In his experience, women like Camilla denied wanting romance, only to end up offering their hearts for bastards like him to eventually break. Lust was so often confused with love.
Envy gave her a slow, cruel smile that made her take an uneasy step away from him.
He was not good, and he was not mortal.
The sooner she realized that, the better it would be for her. If Camilla was sunshine, he was the darkest of nights. And if she wasn’t careful, his shadows would snuff out her light, if only for the fleeting chance to possess her warmth before destroying it.
Love was not for him, but he did rather enjoy one night of lust.
“I warned you. I’m no saint, Miss Antonius.”
He closed the distance between them, caging her between himself and the wall.
“Nor am I a gentleman. I didn’t help you out of the goodness of my heart. You have a rare talent—one that I am willing to pay an extraordinary amount of coin for.”
Anger flashed across her features, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.
“Find. Someone. Else.”
“No.”
“You want the painting. Why? Why must it be of that?”
“I desire it for my private gallery,” he lied. “Your talent is well known.”
Sensing the spike in her nerves—and desire—at his proximity, he brought his mouth to her ear. Seduction, he reminded himself, was the path to his second attempt. He needed her to want him badly enough to give in to her desires.
When he spoke, his lips whispered across her smooth skin, the touch barely there but potent in its effect. She shivered in his arms.
“Therefore, I want you. And only you.”
He shifted to see her face.
At first glance, Camilla gave no indication of being affected by their nearness; her expression was cool indifference; but then her gaze betrayed her by falling to his mouth.
He knew what she would see—lovers had always praised the fullness of his bottom lip, the crooked arc to his devilish grin that would free the dimples in his cheeks if he chose to show them off.
But he didn’t expect his own reaction. The heat in her look awakened something in him, something possessive.
Her breaths were coming faster, shorter, her pulse visibly pounding in her throat.
Camilla wanted him.
And he, in turn, now knew her secret, that this little minx desired the demon, excited by all the wickedly tempting things he would make her feel.
“Name your price, Miss Antonius.”
Envy dropped one hand to tuck her loose curls behind her ear, easing his body between her legs, forcing her thighs to spread as he pressed closer.
Her breath hitched as his knee settled at the junction of her body, anticipation thickening the air between them.
Camilla’s tongue darted out to wet her lips.
Earlier thoughts of that tantalizing mouth and all the carnal ideas it had inspired returned with a vengeance. He hardened and saw the exact moment Camilla felt it.
She shivered against the cool stone wall at her back.
“I think I know what you’d like in return.” His hand ghosted down her silhouette, coming to rest on her hip. “Shall I fuck you against this wall?”
Her desire for him flared as he gripped her harder, bunching her silken skirts between his fingers, igniting his own need. His mouth hovered against the skin of her cheek; his focus narrowed to each point of contact between them. Camilla’s chest heaved against his, teasing him with its uneven rhythm.
“First with my fingers, then my cock.”
His body strained to feel hers, soft where he was hard. In this battle of seduction, he was slowly winning. He felt her resolve dissipating, felt her slowly arch into his touch.
“Surely there’s some arrangement we can come to?”
Camilla’s desire evaporated at once.
In its place, he was hit by the familiar prickling of anger.
She shoved at his chest and Envy stepped back, giving her space, surprised at how immediately he felt his own sense of loss.
“There will be no arrangement of any sort between us, my lord. I’d sooner make a deal with the king of demons himself.”
Irrational jealousy barreled through him at the thought of Camilla striking a deal with his brother Wrath, but he bit the iciness of his sin back.
“That can happily be arranged. Shall we leave for his residence now? Once you’re good and sated, perhaps you’ll be more agreeable.”
A low, soft laugh escaped her lips, the sound sending a bolt of awareness through him, one he did not care for as he found his gaze ensnared by her.
“Go home, Lord Synton.”
Camilla grabbed the hem of her skirts and marched down the tunnel toward her house, leaving him where he still stood.
“I’ve had quite of enough of your charms for one night,” she called back over her shoulder.
And yet he could not say the same regarding her.
Envy would do well to remember that Miss Antonius—with her pretty smile, soft curves, and lilting laugh—was not for him, though as her words replayed in his mind, his sin ignited once again. I’d sooner make a deal with the king of demons himself.
Like hell she would.
Camilla was his until the game ended, and he was not known to share.
TWELVE
CAMILLA SET HER paintbrush down, looking her canvas over with a critical eye.
An act that was more difficult than it should have been.
Normally she could see exactly what a painting needed, where to shade, where to highlight, where to add more depth or color. But today, it just wouldn’t come. She was still too damn exhausted to think clearly. After a night spent tossing and turning, kicking off her sheets, then getting tangled up in them, frustrated beyond measure, she’d been so tired she’d forgotten her ritual—her mother’s locket still hung around her neck. Yet this painting had demanded her attention from the moment she opened her eyes.
So here she was, in her gallery before sunrise, apron cinched at her waist, skin already speckled with paint she prayed hadn’t made its way onto the necklace after all.
Before her wasn’t quite a self-portrait, but a scene heavily inspired by her bath the previous night.
Despite her agitation, Camilla thought it was already rather lovely; it captured her as all the things she wished she could openly be. Soft, feminine, boldly powerful. Someone who owned her desire without apology, without pretending to humble herself for a world that oppressed.
She’d captured herself submerged in a claw-foot tub, one hand draped across her lower belly, knees bent, golden legs jutting up from the water. Flower petals floated on the water, hiding that secret place between her legs, which had throbbed with every sinful word that came from Synton’s lips the night before. In the painting, one foot was propped against the lip of the white tub, revealing flowers stuck to the silky skin of her exposed thighs.
Camilla’s mind flashed back to that bath. As she’d washed away the wretchedness of her evening, she’d understood that there was one thing the water could not cleanse—her memories of the filthy things Synton had said in his deep, velvety voice that had made her burn not with anger, but scorching desire.
And his own arousal…
God, he had been pressed against her, hard and wanting.