“Ha. My lady, such a wanton…”
He almost lost his mind when he saw the pink flesh glistening with arousal as she played along. Even Eve could see his cock—which had begun to soften—stirring back to life.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
Ethan touched the brush between her legs. Eve took a deep breath. The moment the sperm-coated bristle tips made contact with her exposed clitoris, her breath caught.
“It didn’t hurt me…”
“Ah—! Wait…”
“But it tickled so much I almost died.”
Ethan wasn’t wrong. But this was arousal—nothing you could describe as a tickle.
The feather-soft bundle of bristles completely covered that sensitive spot—the one that responded to the faintest breath—and rubbed against it, circling and circling. She was discovering an entirely new world of pleasure. A delicate scratching against every nerve ending gathered in that small mound, one by one. As he teased her clitoris, her mind flipped upside down.
Trembling, both hands clutching the hem of her skirt, Eve finally managed to exhale only when the brush pulled away.
The brush tip left her throbbing clitoris—nearly pushed over the edge—and dragged a line between her labia. Whether it was from the lingering arousal or because she knew exactly where Ethan was aiming next, her breath shuddered.
Finally, the brush reached that place and circled the entrance to her vagina. By now, there was no white paint left to spread.
Ethan squeezed his penis, forcing out the milky fluid still trapped inside. He raised the sperm-soaked brush between her pale thighs—deliberately, dramatically—and asked:
“Do you know how flowers with male and female sexes are pollinated?”
Eve, guessing his intent, licked her dry lips and answered:
“With a brush?”
“Correct answer, Lady Evelyn.”
“Ah—!”
“Because you are a flower.”
Romantic words—if you didn’t know what perversion he was indulging in.
“Mmn… Haah…”
The exquisite pleasure deepened. The better it felt, the more her unquenched desire burned. She was dying of thirst. Unbearable.
Ethan lowered his head to the woman squirming beneath him, legs restless, hips moving.
Smack. Suck.
The sound of flesh being drawn into his mouth mingled with her ragged breathing. He pulled her clitoris between his lips for a long time—like a handle that opened the door to her womb. And in that instant—
“Ah—hk!”
Eve cried out and came undone, like a needle piercing an air balloon swollen to its limit.
When he lifted the brush away, a long, transparent strand of fluid stretched from the pink canvas. The fallen brush rolled across the floor, leaving a wet trail behind it.
Had a seed been planted?
Ethan’s portrait remained unfinished that day.
Because the painter had also stripped bare and tangled herself with the nude model.
Drunk on a languid ecstasy no wine could provide, Ethan stroked the lower belly of the woman lying atop him on the long bench. He pressed his lips to her fragrant hair and whispered:
“Who will they look like?”
The thought alone was exhilarating. But it also laid a heavy weight across his shoulders.
“I can’t wait to hold our child… but you’ll have to delay university, won’t you?”
They needed a child. If the duke tried anything, a grandchild would make it impossible to annul the marriage. For Eve, a baby was leverage to seize the family fortune. For Ethan, it was a barrier—something that would keep Eve from being taken away.
Not having a child was never an option. He only regretted that Eve would have to put off university because of it.
“University doesn’t really matter.”
To Eve, university had been a kind of symbol.
“I wanted freedom. To live the way I choose.”
“I can protect that.”
“I’m already free.”
Wrapped in Ethan’s love, Eve had no doubt this freedom would last forever.
The dreamlike month flew by like a summer downpour—the kind that ends before it can even soak the ground, treacherously fading without warning.
In the end, Eve never kept her promise to paint Ethan’s portrait.
It didn’t matter. There was still plenty of time.
But she couldn’t make Ethan pose all day forever. The start of the semester was approaching.
Time to end the fairy-tale honeymoon and return to reality. They left their little paradise in Montfleure and set sail for home.
A mountain of tasks awaited. In Lavinia, they were husband and wife—but not in Mercia. They needed to take the marriage certificate from the Montfleure priest to a government office and have it legalized. They needed to find a house near Kingsbridge to live in together. And until then, somewhere to stay.
She planned to contact Becky the moment they set foot on Mercian soil. Once Tom returned to the military academy, Becky would be alone—perfect timing for Eve to stay with her on the Aydes Islands.
I wonder if I’ll already have a belly by the time Ethan comes to pick me up.
Who knew?
She only suspected pregnancy. Her period—due two weeks ago—hadn’t come. To know for sure, she’d have to miss another month and wait for her belly to grow. She didn’t want to raise Ethan’s hopes only to disappoint him, so she said nothing for now.
Now she stood on the ferry deck, her heart pounding—not because of the life that might have taken root inside her. The homeland was coming into view. The reality they’d fled was bearing down, relentless.
“Ethan… what if my father catches me and locks me away…?”
The man beside her gripped her hand hard. Ethan knew well enough: empty reassurances that it wouldn’t happen wouldn’t comfort her.
“I’ll find you. No matter what it takes. Wait for me.”
To prevent that, they’d chosen an entry port far from Cliffhaven and its surroundings. Even the Duke of Kentrell couldn’t station his men in every harbor in the country.
But perhaps Eve’s calculations were wrong.
They were stopped at the immigration counter.
Not Eve—Ethan.
The officer looked at his face, then at his passport, then at a poster hanging on the booth wall—and called the police stationed in the arrivals hall.
“What’s the problem?”
“Stay where you are!”
Officers ran over, grabbed Ethan from both sides, and tried to cuff him.
These weren’t her father’s men.
An arrest.
Eve went pale. She hadn’t expected this—that he’d be treated like a common criminal.
“You’ve made a mistake!”
She thought her father—ready to be disgraced and mocked before the whole world—had filed a false report claiming Ethan kidnapped her. That’s what she believed, until the officer reading the charges said:
“Ethan Fairchild, you are under suspicion of murdering Baron Langdon—Henry Sherwood Jr.”
Harry… is dead?
“I told you, I didn’t kill him!”
The police station was so loud—typewriters clattering, phones ringing—that you couldn’t hear your own voice. But Eve heard Ethan’s desperate shout clearly.
She couldn’t see him, though.
Ethan was locked in a holding cell.
The lobby, crowded with visitors and officers milling chaotically, was as jumbled as Eve’s mind.
Harry is really dead? When? How?
Luck had come wearing the mask of misfortune.
But why would Ethan be a murderer?
Could it be…
“Because Harry is still alive.”
“For now.”
No. No, it couldn’t be.
As she bit her lips nervously, the officer who’d processed Ethan and led him to his cell reappeared. Eve approached him immediately.
“Officer, why is Ethan Fairchild being treated as the killer of Baron Langdon?”
The man—around thirty-five, with a sharp gaze—looked her over carefully. Then he asked in return:
“And you, miss… what are you to the suspect?”
I’m his wife. But not yet, according to Mercian law.
I’m his lover. They won’t believe me—they’ll think I’m a woman deranged by love.
“I’m the victim’s sister.”
Interest flickered across the officer’s face. What was so interesting about that? That the woman before him was a Kentrell maiden?
But she hoped his attention was caught by the fact that a sister was defending her brother’s killer. Because if she claimed no relation to the victim, they might not believe her.
“This is clearly a mistake. Harry was alive when we left.”
The officer took off his cap and scratched his head.
“We’re not handling the investigation, so it’s not my place to say…”
“Then at least answer this. When, where, and how exactly was Baron Langdon killed?”
“You haven’t read the articles? Ah—you just came from abroad… You’ll hear about it at the Cliffhaven station. He’ll be transferred there soon anyway.”
A while later, they said orders had come from the Cliffhaven station. They put Eve into a vehicle for transporting prisoners or detainees.
At least they didn’t cuff her. Which meant she wasn’t a suspect.
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