Cheryl Holt (20 page)

She was studying him carefully, and it looked as if she’d crossed an emotional bridge. There was a gleam in her eye, and a wily smile creased her cheeks, as if she knew something he didn’t.

“I want to take you in my hands.” She gripped the waistband of his trousers. “In my mouth, too.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Would you like it if I did?”

Evaluating her slim, skilled fingers, her pouting ruby lips, he recalled every naughty, sensual detail of that afternoon in his dressing chamber, when he’d lured her in as he’d soaked naked in his bathing tub. She’d meticulously washed him, running a cloth over his heated skin, his private parts.

With a minimum of cajoling, she’d effortlessly impelled him into a jeopardous lather, had roused him to a critical zenith. That encounter had involved only her hand. He didn’t know how he’d survive if she pleasured him with that sexy, sassy mouth of hers.

“You’ll kill me if you put your mouth on me.”

“Really?” Laughing, she licked her lips. “Let’s see if I do.”

She opened the top button on his pants and scooted down.

E
MMA
didn’t pause, because she didn’t want to nervously reflect on what she was about to do. When she’d begun this idiotic charade, she’d had such noble intentions, had been so certain that she could garner what she wanted from the worldly viscount by playing games and leading him on, but her strategy was a dismal failure, her scheme foiled. She could no more resist him and his advances than she could stop the sun from rising.

What a fool she was! She’d had one, fleeting romantic spree with a boy when she was seventeen, and because of it, she’d convinced herself that she had the maturity and sophistication to go head-to-head with a bounder like John Clayton.

The attraction she’d had for adolescent Charlie all those years ago was so tepid that she didn’t dare refer to it as arousal. By contrast, her feelings for Wakefield were in another league entirely, so potent and overwhelming that she didn’t understand how she could be expected to control them, and it occurred to her that this was the reason young ladies were chaperoned, guarded, and counseled as to their virtue.

Others knew, as she had not, that a person could experience magnetism so intense that there was no way to fight it, that desire could be all-consuming, indiscriminate, that it could sweep away wisdom, caution, and discretion.

Better than any virgin in England, she comprehended
the results of sexual intercourse. She’d been present at the birth of many unwanted babies, and she had no illusions about how they were created. Yet despite her excess of knowledge, at this very moment, with Wakefield half-naked, and herself isolated with him where no one would ever find out what they were about to do, she was prepared to progress to any reckless conclusion without regard to the consequences.

No wonder women regularly got themselves into trouble!

Since the afternoon they’d dallied in the forest, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything but him and how badly she yearned for them to rush to perdition, once again.

She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, as she’d incessantly debated how she had to avoid him at all costs. But even as she reprimanded herself, she couldn’t stay away. He was a shining star in her monotonous universe, a brilliant sun to her dull moon. His presence at Wakefield Manor had delivered excitement and joy, where there was nothing but misery and despair, so she couldn’t prohibit herself from visiting him.

Mightily, she’d striven to keep him at bay, to hold her own licentious impulses in check. On this occasion too she’d planned to be strong—she really and truly had—but when he’d dragged her into the library, when he’d locked the door and sequestered them inside, her wicked nature had surged to the fore with such an urgency that she couldn’t tamp it down.

He’d said that what they were doing wasn’t wrong, that she wasn’t depraved, and she was so relieved to have him discount her corrupt tendencies. Her lust for debauchery raged below the surface, luring her to immorality, coaxing her to vice, and she was ready to throw off the restraints that fettered her.

The orgasm he’d given her had been so stunning that she’d nearly wept from the force of it, and she wanted to supply him with some of the same dazzling gratification. So far, she’d managed to dodge his requests for carnal assuagement, and he’d been kind and patient about her dawdling, but she no longer wanted him calm and composed. She wanted him testy, chafing, at the edge and anxious to jump off.

Gliding down, she blazed a trail down his stomach, tarrying to nip at his navel, then she traveled on, to the front of his trousers, where his cockstand was so deliciously manifest. Nuzzling at him through the cloth, she rooted and bit, stroking and fondling him, then she reached for the top button and slipped it through the hole. The next one followed and the next, until the placard was undone, and all she needed to do was push it aside to have him bared, in her hands, in her mouth.

Could she do it?

She knew that women habitually performed the indecent procedure, just as she knew that men enjoyed it above all else, so Wakefield would be thrilled by her lack of inhibition. Where he was concerned, there were no confines to her conduct. She wanted to savor and touch and smell, and she was inanely enthusiastic to make him happy.

What did this portend? When had his contentment become so significant?

Until this instant, she’d viewed their relationship as a marvelous lark, a spot of exotic fun in her dreary existence, but of a sudden, his pleasure was vital, and her ability to bring him satisfaction and serenity was paramount.

Was this love?

The very idea was terrifying.

Not prone to doing anything halfway, if she fell for
the scoundrel, it would be a total, complete, wretched plunge. As was her wont, she would give all to a man with whom she had nothing in common, who was rich and titled, and who would return to London as soon as his business in the country was finished.

She’d never see him again, would never hear from him again, and she would be left behind, forlorn and bereft, and devastated at having to carry on without him.

If she lost her heart, how would she persevere?

The risk of succumbing was too dire. She needed to be clear on her established priorities, to focus on what she could accomplish, and to remember what she couldn’t. Her arrangement with Wakefield had been entered into for the exclusive purpose of helping her neighbors. Whatever privately transpired was transitory and not connected to her loftier goals.

As she’d hoped to delight in some of his fantastic amorous attention, he’d provided her with the perfect opportunity to indulge, but she couldn’t forget that it was only a naughty fling, a brief romp, and would never be more than that. No one would ever know what she was about—except herself—and what a luscious memory to have long after his departure!

Sliding her fingers under the placard of his pants, she shoved at the fabric, and his cock jutted up, extending out to her. Red and pulsating, his life’s blood pounding through the ropy veins, it seemed angry, alive, with a will of its own, and it demanded recognition, handling, satiation.

She ran her fingers through the bristly hair that nested his erection. It was rougher, darker than the blond hair on his head, and she burrowed her nose in it, rubbing her cheek across his lower abdomen. Each subtle shift had him flinching, his stomach muscles clenching,
as he restlessly endured her exploration, but she didn’t caress him where he needed it most.

Finally, she took pity, gripping him in her fist, massaging her thumb over the sensitive end, and he hissed out a breath. Clutching him tightly, she had him flexing and pressing, but she was too hampered in her movements and didn’t have the space to tend him as she wanted.

She tugged his trousers off his hips, so she could behold the length of his phallus, the two sacs dangling below, and she cupped him in her palm, then bent down. Laving him with her tongue, she started at the bottom of his turgid rod and advanced toward the crown.

As she hadn’t formerly attempted the feat, she wasn’t exactly positive of how to go about it, but she vivaciously set herself to the task, letting Wakefield be her guide. By judging his reactions, she could deduce what he liked best, and with each passing minute, he grew more strained, his body tense, his cock rigid.

What power she had over him! He was at her mercy. How stupendous it was to dominate and subordinate the jaded knave.

Arriving at the tip, she licked at his sexual juice. He tasted so fine, his essence tempting her on a primal level, and he made her ache and hunger in an acute fashion. Her nipples were taut and in need of manipulation, between her legs she was wet and throbbing. She wanted to swallow him whole, to take him into herself, to meld with him forever.

She gazed up his lank torso, and he was staring at her with a fire in his eye that enchanted and provoked. There was only him, the quiet room, and the magnificent expectancy of what was about to happen.

“I want to know you like this,” she declared.

“Are you sure, love?”

The endearment slithered by and, because it was so dangerous, she tried to pretend that he hadn’t uttered it. The word ignited a swarm of butterflies deep in her belly. They cascaded out, flitting across her nerve endings, confusing her, rattling her.

A thousand frantic questions darted around in her mind: Why had he said it? What did he mean? Was it simply an appellation he impetuously expressed to any female imprudent enough to lie down with him? Or—a most sinister thought!—had he voiced it because he was developing profound feelings for her?

What if he was?

The notion was so preposterous, and so exceptional, that she couldn’t credit it. Extreme affection on his part was impossible, inconceivable, yet she found the concept to be extraordinary, and she could picture herself collapsing into that word, ominously wishing for it to be true so fervently that she drove herself mad with the magnitude of her craving.

Ignoring its gravity, she declined to ascribe it any import. There was only one thing he wanted from her, only one thing of any interest she had to confer. That was her body, and she was ardent and burning to share it with him. Sexual congress was the sole motive behind their interaction, and she had to be careful, lest she allow her lonely heart to wander where it should not go.

“Aye, I’m sure,” she told him.

“I’m so hard for you. I don’t know if I can slow my pace or hold back.”

“Don’t hinder yourself on my account.” She intended to luxuriate in every decadent, depraved aspect of the maneuver. “I want it to be spectacular for you.”

“Trust me, lass, it will be.” He settled himself on the cushions. “No matter how it goes.”

The position centered his cock directly beneath her
mouth, and she grazed the end, then opened wide and took him inside. Immediately, he began to thrust, not permitting her to adjust or acclimate. Obviously, he was accustomed to the deed, the awkwardness, the crudeness, and he was unaware that she hadn’t previously engaged in the lewd pursuit.

He didn’t constrain his baser proclivities, and he paid no heed to her untried condition, but she couldn’t blame him. From the moment they’d met, she’d acted like a whore and had done naught to furnish him with a higher opinion of her character.

Absurdly, she’d been anticipating something mundane and sedate, polite and civil. But as constantly ensued during her trysts with Wakefield, she was surprised at how the reality varied from her fantasies. The escapade was contrary to what she’d imagined, bawdier, turbulent and risqué.

Ashamed as she was to admit it, she had numerous disgraceful facets to her personality, and this impropriety called to each and every one of them. She reveled in the indiscretion, relishing how their situation was reduced to the barest elements: her mouth, his cock.

He rolled to his side, and she went with him, snuggling herself into the gap between his torso and the couch. Cradling her head, he draped a leg over her, keeping her close so that he could obtain maximum enjoyment. As he approached the apex, he was ready to let go, and she braced, pondering how the end would come, how it would feel, how his seed would taste.

How she would survive the ordeal!

She wasn’t precisely certain what she was supposed to do, and it wasn’t as if she could pause to ask. Since she had played the role of trollop exceedingly well, he’d envision that she would be schooled in the conclusion.

At the last second, he pulled away, grabbing for her,
trying to drag her up his chest, and she didn’t know what he proposed, but she suspected it involved the absolute relinquishment of her virginity.

Balking, she used her weight and placement to prevent him from moving her to where he could finish in a manner she wasn’t equipped to attempt.

“I need to come, Emma. Now.”

“In my mouth, John.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

They glared at each other, and a battle of wills resulted. She was desperate to satisfy him, to learn what the staggering event would be like, and she flicked out her tongue and stroked across him, making him groan.

“Em,”—he tried to dissuade her, but without much vehemence—“stop.”

“Let me do this for you.” Hesitantly, she smiled, her brown eyes pleading. “Please?”

“Oh, Jesus . . . The way you look at me . . .”

He flopped against the pillows, and she took his reclining as acquiescence, guiding him to her lips, as he mumbled a remark that sounded like, “I wanted the first time to be different,” but he was beyond reason.

Rapidly, he was overcome by desire, and a handful of thrusts lured him to the precipice. Embedded, he shuddered, then came in a fiery rush. A haunting wail echoed from his chest and reverberated around the room. He spilled himself, salty and hot in the back of her throat, and she gladly took all that he rendered, cherishing that he’d granted her the chance, that he’d let her be the one.

A lush eternity passed before his climax waned. His body slackened, and he withdrew. A gush of air was released from his lungs as if he’d deflated with the strenuous effort.