Cheryl Holt (17 page)

He should have been getting bored with her, but he wasn’t. How had she bewitched him? Why had he let her?

He arrived at her door and slipped inside without knocking. She was expecting him, relaxing in a chair by the window and sipping on a glass of wine. A candle burned, illuminating her blond hair so that it glowed like a halo around her head. Her blue eyes shimmered like polished sapphires.

“You’re late,” she said. “I was about to give up on you and go to bed.”

“I’m glad you waited” was all he furnished in reply.

He wasn’t about to remark on where he’d been or why he’d been delayed. They never discussed the reason she was in London, her job, or her position with Lydia, just as they never talked about Rebecca. But Rebecca was like an edifice in the middle of the room, an unmentioned, glaring reminder of how despicable it was for them to continue, of how powerless they were to fight the attraction that ruled them.

She uncurled from the chair and approached, dressed in a worn summer nightgown, a tattered robe over top, and he was so weary of seeing her attired like a pauper. He speculated as to what she’d look like in a blue satin negligee, with tiny straps and a shortened hem. Maybe he’d order one for her and present it as a gift, would insist she keep it despite how vociferously she complained.

She snuggled herself to him, unbuttoning his shirt and
tugging at the lapels to bare his chest, and she rubbed her cheek in the soft matting of hair.

“I’ve been thinking,” she commented.

“Really? About what?”

“About you and how good you smell.”

He chuckled. “Anything else?”

“Oh yes. Quite a lot,” but as usual, she didn’t share any of her reflections, and he realized that he’d been fishing for compliments and was frustrated when none were forthcoming.

She never explained why she’d gotten involved with him, and he hated to consider that he wasn’t special to her, that she might have done the same with any man who’d pressed the issue. He’d been the lucky fellow to initiate her into carnal conduct, but strangely, he craved more than a brief dalliance.

He was plagued by their association being strictly sexual. She was perfectly happy to philander—with no strings and no promises—while he, for once, was chafing at the lack of a bond, the dearth of ties.

She nibbled up, to his neck, his chin, and he groaned as their lips connected, as her tongue found his.

A month earlier, she’d scarcely been kissed, and now, she joined in like the most experienced courtesan. She wasn’t afraid or timid over the most raucous intimacy. It was as though after they’d agreed to proceed, she’d decided there would be no restraint. She’d thrown herself into the affair, eager to try whatever he suggested, and he had to slow them down, to counsel that they couldn’t do all the things she asked. She was constantly begging to be ravished, and he was constantly refusing, which was a sign of how their characters had been turned inside out.

So far, he’d been relatively well behaved, had kept
his trousers on, the placard fastened, but he didn’t know how many more times he could be so chivalrous.

He lifted her and spun her so that her back was to the wall, her thighs wrapped around him, and he flexed into her, receiving a modicum of relief from the motion.

“You’re pushing into me again,” she said. “Why?”

“I told you: I desire you. In a manly fashion.”

“But you never show me what you mean!”

“If I
show
you, we can’t repair the damage.”

She growled with exasperation. “I detest when you speak in riddles.”

“You could never marry.”

“You act as if I have swains lined up at the door.”

“Who knows what the future will bring? You might waltz out of here tomorrow and meet the man of your dreams.”

He’d made the statement as a joke, but the idea disturbed him. Though she could never be his, he didn’t want anyone else to have her, either, and his yearning for both outcomes was a further indication of how muddled he was in his dealings with her.

No resolution suited him.

He carried her to the bed, and as they stretched out he reveled in how marvelous it felt to be so close to her. His fingers were inside her nightgown, and he filled his hand with her breast. Instantly he was frantic to have her.

Yanking at her bodice, he pulled it down to reveal her bosom. He dipped down and took her nipple into his mouth, working over it until she was writhing with ecstasy.

He trailed up her leg, her thigh, to toy with her privates. With hardly any effort on his part, she came in his arms, her body convulsing with a potent orgasm. He’d never been with a woman who could be so swiftly
aroused and satisfied. She had a fabulously lusty nature, and he was thrilled that she trusted him to set it free.

To muffle her cry of delight, he kissed her, and as she spiraled down he was grinning.

“I can’t get over how sexy you are.”

“How do you do that to me?”

“I don’t
do
anything. You’re easy.”

She punched him on the shoulder. “I am not!”

“All right, have it your way, but just so you know, it’s typically acknowledged among gentlemen that it’s difficult to pleasure a female, unless she’s . . . well. . .”

“Easy?”

“Yes.”

She scowled. “Are you admitting that you and your male friends chat about such personal matters?”

“Of course. We’re men. We’re like beasts in the field. We like to strut and preen.”

“So you view me no differently than a bull might a heifer?”

“A very pretty heifer—if that makes you feel any better.”

“You’re correct: You are a beast.” Her fervid gaze roved over his torso, and she inquired, “Is it the same?”

“What?”

“When I touch your breast, is it the same sensation as when you touch mine?”

“I suppose.”

“And if I put my mouth there? Would it be the same, too?”

“Probably.” Her questions had his heart racing.

During their assignations, he hadn’t demanded much of her.
He
was the one who tormented and teased, and she’d participated with a great relish, but she hadn’t
evinced much curiosity as to what he enjoyed, as to what
she
might do to him.

She scooted away and clambered on top of him. She was on her knees and hovered over his lap, and she stared down, her eyes blazing.

“An interesting notion recently occurred to me,” she said.

“What is it?”

“You’ve taught me all these naughty deeds, but you never ask me to do anything to you in return.” She raised a brow. “How come?”

“Well . . .”

“All this activity must be very stimulating to you.”

“It is.”

“But there has to be more on your end. I should be able to excite you as you excite me.”

“You can.”

She leaned down, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and shook him. “Then why haven’t you enlightened me?”

“Because if we start in, I’m not positive I can control myself.”

“Have I suggested that you control yourself?”

“No, but one of us must keep a clear head.”

“Why?”

“As I’ve already explained—on numerous occasions—if I’m too carried away, you can never marry.”

“And I told
you
that we needn’t worry about that situation ever transpiring.”

“For another, you could become pregnant.”

Obviously, she hadn’t realized the dangers, and she released him and plopped onto her haunches. “From what we’ve been doing?”

“No, but from the rest, from what we haven’t attempted, and whatever else you might think about my morals, I don’t intend to get you with child.”

“How does it happen?”

“What?”

“Pregnancy.”

He studied her, trying to figure out where to begin, but there didn’t seem to be any good place. He blushed. “I guess I’m too embarrassed to describe it to you.”

“That’s absurd. You can do it, but you can’t talk about it?”

“Believe me: Some things are easier to demonstrate.”

“So show me.” Impatient to be ravished, she spread her arms wide.

“Not bloody likely.”

“Alex!”

He sighed. She was right: They were adults, and they ought to be capable of having a rational discussion about intimate affairs.

“We’re built differently,” he said.

“Where?”

“In our private parts.” He massaged her cleft. “You have an opening here, whilst I have a sort of. . . sort of rod.”

She glanced at his crotch, seeking proof. “What’s it for?”

“When I’m aroused, it grows very hard, and—if we were in the throes of passion—I would thrust it inside you.” He wedged two fingers into her sheath and caressed her in a seductive rhythm, giving her a clue as to what he was relating. “I would push it back and forth, and the motion produces a friction that causes a white cream to erupt from the tip. This is my seed, and it plants a child.”

“This . . . this flexing, how does it feel?”

“Fantastic. Like nothing else in the world.”

“And you’re sure a babe is created this way?”

“Yes. Very sure.”

She was quiet, digesting the information; then she clutched the waistband of his trousers. “I want to look at you.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“A man can be too provoked, so I’m afraid to remove my pants.”

“You’d never harm me.”

“I would—if I was goaded beyond coherent judgment.”

“I’m scarcely the type to spur you past your limits.”

“You’d be surprised what I might do because of you.”

“I have to see this for myself.”

She flicked a button free, then another and another. He knew he should prevent her, but he was only a mortal man, and he had so few redeeming qualities, moderation not being one of them. He was beyond refusal, his untended phallus in revolt.

The last button fell away, the placard loose, and she tugged the fabric down around his flanks. In a thrice, his unruly cock was exposed. It was eager to be fondled and, having a mind of its own, it reached out toward her.

“Oh my,” she murmured. She gaped, then traced across it with her finger.

Her touch was electrifying, and he shuddered as if she’d prodded him with a hot poker.

“Sweet Jesu . . .” he moaned through clenched teeth.

“What should I do with it?”

“Take me in your hand.”

She hesitated, then wrapped her fist around him. He started flexing, the soft skin at the crown tightening, and he stared at the ceiling, struggling to calm himself, but he couldn’t bear her exploration.

He’d wanted her for so long, with a reckless abandon that he hadn’t had an opportunity to slake, and he was tired of being gallant, tired of steering her from folly.

He couldn’t keep himself in check, and he shoved her away.

“What is it?” She was confused by the abrupt halt. “What have I done?”

“Nothing. Everything is fine.” He pulled her to him. “Hold me.”

“Why?”

“I need to spill myself.”

“But . . . but we mustn’t! We could make a babe!”

“We won’t.”

She panicked and tried to wrestle away, but he pinned her to him, gripping her shapely bottom, his erection pressed to her belly.

“Alex! Stop it!”

“I won’t be inside you,” he managed to spit out. “You’re safe.”

It was all the reassurance he had time to give. He was at the edge, and with a few brief thrusts, he came against her stomach. He flew to the heavens, his heart pounding so rigorously that he was surprised it didn’t burst; then he floated down.

At his raucous performance he was too embarrassed to face her, and he burrowed into the pillow. He’d behaved like a savage, and he couldn’t imagine what her opinion must be. For her first encounter with male desire it couldn’t have been all that magnificent.

What was he supposed to say? How was he to act?

“My goodness”—she broke the awkward silence—“that was . . . was . . .”

As he’d suspected, she had no words to describe the event, and he wondered why he was renowned for being such a great lover, for having such a way with women, when all evidence indicated that he was an ass.

“It can be a bit wild,” he mumbled.

“It certainly can.”

She was riffling through his hair, massaging his shoulders, and he couldn’t abide her composure. He slithered away and straightened his pants; then he went to the washbasin and returned with a wet cloth and towel. He swabbed away the remnants of what he’d done.

Without comment, she submitted to his ministrations, but when he’d finished, he could no longer avoid the inevitable. He lay down and stretched out. They were on their sides and studying each other.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She frowned. “For what?”

“For not warning you about how it would go.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“Well, I did. The masculine end of things is a tad more . . . physical.”

“I definitely concur!” She laughed.

“It can take some getting used to.”

“I’m not made of glass. Don’t worry about me so much.”

“I can’t help it.”

She stroked the front of his trousers, and even though he’d just come like a maniac, the rowdy appendage leapt to life, anxious to begin anew.

“I’ve heard the phrase
randy devil,”
she mentioned. “Is this what it means?”

“Yes.”

“So you can do it again?”

“Over and over, as can you.”

She considered, then grinned. “I wish we never had to leave this room.”

“A marvelous idea. Let’s stay here forever.”

Suddenly she appeared very shy, very young. “I like it that you fancy me so much, that I can make you so aroused.”

“I like it, too.”

He cuddled himself to her, so that their bodies were touching, so that he could feel her all the way down. With the waning of their ardor, the air had cooled, and he grabbed a blanket and drew it over them.

Though he couldn’t deduce why, every exchange was so much more vital with her, so much more precious. They were at the start of something extraordinary, and he had to pursue it to its natural conclusion. He was dying to know where it would lead.

Yet how could he proceed? What was the solution? His ties to Rebecca were choking him, the prospect of marriage more unpalatable with each passing day, but he couldn’t cry off.