrain her emotions fought against the despair welling within her. If she could maintain her composure for a few seconds more, that pride would triumph and she could escape. Tristan would never know how badly he had sliced her with his derisive comments.

The doorknob rotated in her hand. She needed solitude to cry every bit of the pain out of her soul. She needed to hide from the world until she gathered the tattered pieces of herself back together.

But… Violet hesitated.

She turned, expecting Tristan watched her departure with an air of relief. Instead, resignation stamped his features into harsh lines. A hint of sorrow, possibly imagined by her broken heart, darkened his eyes as he stared at her.

“I wish I didn’t love you, Tristan. I wish I hadn’t told you that I do,” she choked out. “It is an emotion wasted on you. I only realize now that it has been that way for a long time. Of course, that is my fault, not yours. You did nothing to encourage my feelings for you in the beginning.”

Her head tilted as she regarded him. Her voice, so tortured at first, became stronger. Invincible. Brave. “You should know that I feel sorry for you, Tristan. Because you believe you see people. That you see me, but that’s not true. You cannot see what blinds you. And you waste precious time ignoring what is right before your eyes. I have the awful feeling you will spend the rest of your life in the dark. Surrounded by light and love and happiness but too afraid to share your own with someone.”

Glancing about the room one last time, Violet gave Tristan a wobbly smile. Tears stung her eyes, despite her best efforts at keeping them contained.

“Goodbye, Tristan. I do hope you remember me fondly, when you remember me at all.”

Slipping through the door, she closed it with a finality that crushed her heart.

Desperate to escape the terrible weight of her crumbling dreams, Violet broke into a run once she was in the corridor. Tears held back so bravely, now streamed in tiny rivers down her cheeks, forcing her to dash them away with the back of her hand.

She did not turn back, not even when a faint crashing sound echoed from behind Tristan’s studio door.

She couldn’t turn back. Not now.

After all, there was no longer anything or anyone in that room worth turning back for.