“The girl,” I say in a near whisper, “was a courtier’s mistress.” I point to the man in the painting. He’s lying in the gardens just below the swing, one arm outstretched toward her. “That’s him.” My hand climbs up Ozzy’s back, now on his nape, slowly raking my nails over his scalp. “Secretly admiring her from below.” I feel him shiver under my touch. “But,” I say, my mouth still close to his ear, nipping his earlobe. “You see how her leg is raised?” His Adam’s apple bobs on a hard swallow as he nods. My other hand flattens low on his stomach, my pinky finger caressing the skin just beneath
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