because Lord Bentley married me—and set us up with this couturier—you have a husband, too. And a job that gets you out of his bed once in a while!”
Colette smirked. “Envy doesn’t become you, Camille. You’d be hopelessly in debt and behind in your designing, were it not for my accounting talents. You’d have no idea what fabrics you have on hand, or whether the mills have overcharged you. You’d be awash in a sea of—”
The clatter of the brass knocker made them both stand straighter and head for the front door. It was business as usual now; time to set aside sisterly quibbling over predictions uttered by the medium who lived upstairs. What did he know about their marital satisfaction or lack of it?
Sex isn’t about marriage, nor is marriage about sex.
Camille smoothed the front of her gown before opening the door. Truth be told, Rubio Palladino sensed far too much, and as she greeted their morning’s first client, she was greatly relieved to see a plump, matronly redhead rather than a dark foreign man or a lady veiled in white.
“Good morning, Lady Etheridge,” she cooed, allowing her accent to flirt with her words. Never mind that Mama had taught English language and grammar in a French academy: LeChaud Souers clients paid more for the prestige of working with a Parisian designer. “You’re looking lovely today! But just wait until you see the magnificent gowns we’ve designed for you! Gowns we’ve seen on the likes of Empress Eugenie herself!”
She wasn’t lying, after all. It was her calling to create silk purses from sows’ ears, and she did it well.
2
“Let go of me, Heath! I must dress for the day’s work—”
“You take your shop far too seriously, my sweet. Those ladies you and your sister sew for can’t possibly appreciate you the way I do.” Her husband reached around her from behind to lift her breasts from her black corset. His eager hands felt more insistent than usual as he teased her nipples between his fingertips. “Colette…Colette,” he breathed against her ear. “You can feel my need. My yearning for your ripe, lovely body.”
“You kept me up half the night—”
“Because I never get enough, my love. I’m insatiable, like a wild stallion who must take his mate every time he catches a whiff of her.” Heath inhaled raggedly while gyrating against her backside.
While his large cock resembled those she’d seen in pictures of stallions—and during matings of his horses, which he’d shown her to excite her—Colette suddenly resented him. It was always his own pleasure he sought, even as he murmured his endearments and pleas. She was merely his outlet. His receptacle. And she was getting damn tired of it.
But these feelings got her no closer to meeting her twin for the ride to their London shop. If she expressed displeasure—let on she was dissatisfied—Heath Bentley would ride and lunge and penetrate all the more urgently until he believed he’d fulfilled her every fantasy, which would take much longer than she had right now.
More than this lifetime.
Her sister was no doubt fidgeting in the vestibule, glancing repeatedly at her watch. Lady Etheridge had been so excited about Camille’s latest designs, she’d ordered four more gowns at her fitting yesterday. Her twin had a great deal of drawing and cutting to do, and every passing moment would make her more jittery and irritable. Artistic types were so damned temperamental! And Rubio Palladino’s predictions of sexual hurricanes and volcanoes had only whipped Camille into more of a whirlwind than usual!
Colette placed a foot firmly on the stool of her vanity. She watched Heath’s face in the mirror as she lifted her skirts…thrust her breasts into his hot, massaging palms as she rubbed against his erection. His nostrils flared. His dark eyes narrowed with triumph as his hands spanned her waist.
“Let me in,” he rasped. “Lean forward and open yourself, Colette. God, how I love the sight of your twat between your white thighs in their black stockings.”
Colette gasped as he plunged inside her, feigning passion to spur him on. Placing her forearms on the vanity put her at the angle he loved best—and it gave her a place to rest her head, so she didn’t have to watch in the mirror as he took his pleasure.
Sex isn’t about marriage, nor is marriage about sex.
The medium’s words tormented her as she mechanically returned her husband’s thrusts. It was a damn shame, too: Heath Bentley was more than she could’ve caught for herself in the streets of Paris. His thick, dark hair framed a face that could’ve graced a painting by Michelangelo. His body was strong and firm from hours in the saddle, and the thighs slapping against hers could wrap around her like a trap when he wished to keep her in her place. His hands were those of a gentleman, for Heath Bentley had never worked a day in his life nor, as Lord Bentley’s only son, would he ever need to.
Yes, she could’ve done much, much worse than marry the son of the man who’d set them up in business. Colette fixed a smile on her face and grunted in earnest. This was no time for him to prove how long he could last! Did every encounter have to be a marathon?
“Heath,” she breathed raggedly. “Heath, I’m going to—I can’t hold out much—oh…ohhhhh!”
His features tightened. He buried himself deeper inside her, and when his head lolled back she took it as her cue to make more noise. “Take me!” she urged him. “I want you to explode inside me! Want you to erupt inside me like a—a volcano!”
She bit back a laugh. She’d made Rubio’s insane predictions come true, even if it was Heath who erupted! The images spurred her husband into a climax that was noisier and more boisterous than usual, and she had to admit he was a fine piece of work, a handsome stallion of a man, when caught up in the throes of passion.
With a satisfied grunt he slipped out of her and threw himself on the rumpled bed. “My God, Colette! Did you feel how hard I came? It’s a wonder you could withstand that—that volcano, indeed!”
Colette bustled to the adjoining bathroom to straddle the bidet. Thank God Camille had told Lord Bentley his opulent home would never approach true gentility until these French fixtures were installed in their separate wings of the mansion. She quickly rinsed herself and then aimed the warm water up and inside, flexing as she gyrated to rinse out Heath’s seed…increasing the temperature, and then gasping as the force of the jet brought her to a sudden, intense climax. Her husband had once expressed his disgust at the sight of a pregnant woman, so by rinsing this thoroughly she was satisfying both of their preferences, wasn’t she?
She dried hastily and scurried into her dressing room before Heath could think up any more distractions. As always, Daisy awaited her with the day’s freshly pressed gown and her shoes. Her maid feigned patience, but Colette suspected the sly girl would slip into the bedroom with Heath as soon as her footsteps died away. She clattered down the marble stairway, hoping to set her appearance to rights once she reached the shop.
And there—as always—sat Camille in the vestibule, her lips twisted in a scowl as she checked her watch. She stood up with a dramatic sigh and then the heels of her stylish pumps click-lack-clicked across the floor to punctuate her anger. “Of all the days to dally with Heath when you know I have four new gowns to create for Lady Etheridge!” she sputtered. She paid the randy young footman no mind as he leered at her cleavage while handing her up into the carriage. “Honestly, Colette, I sometimes think you goad your husband into rutting with you at the last possible moment just to irritate me!”
“As it obviously has.” Colette lifted a conspiratorial eyebrow at the footman, who was fighting a smile as he shut the carriage door. “I’ll have you know I was carrying out those outlandish predictions Rubio made about volcanoes erupting. So perhaps I’ve put all his nonsense behind us now.”
Her sister settled on the seat across from her, looking perfectly coifed and petulantly pretty in her simple gown of cerise silk faille. “I’m telling you he’s right!” Her eyes widened in her flawless,