Caution: Wet Paint

Blurb

Love defies boundaries as three passionate lovers torn apart by circumstances are reunited once again. Artists Arturo Cipriano and Prince Samir Zahi first met four years ago and discovered shared passion both in art and in bed. But it wasn't until these men found their muse--their woman--in the form of Clara Simms, that their passions burned brightest. And then Samir is recalled to his war-torn country, separated from his lovers and his passions, for three long years. Arturo and Clara have tried to go on without him, but nothing has ever been the same until he returns.

Excerpt

Clara moved past him into the studio. She spun around to face him. Her expressive amethyst eyes told him everything. "He's back, Arturo. I saw one of your paintings. One that the two of you did. It has to be him."

He remained silent for a long time as he stepped behind her to remove her cream-colored wool coat. He inhaled her scent as he peeled it from her shoulders and tossed it onto the sofa.

"I know." His hands rested on her shoulders. He pulled down one side of her silk shirt to reveal a creamy white shoulder. His mouth tasted the satiny texture of her skin. There was a time when her scent would have mixed with the smell of paint and turpentine, making it her own, unique scent. But now, all he smelled was the sweet, feminine aroma of Clara. Still heady. Still arousing.

She leaned against him. One of his hands slipped beneath her shirt to cup a warm breast. From the moment she'd first modeled for them she had stopped wearing bras. It was as though every discovery of three years ago, every moment was so indelibly imprinted upon both of them that there was no moving forward without Samir.

He pulled the shirt up and over her head without even unbuttoning it. Such stunning, perfect, creamy skin. He tracked along her shoulder with his mouth, sucking at the nape of her neck.

She dropped her head onto his shoulder, arching her back, pushing her breast into the curve of his hand.

"Arturo," she whispered. "What are we going to do?"

He unhooked her skirt, pulling down the zipper. The material pooled at her feet. He slipped a hand inside her panties, then shoved them and the pantyhose down over her hips. She stepped out of them. His hand cupped her smooth mound. He remembered the first time he and Samir had spread her, shaved her, then fucked her. Almost everything about their relationship had been rooted in sensual ritual. It had been so very good. So right.

Clara's whole body was smooth as silk, the perfect tapestry, the perfect woman. He pushed her onto the wrinkled drop cloth. Then he spread her, gazing at the perfectly parted petals of her labia, the glistening core pink, a shade he'd spent hours trying to match perfectly with a blend of oils. He leaned forward to trace his tongue over her inner moist lips.

He sucked her hardened clitoris into his mouth, circling his tongue over the pretty bud. He remembered the challenge of translating that perfect nub of passion onto canvas. How he and Samir had argued over the colors, the image, the need to draw the essence of Clara's impeccable flesh onto the canvas, making it live and shimmer brighter than life, beyond human, beyond worldly.

Arturo tasted her, flicked his tongue over the bud, feeling her shudder, hearing her moan. He remembered the splashes of paint decorating her flesh as he and Samir brought her to climax after climax with just the touch of their sable brushes.