Cheryl Holt (19 page)

“Because you’re crazy about me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He dropped her further, so that he was nestled in her cleavage, so that he could root and nuzzle between the two dangling mounds. He tormented her nipples, squeezing them firmly, and she hissed out a breath,
though she struggled valiantly not to let him hear it.

A pattern had developed between them. She flirted and vamped, tantalizing him, while contriving to remain out of his reach. An elusive barrier was hindering her, and he couldn’t conceive of why. She was an exceptionally passionate female, her libidinous vitality so blatant that—to him, at least—it seemed to shimmer around her. He’d never witnessed anything like it, and he was obsessed, smitten, fascinated, and he couldn’t hold his nefarious proclivities in check.

“It will be wonderful, Em, you know it will.”

“I’ve never said otherwise.”

He took her nipple between his teeth, rolling it around, and the fabric of her dress and chemise rubbed enticingly. She arched her back and groaned.

“Why are you afraid?”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.” He meandered to her other breast, dabbling and provoking. “If I don’t know what’s wrong, I can’t fix it.”

“Nothing’s
wrong
.”

He sat her on her haunches. She was so sincere, and he was coming to understand her so well. If he could see her eyes, she couldn’t fabricate. “I’m not without a bit of expertise at erotic diversion.”

“Don’t remind me; I detest it when you do.”

“You can’t hide how much you desire me.”

“I don’t,” she claimed.

He ignored her denial. “So we’re proceeding.”

“You’d force yourself on me?”

“I don’t think
force
will be necessary.”

Proving himself correct, he slid a hand under her dress, and let it glide along her cleft, then he entered her with two fingers. She was shamelessly, exhilaratingly
damp, and the discovery lurched his own state of arousal to a drastic peak. “You are so wet. So ready for me.”

Blushing, her cheeks burned a furious crimson. “You don’t play fair.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t want this,” she mournfully alleged. “I don’t want
you
.”

She was so miserable over the prospect that he snuggled her to his chest, her breasts flattened to his own, her stomach relaxed into him. He couldn’t bear to have her so forlorn, as if the notion of engaging in sexual congress with him were painful, and he consoled her, soothing her as one might a distraught child.

Though restraint was torture, he moderated his pace, steadied himself, and stepped himself back from the brink. As he calmed, he was able to concentrate on what was happening, to recall how much he liked the cuddling, too.

Formerly, he hadn’t lain with a woman solely for the joy of holding her. From the beginning, when he’d bedded his first tavern maid at age fourteen, his carnal trysts had been instigated for the exclusive purpose of fleshly alleviation. No greater design had ever motivated him. Why waste time on foreplay, on courting or wooing? His partners were welcomed to his bed so long as they satisfied him. And they did, without question.

With Emma, the rules were different. He relished embracing her, watching over her. That afternoon in the woods, after she’d had such a staggering orgasm, she’d fallen asleep in his arms, and he’d held her for two hours.

Over the years, he’d had an occasional paramour who’d doze off after the fireworks, but he wouldn’t stay when they did. Without fail, he’d slipped out and departed, yet with Emma, he’d never considered going, and by tarrying, he’d learned a lesson about the simple pleasures:
There was no need to race to the end. Most of the contentment could be found in the protracted, languid journey.

“Who do you rush off to be with when you leave me?” While typically, he was a selfish man who rarely pondered his lovers’ circumstances, he was peculiarly, inordinately curious about her.

“My family. My mother and younger sister, Jane. Mother is ill, and one of us must always be with her. When I’m out, Jane is alone, and she’s only eleven.”

He remembered the estate agent’s prattle about her father’s passing, about their dire straits afterward, but as was his wont, he hadn’t paid much attention. “There’s just the three of you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you manage?”

“I work, you silly oaf. How do you suppose?”

“Work at what?”

Sitting up, she gawked at him as if he were an imbecile. “Various tasks. I tend the sick, minister to the dying, I deliver babies—”

“You deliver babies?” She was so competent; he could absolutely picture it.

She wiggled her brows. “I have many talents.”

“You certainly do.” He ran his thumbs across her palms. They were callused, rough—a working woman’s hands—and the complete opposite of the soft, creamy hands of the highborn ladies with whom he normally consorted. “I hate that you work so hard.”

“Why? A bit of sweat and toil never killed anyone.” She tweaked his chin. “You should try it sometime.”

“Very funny.”

“Besides, how would we eat if I didn’t?”

She casually threw out the statement, as if scrounging for her supper were a common occurrence and of no import, but he was gravely disturbed by the remark.
Many perilous replies were suddenly poised on the tip of his tongue. Replies as to how he would like to help her, to protect her, to look after her.

An impulsive offer of financial assistance was so near to being voiced aloud that he had to gulp it down, lest he utter a commitment he wasn’t prepared to make.

The abrupt urge was like a tangible object, and he was frightened and confused by its intensity. With one problematic mistress plaguing him, he didn’t need another, so what exactly was he contemplating? While he wanted many things from her—amiable companionship, lively conversation, terrific sex—they were temporary. He wasn’t about to acquire an inane emotional attachment, which definitely meant he wasn’t equipped to make a pledge as to support.

They were at the commencement of a brief, amusing fling, and when it was over, he had a superlative life in town to which he was enthusiastic to return. Emma did not, and never would, have any place by his side in the city. For pity’s sake, she was a rural do-gooder, who thrived on acting as a nursemaid for the infirm, as a champion for the downtrodden. He couldn’t take her to London; his arrogant, vicious, unaccepting peers would devour her.

Shaking off his fleeting insanity, he clutched her hands in his and rested them on his chest.

“Touch me, Emma.” He guided her in lazy circles. “Touch me all over.”

For once, she didn’t argue. With her seductive, slender fingers, she undid his shirt, starting at the top, then descending to the waistband of his trousers, until the lapels were loose, and she could reach inside to caress him. The sensation of skin to skin was so dramatic that he felt as if he’d been jolted with a bolt of lightning.

She riffled about, then bent down to burrow her nose across the furry pile of hair.

“I love your chest,” she said.

“Feel free to indulge.”

Wickedly, she chuckled as she rooted and sniffed, flicking her tongue in tiny strokes that led to his nipple. She laved the pebbled nub, making his stomach muscles clench, his cock throb, as she sucked and teased, nipping at it with her teeth.

He pulled her closer, spurring her on with murmured praise, and she increased the pressure until he could scarcely tolerate the stimulation. She was thoroughly attuned to him and perceived his need to compose himself, and she sat back, appearing sly and wise, as though she comprehended all the secrets men tried to hide from women but never could.

“Do you want me, Wakefield?”

What a coquette! She seemed so chaste, so innocent, but she had a ribald streak that drove him wild, whenever he was lucky enough to coax it to the surface.

“You know I do.” She was twirling his nipples, making him writhe and squirm. “Take off your dress.”

“No.”

She’d refused, but he was unbuttoning the front anyway, and he pushed the bodice apart and eased it off her shoulders. He finessed her chemise in the same fashion so that the fabric was bunched around her waist, her breasts unconfined and exposed.

“My, my!” he complimented admiringly. “Look at you!”

Like a shy virgin, she crossed her arms over her bosom. On observing her modesty—wholly misplaced after all they’d accomplished so far!—he laughed and forced her hands away so that he had an unimpeded view.

“Don’t stare at me like that.”

“Emma, you’re so pretty.”

Blushing a deeper shade of red, she momentarily struggled, striving to elude him so that she could cover herself, but he wouldn’t let her, and after a brief wrestling contest, she gave up.

Until now, he’d foolishly imagined that he favored voluptuous women, with large, heavy breasts that made for an intriguing pillow after a bout of raucous love-play, but he’d been mistaken.

He liked them smaller, just the right size to fill his hands. Hers were impeccable, pale and delicately rounded, the areolae a soft pink. The nipples were taut, peaked, and he rubbed his thumbs across them, the motion causing her to shift her loins, to rock herself across his phallus as he’d been longing to have her do.

He tugged her down, and her upper torso connected with his for the first time, their bared flesh pressed together, no clothing to inhibit perception. Clasping her hips, he moved her so that her breasts were merged to his, her nipples tickled by his chest hair. Dipping down, he took after one of the succulent tips, nursing at it until he could feel her tension mount.

There was a battle raging inside her. Mentally, she didn’t want to be doing this with him, but physically, she couldn’t resist. Her body was crying for what he was lavishing on her, and the physical was winning out. She couldn’t prevent herself from succumbing.

His hand slid between them, to her core. She was so aroused that he didn’t bother with any niceties. He proceeded directly to her clit and tossed her over the edge.

“John—” she moaned.

“I’m here,” he assured her, holding her as she soared to the heavens and beyond.

Her orgasm was more extreme than the initial one she’d achieved in the woods—if that was possible. Her anatomy was rigid, as she strained and wrenched against
the potent agitation, and a wail of despair erupted. He captured it, swallowing down her groan, lest a servant hear her, and suspect what they were actually doing in the locked room.

As she retreated from the pinnacle, her muscles relaxed, growing weighty with satiation, and she was stretched out, molded to him, and they were a flawless fit. She was the correct height, her head nestled under his chin, and she was curvaceous and pliant where he was flat and compact, brawn to lean, bowed to straight. It seemed as if she’d been created with him in mind. A perfect match. An ideal mate . . .

Wrong choice of words!
Fidgeting uncomfortably, he speculated why such absurd sentiments kept flitting about whenever he was in her company.

If he was searching for a
mate
, it was in the immediate, carnal sense only. Despite how people were clamoring and laying bets, he wasn’t in the market for a bride. If he had been, he could have married Caroline in the time it took to have a special license drafted.

When he eventually broke down and made a decision, the woman he selected would be distinctly diverse from Emma Fitzgerald. He’d pick a wife who was trained to her role, one who wouldn’t begrudge him his faults, who would politely pretend he had no bad habits, and who wasn’t in some godawful hurry to shape him into a better man.

He wouldn’t shackle himself to a female who was constantly chastising him, denoting his shortcomings, and railing at him over his blunders. A fellow could drive himself mad trying to live up to Emma’s lofty expectations.

As their ardent kiss ended, her cheeks were flushed, her heart pounding furiously at the base of her neck.

“How do you do that to me?” She was genuinely
perplexed as to how proficient he was at goading her into a climax. He was amazed, himself, at how readily she surrendered.

“You’re easy,” he jested, and the instant he uttered the quip, he regretted it. She froze, a combination of horror and dismay marring her brow.

Often, she seemed immensely experienced at sexual affairs, but then her mien would alter and she’d appear to be a disconcerted virgin. Erotic banter was beyond her, but why would it be? With how adept she was, her reticence was ludicrous.

She was an enigma, and he couldn’t solve the riddle that made up her entire self. Who was the real Emma?

“I don’t mean to be. Truly I don’t.” She was appalled by her libidinous proclivities and apparently believed he was denigrating her for exhibiting them. “I try to control myself, and I—”

“Ssh,” he soothed. “I was joking.”

“You don’t think I’m a wanton?”

Well, yes
, but he could hardly say so. He didn’t necessarily consider a modicum of wantonness to be an adverse trait in a woman, and he liked every corrupt, licentious bone in her body. In fact, if he could figure out how to nudge her so that she journeyed beyond wanton and into the realm of complete abandon, he’d be ecstatic.

“No, Em. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If I’m not loose, then why does it happen so fast and so, so—” Evidently, the question frequently vexed her, and he took it seriously. They were tiptoeing around the gist of why she regularly reined herself in—just when things were getting interesting.

“We share an affinity, Em. But it’s good that we do. Don’t worry about it.”

Tentatively, she nodded. “What produces it?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of life’s great mysteries.
We’re compatible—in a physical way—but there’s no explanation for it.”

“It’s a curse.”

“Or a blessing, depending on your point of view.”

“A curse,” she repeated. “Definitely a curse.”

He grinned, in total disagreement, and he flexed his hips, his untended, inflated phallus arching up to vividly notify them that only she had been sated.

Remarkably, for once, she didn’t stumble about, grabbing for her clothes and frantically arranging her hair, so that she could race out the door as she routinely had in the past.