Cheryl Holt (12 page)

As he’d had no prospects for earning an income, he’d intended to marry Felicity Babcock, mostly for her wealth, but the problems with his genitalia guaranteed that he couldn’t take up with her, or with any other. It would be fraud to wed when he couldn’t beget children.

So what was his plan?

He yearned to stay with Anne, forever, and he had an hilarious vision, of the two of them, elderly companions swimming in her hot pool. Was that how the rest of his pitiful life was to pass? Would there never be more?

“I’m a fool,” he apologized. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not.”

Quickly and easily, their quarrel was terminated. He liked that about her, liked that she was feisty and assertive, that her temper could flare, then wane as promptly as it had ignited.

Relaxing, he nestled with her, resolved that by their next encounter, he would wear only drawers, or perhaps nothing. If he was to be celibate after he left her, he wasn’t about to refrain from having their naked skin merged.

She was leaned against him, smiling and studying him.

“What?” it was his turn to ask.

“Does it ever seem to you as if we were acquainted before you came here? As if we’d met?”

“Yes, I’ve been pondering the same.”

“I know so much about you, that I have no reason for knowing. Why do you suppose that is?”

“We share an affinity,” he clarified, and he speculated again as to the relationship she’d had with her husband. If she didn’t comprehend any more than this about males and females, it must have been very tepid.

“What causes it?”

It was the type of magnetism that produced searing sexual affairs, that generated uncontrollable ardor, that had couples racing to folly and ruin, but he didn’t say as much.

“Some people are naturally close. There’s no explanation. It’s one of the great mysteries of the universe.”

“Does that mean that
I
am a great mystery?”

“No.” He tapped the tip of her pert nose. “It
means
that you are a brazen, bawdy wench and much too impertinent for your own good. You’re lucky I’m an invalid, or I’d show you how rash you are, being here with me.”

“Rash . . . hmm . . .” She mulled the word, as if applying it to herself, to see how it fit. “I don’t believe I’ve ever done anything
rash
, and I’m twenty-eight. Maybe I should indulge myself.”

He shook his head. This was another pathetic example of how his fortunes were running. He was alone, in the dark, with a gorgeous, wet, alluring woman, who was practically begging to be ravished, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

Or could he?

While he couldn’t be aroused,
she
could be. At least, he could enjoy that portion of it. She was a randy widow. Why not revel with her?

“Maybe you should,” he concurred.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her lush mouth hovering at his own.

“Kiss me,” she ordered.

For an instant, he was frozen, frightened to obey her command. Anymore, he was a coward, scared of so many things he used to take for granted. Was he reduced to being too terrified to kiss a woman?

He understood that she was demanding more than what he’d instigated prior. She craved heat, and fire, and he wanted to give them to her.

Jolting himself out of his asinine stupor, he captured her lips, as it vaguely occurred to him that, when he failed to generate an erection, she would deduce he couldn’t. At the moment, he wasn’t concerned. Later, he’d fret over humiliating rationalizations and justifications. For now, he would rollick and play, would luxuriate in the very essence of her.

He stroked her shoulders, her back, and she responded to his every move, imitating his gestures, though it was with an odd curiosity, as if she wasn’t positive she was proceeding correctly. A captivating mix of innocence and boldness, she touched him everywhere, but with a perplexity that belied her experience. She was hesitant, wavering, yet fearless—all at the same time. The incongruity drove him wild.

It was almost as if she’d never philandered before, but he was too enamored to slow and allow her to acclimate. She made him feel whole, complete, and he wasn’t about to desist.

He wanted her hair unbound, to have the lengthy mass floating free as it did when he spied on her, and he jerked off her cap, yanked at the combs and pins, and tossed them onto the grass.

His fingers went to her outfit, undoing the buttons, until he was able to slip under the material. She was warm, slippery, and inch by inch, he peeled the garment away, revealing her chest, her bosom. Braving the final distance, he dragged at the
bodice until her breasts were bared, though concealed by the water. He filled his hands with the plump mounds, and he thumbed her nipples, making her groan and writhe.

“You’re so beautiful, Anne,” he coaxed. “Let me look at you.”

“This is wrong,” she managed on a tortured breath.

“I don’t care. Do you?”

Her confusion evident, she scrutinized him. He was so attuned to her that he could read her tormented thoughts: She was ablaze, and desperate to progress, but she was chafing over morals, stigma, and reputation.

“There’s no one here to see,” he cajoled. “There’s just us.”

“That’s what has me worried. I like this too much. I want this too much.”

A wanton! Who wasn’t too coy to admit it! How absolutely divine! He laughed. “Are you afraid that I’ll discover how lustful you can be?”

“Yes.” Even in the dim moonlight, he could detect her blush.

“I’ve never considered an excess of passion to be a bad trait in a female.”

“You wouldn’t.” She glanced around at the empty yard, then she assessed him, so bewildered, so precious in her consternation, then she shrugged and chuckled. “Why not? Who’s to say I can’t?”

“Who, indeed?”

She fairly leapt into his arms, initiating a kiss of her own, that was much more torrid than any he’d bestowed. He met her with an equal amount of relish and elation, a renewed energy coursing through him. He might be debilitated, might be exhausted and weary, but he had the stamina to make love to her. For some strange reason, the water imparted the necessary vim and vigor.

He toyed with her breasts, as she fussed with his nightshirt, loosing the tie at the front and drawing it off so that she could push it around his hips. He aided her as much as he could, shifting about so that it was shoved lower, so that it came loose from his legs and drifted away.

Nude, balanced on the smooth rock ledge, his body was exposed, with no fabric to act as a barrier, and he wanted her in the same condition. He wrestled with her costume, tugging it past her waist, her hips, until she was as naked as he.

Their embrace grew more spirited, more enthusiastic, and he lured her nearer. The pond made her buoyant, so it was easy to lug her around, to position her where he wanted her. He spread her legs, her thighs on either side of his, so that she was over his lap.

Her breasts were pale and glimmering, the tips erect and pouting for attention. He buried himself in her cleavage, snuggled between the rounded orbs, licking at the droplets pearling on her skin.

Her back arched, her muscles tensed, she gripped his head, urging him to feast. Perched as she was, her hair flowing, her splendid torso displayed, she resembled a pagan goddess, a mythical Valkyrie.

He nipped and bit, nuzzled and suckled, until her nipple was raw and extended, then he burrowed to the other and latched on.

She was clutching at him, her nails digging in, and he reveled in the sharp sensation. It had been so long since he’d felt a woman’s rising desire.

He guided her loins to his stomach. Though he had no manly rod for her to press against, no hardened phallus for her to mount, she needed to flex. She was on the edge, ready to fly to the heavens, and the slightest provocation would send her over.

How he yearned to penetrate her, to be joined with her
when she fell to pieces, but the interlude was so enchanted that he refused to lament what couldn’t be changed.

He swept his hand downward, tangling in her silky feminine hair. She was splayed wide, open, and he slid two fingers into her sheath. She stiffened, as if surprised by the exploit, but she hastily adapted, rubbing in a furious rhythm. His thumb found the nub where her pleasure was centered, and he flicked at it.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “What are you doing to me?”

“Let go, Anne,” he beguiled. “Show me how much you need this.”

He took her nipple, forcefully sucking at it, and she quivered with ecstasy, her womb clasping in spasms.

Making no attempt to shield her reaction, she cried out and soared higher and higher, the orgasm never ending, and so intense that it seemed as if she’d never previously had one. He was thrilled by her potent response, charmed by her lack of inhibition.

As she began to calm, he nestled her at his nape. She purred and stretched like a lazy cat, and he smiled, treasuring how wonderful it was to hold her through the aftermath.

Would she be embarrassed by her raucous performance, or would she take it in stride? Was she always so vigorous?

He regretted that he hadn’t had more to contribute to the foray. What would it be like to be a man by every definition of the word, to have his sexual capacity restored, and Anne his paramour?

“You are so wicked,” she said, and she was grinning, too, her mouth curved and happy at his neck.

“I don’t deny it.”

“I can’t believe I let you do that to me. If I were a Catholic, I’d have to spend a month on my knees, begging for forgiveness in the confessional.”

“Perhaps two.”

“Perhaps more.” She pulled away and stared up at the sky. “Have you ever imagined becoming someone else? That you could snap your fingers, or swallow a magic powder, and you’d be transformed?”

“I wish it all the time,” he stated, thinking of his mangled body.

“So do I.”

It was a peculiar admission. He’d pictured her content, with her farm, and her grotto, and her business. To what more did she aspire? How would she alter her affairs if she could? Who would she like to be besides herself?

She gazed at him so profoundly that he was unnerved. Her expression was a mixture of adoration and fondness, with a sprig of hero worship thrown in, and it settled uneasily on his shoulders. Dalliance was more vehement for the woman, and she was appraising him as a virgin might after her first excursion into carnal territory.

Her blatant affection troubled him. A year or two earlier, he’d have perceived himself as so far above her station that he wouldn’t have bothered to learn her name. He’d been that much of an arrogant prig.

Circumstances had brought him down a few pegs, but he had nothing to offer her, not in a fiscal way, and not in a personal way, and the fact that she might be developing an affinity depressed him. She was so rare, so fine, and in comparison, he felt so inadequate.

With the waning of her passion, he was fatigued. He kept trying to accomplish more than he was able, starting tasks that he hadn’t the vitality to complete.

She noticed immediately. “I’ve tired you.”

“I’ve tired myself.”

“I’m sorry. I was having so much fun that I—”

He put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “Don’t ever apologize for what happens between us when we’re alone like this.”

“I won’t—as long as you promise we can do it again.” She wiggled her brows. “Very soon.”

He was delighted by her candor, by her unabashed sensuality, and he hugged her as tightly as he could. “You are so good for me.”

“And you, for me.”

Was he
good
for her? How could he be? What had he to contribute that was in any fashion beneficial or essential? He’d been dumped on her without warning, had done naught but grumble and complain, had to be fed and washed and hauled about. He was an enormous burden she’d willingly assumed, though he hadn’t figured out why she would.

How could he possibly be an advantage to her?

“Let’s move you inside,” she said, “before I have to summon Kate to carry you.”

“By all means, let’s do.” He gave a mock shudder. He’d met her burly, competent, no-nonsense assistant and avoided her at all costs.

He watched as she retrieved their clothing. The garments were heavy, sodden, and it was much more difficult to put them on than it had been to strip them off. They didn’t speak, and she didn’t look at him, and he couldn’t decide if she was chagrined or simply disconcerted by the ardor that had flared.

She hadn’t tried to instigate any libidinous conduct on his end, hadn’t touched or stroked his phallus, and she had to have realized that he hadn’t spawned an erection. Nor had she commented on his dearth of ability. He was grateful for her reticence, and he hoped that she wouldn’t raise the subject later. He had no thoughts he could share, and he couldn’t devise any method for discussing the situation without making an utter fool of himself.

When she had them presentable, she helped him stand, and like the cripple he was, he clutched her arm. As she escorted him out of the water, he peered around, at the shimmering
pool, the thick shrubbery, ruminating on how magnificent it all was.

But as she guided him onto the bank, his legs buckled, and he was so very weak. He saw months—nay, years!—of barely maintaining, of not being capable of doing for himself, and he whispered a short prayer.

Please, Lord
, he implored,
let there be more for me than this
.

Taking the smallest, slowest of steps, he allowed her to lead him into the house.

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