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“Renoir, do pay attention.”
Focusing on the sound of her voice did nothing to improve his situation. Renoir could hear the tell-tale signs of amusement—teasing, just this side of cruel—when she spoke. He swallowed, throat dry, lungs burning. Aline arched a brow, drumming her fingers over his heart, expression sweetly expectant.
She carried on with perfect civility and good cheer. She might as easily have been discussing the weather or their plans for the weekend. Perhaps she was—Renoir had long since lost track of this meandering tête-à-tête. “I’m not speaking just to hear the sound of my voice—this is a conversation.”
“Of course,” he rasped. Renoir released a shivering breath. “My apologies.”
“I’d accept an answer in lieu of an apology, mon amour,” Aline purred, leaning forward to fold her arms across his chest. “But something tells me you’ve forgotten the question.”
He clenched his hands. The ties around his wrists drew taut with the movement. “Remind me.”
She patted his cheek, resuming the lazy, shallow movements with her hips. The soft pleasure grew more insistent again, uncoiling near the base of his spine and licking outwards. He tried to ignore it, even as Aline breathed a gentle affirmation, eyes fluttering.
Cruel woman.
She’d been playing her game—and ‘game’ struck him as a generous descriptor—for the better part of the last hour. Building and building, dragging him right to the edge of release, only to let that insistent, raucous pleasure ebb to a dull ache. Most recently, Aline had taken him in her mouth only to withdraw when he drew taut, citing her throat as “parched.”
Again, a cruel woman.
“You know how it goes with Council matters,” Aline went on, pressing up on her thighs. He braced for her to sink back down, the muscles in his hips and abdomen flexing, only for her to adjust her rhythm, pausing at the apex of her movement and raking her nails down his stomach instead. “Things that should have been done in minutes take hours.”
“I am increasingly familiar.”
“Oh? Has Garnier been contacting you as well?”
“Aline.”
The Dessendre matriarch chewed her lower lip, grinning. “He’s quite insistent he has the votes to oust me this year.”
“I—” Renoir choked, biting back a groan as she sank back down. “—somehow doubt that. Garnier manages to underperform with every subsequent attempt.”
Her gray eyes glittered with a mix of mischief and approval. “I’ve half a mind to let him host the Council’s next gathering just to placate him. And we could use the reprieve, don’t you think? The manor’s been too full of Painters recently.”
“It could be an effective overture of—” the man hissed in air, eyes screwing shut as she took him to hilt. “ —peace.”
Renoir thrust upwards on instinct, groaning, revelling in the sound of his wife’s sigh. She clenched around him, blissfully hot, wonderfully tight. He managed to seat himself once more before she pressed her hands flat to his belly, pressing him down even as she lifted her hips, sliding off him entirely once again. Aline tutted, reaching out to flick his chin lightly.
“Really, Renoir—I leave your feet free as a courtesy, and you make me regret it.”
The utter absurdity of the statement surprised a sharp laugh out of him. “I thought you might appreciate more active participation in our conversation.”
“Your initiative is noted.”
He sighed, blowing a lank strand of hair out of his eyes. “And summarily dismissed.”
Aline hummed, taking him in hand and swiping her thumb over his weeping head. “Quite.”
She made a sweetly pleased noise, regardless. Renoir had always been fond of her voice—lower than most women’s, but lyrical. In the throes of passion, it took on a huskier note. Aline inclined her head to the side, the auburn curtain of her hair falling in wilder waves, mussed by too many passes of her fingers through its length. She met his gaze, held it, as she took him in her mouth.
“My dear, I would remind you,” he grumbled, eyes fluttering as her free hand curved over his hip. Aline pressed, withdrew, pressed, encouraging him to rock down her throat. “That turnabout is fair play.”
She paused, lifting her head. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Renoir grunted. Aline squeezed him once more before sitting back on her heels. “And, to my knowledge, you have no one else to take you in.”
His wife snorted. “That doesn’t exactly give me incentive to let you go then, does it, mon amour?”
“Spiteful woman.”
“Lovely man.”
He rolled his eyes, forcing himself to relax as she climbed from the bed. The muscles in his arms were beginning to ache. Everything ached. Still, he could not deny the swell of amusement and satisfaction watching his wife stride across their bedroom, willowy and lithe. For as much as she might play at being unaffected, he did not miss the ginger way she moved, as if struggling to keep her thighs from touching. The firelight glistened off her slick skin. Renoir swallowed thickly.
“You must be thirsty.”
The image of her settling over his face, bringing herself over the edge like that, flashed through his mind. He twitched against his binding, squirming, consumed with a want so all-consuming he ached. Her attention flicked from his face to the shallow rocking movements of his hips.
“Parched,” he breathed, throwing her own words back at her.
Aline smiled, the expression strained. Her tongue flicked out to wet the seam of her lips. Eventually, she nodded, plucking the bottle of wine from the table. She strode back toward the bed. “Do you think you can manage? Or—?”
“I defer to you.”
She clucked her tongue. Aline settled beside him on the mattress, uncorking the bottle. She considered for a moment before bringing the rim to her lips, taking a small sip, and setting it aside. The woman curled a hand behind his neck, tipping his head up and kissing him. The wine trickled into his mouth alongside the press of her tongue, both intoxicating.
He wanted to touch her—needed to, even.
“Aline,” Renoir breathed into her increasingly heated kiss, her hands carding over his chest, over his throat, up into his hair. “Won’t you—?”
She shivered, turning her nose into his cheek. “Soon.”
The muscles in her thighs and stomach fluttered as she crawled over him again, gooseflesh dotting her skin. Aline’s brow furrowed in concentration as she settled over him again. Renoir waited. When she did not sink down, he thrust up, grinning at her sharp yelp of surprise.
Aline shot him a dark look, leaning back to rest her hands on his thighs. Renoir choked down air, growling, as she rode him with more purpose, working them towards a blinding high that had felt just out of reach for too long. She cooed in approval when he moved with her, the sound seeming to coil low in his belly, thick with promise.
“You never did say—” she breathed. “Never did—” She let out an exasperated grunt, the words too difficult to manage.
If she stopped, he thought he’d go mad. He clutched at the ties holding him, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought to maintain focus. She fluttered around his length, pace increasingly erratic.
And then stopped.
Renoir gasped, a long, low sound escaping him as Aline stilled. His wife sagged against his chest, her fingers curling over his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as she pressed her forehead to his sternum. He thrust up into her, but it did little as she dug her knees into his side, shivering.
“Aline, please.”
She whimpered, scratching her nails down his chest as she lifted her head, gray eyes pleasure-drunk. The Paintress eyed his wrists before shaking her head, releasing another shivering little moan as she resumed her earlier pace.
Tired of her game, it didn’t take long for them to crash over the edge. Renoir bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, let the pain galvanize him, hold him, until Aline spasmed around his length, his name tripping off her tongue in a sharp cry. She leaned forward, sagging against his chest, face contorted in concentration as she forced herself to continue moving until he came apart.
The two lingered for a moment, shivering, Aline mouthing senseless words against his skin. Eventually, she groaned, leaning over him to release his wrists, shivering at the press of his softening length. Her little aftershocks of pleasure coursed through him. He took a moment to catalog the flush in her cheeks, the almost languid grace coloring her movements in the aftermath. He flexed his wrists to encourage the blood flow before moving to card his hands over her waist, up to cup her small breasts. She pressed into the touch with a soft sigh.
He tweaked a nipple with his thumb. “You’ll regret this.”
She managed an airy laugh. “Will I? Somehow I doubt that very much, mon amour.” Aline sighed, flopping down to curl into his chest, draping her leg across his hips. “But you are always welcome to try.”
Renoir snorted, stroking her hair. “Spiteful woman.”
“Lovely man.”