She's paid for this. That's the detail that matters. Isabelle sits across the room in a Venetian palazzo, skirts hiked slightly — accidentally, perhaps, or not — and the glint in her gaze says she'll damn well get it. Laurent kisses her c**t, sucks, pulls her breasts free. The polished veneer melts away, replaced by raw desperate need.

Venetian palazzos, Florentine studios, French court workshops, rapier duels. In a studio stinking of oil paint and turpentine, his paint-smeared fingers stroke her nipple through silk. "I've painted you in my head a thousand times," she rasps, "every curve, every shadow." She rides him in a brutal slide, his c**k pumping relentlessly. In a workshop of cracked gilded mirrors and moth-eaten velvet, jasmine scent hits her and her hips buck of their own accord. They face off with rapiers — his control dissolving into a desperate urge to pin her against the wall, rip down her breeches, and bury himself in her wet p***y.