I love reading about 17th century France and opera, and from these two loves, a novella, The Love of Violetta, was born. It’s about a maid and a slutty duke, and the whole pile of nonsense that gets in the way of their relationship. After all, you can’t have a romantic novel without nonsense!
Meet the lovers…
For a moment, Roland’s blue eyes met mine, and my heart gave a mournful shudder, like a clock sounding out the witching hour. It did not stop, but for a moment it slowed, as if its cogs were gummed with all our youthful promises and stolen embraces.
The Duc de Lauzun:
“I shouldn’t,” he said and again savored my lips.
“I shouldn’t,” he said as his hands made themselves again familiar with the heft of my curves.
“I shouldn’t,” he said and pressed his hardness against my hip.
“I don’t want a husband, I want a kiss.” I took his hands, put them at the small of my back, and wrapped mine around his neck.
“Violetta,” he whispered, bending over me.
I closed my eyes, and his lips touched mine and moved, gently, slowly. He reached up to tangle his fingers in my hair. The tip of his tongue traced the seal of my lips, and I opened my mouth to him. He was hot and wet inside me. I pressed my tongue against his, and he purred.
“Will you sit on my lap and kiss me?” he asked.
“Call me Antoine,” he said. He raised my hair to my face and inhaled.
“Antoine, you have some curious habits,” I said.
With a growl, he pulled me against him, and I squealed. He sat on the bed, and holding me in his arms, he joined his mouth to mine again.
When he opened his lips for me, I traced his teeth, his tongue. I pulled his bottom lip, then his top, into my mouth. He was hot and hard beneath me, and he moaned as I stroked the fine fabric of his clothes. It was like being consumed by a strange fire, my body pressed against him, my nipples hard in my chemise as if I were cold. He combed his fingers through my hair, his nails tracing over my scalp, and I clung to him. Something firm poked my hip, and he shuddered each time my weight settled against it.
We kissed until my lips were swollen and my head dizzy. I pressed my thighs together and squirmed in his embrace. Each of his breaths moved through me and pooled between my legs. His grip tightened on me, one hand lost in my hair, the other hard on my waist.
The Duc—Antoine—pulled away from me, his chest heaving. “If I wish to leave you with your innocence, I must go, dear. Needless to say, I shall tell my son you will be staying here, with me.”
I smiled, touching his wonderful mouth, and he kissed my fingers.
“Do you want to stay here and be with me?” he asked, my fingers still in his mouth.
“Yes.” I pressed my lips to his brow.