The Raven (The Florentine #1)(110)

“I don’t see how a priest—I mean, a novice—could become a vampyre. Wouldn’t you have crosses and relics on you at all times?”

“We are alike, you and I. We both hate God. You hated him into atheism and I hated him into a cursed supernatural transformation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you continue to share my bed, it’s possible I will tell you how it came about. But not this morning.” William turned his back on her.

Raven realized she’d been dismissed.

Without a word, she swung her legs over the far side of the bed, facing the closet.

She wrapped the sheet around her naked body, fashioning it into a toga, and hobbled over to her overnight bag.

“What are you doing?”

She heard his voice but didn’t look up. “I’m getting dressed and having breakfast.”

“Why? It’s early yet.”

She withdrew underwear and a T-shirt from her bag. “You said ‘if ’ I continue to share your bed. I know regret when I hear it.”

He strode toward her. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about being content with what I have and not deluding myself into reaching for something more.”

“You aren’t making sense.”

“Actually, I’ve come to my senses.” She glanced at him without making eye contact. “If you give me the room, I’ll change and you won’t have to watch.”

William pulled the clothes from her hands. “Maybe I’d like to watch.”

“So you can make fun?”

“Of what?”

She gestured to herself. “Are you really going to make me say it? Look at me.”

His eyes bore into hers. “I am.”

His look was heated, full of desire.

Raven turned her gaze to her feet. “Thin is beautiful.”

He scoffed. “Thin is an indication of ill health and weakness.”

Raven gave him a quizzical look.

He stroked his chin absently. “I’d forgotten about this aspect of human culture. For the most part, I ignore the workings of your world, unless there’s something that particularly interests me. You, for example.”

He placed a hand to her hip. “When I was human, slender women had a low survival rate. They were considered sickly, infirm, and definitely not beautiful.”

“You don’t mind my weight?”

He brought his hand to the top of the sheet, where she’d twisted it under her arms.

“Let me look at you.”

“I’m naked.”

“Precisely.” His gaze darted to her breasts as he pulled the sheet from her body. He stood there, his eyes roaming her figure with undisguised appreciation. “You’re an attractive woman, Raven.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. She felt conspicuous, embarrassed. She bent to pick up the sheet but he took her hand, leading her over to his painting of Primavera.

He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“I can see you may need a little convincing. Take a moment and examine the painting, focusing on the female forms.”

“I know what they look like.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m an art restorer, remember?”

“You may have looked at them, but you haven’t seen them. Look again.”

Raven began at the left of the painting with the figure of Mercury and moved to look at the three Graces.

“They’re certainly healthy.”

“Look on the Graces before examining Venus. Remember, these are depictions of the ideal of feminine beauty.”

“According to Botticelli.”

William squeezed her shoulders. “Botticelli recognized beauty when he saw it. He admired Simonetta Vespucci, for example, and she was extremely attractive.”

Raven turned her head to the side. “You aren’t making me feel better.”

“That’s because you aren’t paying attention. Look at the women’s stomachs.”

She did as she was told. “They’re rounded.”

“They’re healthy.” William brought his hands to her abdomen and placed them flat against her. “As are you.” His lips found her ear. “And their breasts?”

Raven shuddered at his nearness.

“It’s difficult to make out but they look full.”

William brushed her hands aside and cupped her breasts, reveling in the weight. “You’re far more voluptuous. Far more pleasing to my eyes, my hands, my mouth.” He kissed her ear. “What about their bottoms?”

“They’ve got back.”

“Back?”

“Um, they have substantial bottoms.”

“Hmm.” William slid his hands down the curves of her sides and her hips before gripping her backside. “You have an excellent, round bottom. It pleases me to hold it while I’m inside you.”

He stepped in front of her, facing her. “In other words, Botticelli’s ideal women look like women and not boys. They’re soft and curvaceous. Healthy and rounded. Women of the size figured in this painting were considered beautiful for centuries, if not millennia. They were the aesthetic ideal during my lifetime and long after.”