ColorMeBad by Olivia Waite Page A

of her cunt.
    Hecuba came so hard she curled up around him, clutching at
his shoulders with her free hand and panting desperately against the crook of
his neck. It was too much—he’d been holding back too long. With a hoarse cry,
John followed her up and over the edge, into flight, pulsing and shaking as he
poured himself into her quivering body and sparks burst in the darkness behind
his eyes.
    Slowly the aftershocks died away and their bodies regained
their accustomed weight. John ran wondering hands down the curves of her hips
and along the stockings she still wore, the black silk impossibly dark against
the sheets. There were holes in them, he noticed now—spots where her skin
showed through in delightfully lurid circles. He wanted to slip those stockings
down over her calves, her ankles…remove them entirely and use them tie her down
beneath him in the bed. Or else let her tie him up… Yes, he rather
thought she would enjoy that.
    Hecuba sat up with a sigh and reached for her pantalets. “I
must be going,” she said.
    There was regret in her voice but not enough of it to soothe
the sting. “When will you come back?” he asked, striving to keep his voice
level and calm. Damn it all, she’d been the virgin, so why did he feel as
though he’d lost something tonight?
    She pulled on her white chemise and smiled mischievously at
him over her shoulder. Her lips were pink, her cheeks still flushed from
climax, her hair tumbled and wilder than ever. Circe again , he thought, rising
from the bed of Odysseus. His hands shook with the need to reach for a
pencil and sheet of paper even as his body hummed with exhaustion. Apparently
fucking Hecuba Jones as hard as he could had done nothing to curb his impulse
to capture her image. He couldn’t wait to paint her again. And to fuck her
again.
    He lay dazed by these twin revelations while Hecuba once
again put on her black thief’s garb. It was only as she pinned up her hair that
he recalled his promise to her. “Wait,” he said. He threw on a dressing gown,
retrieved Hecuba as Henry VIII from his wardrobe—still in its protective
roll, still bound by his cravat—and held it out to her. “We’ll be even after
this,” he said.
    Hecuba took her mother’s painting but her eyes flashed up at
him. “There are still two more paintings you have that I want,” she reminded
him.
    John braced himself against the tide of relief. “Two more
nights?” he said.
    “Two more nights,” Hecuba agreed.

Chapter Seven
     
    Hecuba had never known two days could take so long to pass.
    It didn’t help that recent activities had left her sore in
some unusual places. Every time she took a step or sat down, the quiet ache
between her legs brought visions of Rushmore’s hands and mouth and hips, the
feeling of his muscular body moving against hers, the pleasures that could be
gleaned from a sensitive man with a willing cock. She knew better than to
reveal these secrets to her family, particularly her innocent cousins—though
there was a speculative gleam in Anne’s eyes from time to time that made Hecuba
suspect her cousin would not be as shocked as a maiden ought to be.
    So she held her tongue through all the visits for tea,
shopping expeditions, a walk along the Serpentine, dinner en famille and
luncheon with Aunt Eleanor’s circle of invariably hen-like acquaintances. It
was downright disheartening to find that her continuous, deliberate silence
went unremarked by everyone.
    Well, nearly everyone.
    At home on the afternoon of the second day, Anne poured tea
then took a seat beside Hecuba. On the other side of the room Aunt Eleanor and
Mrs. Gunn leaned close in a confederacy of gossip. Evangeline was sitting
beside them, blushing and smiling and nervous.
    Anne, however, was perfectly confident when she asked her
cousin, “Are you going to tell me what the matter is?”
    Hecuba blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked, genuinely
confounded.
    Anne snorted. “You’ve not said a