Cheryl Holt (19 page)

Secrets had an irritating habit of leaking out, but Anne wouldn’t contradict an invitation Kate had extended, for she rarely made any. If she’d asked Prudence, it was important to her.

“It matters to you?”

“Prudence needs it.”

An incentive Anne couldn’t discount. “Be cautious.”

“I will.”

Kate went off, and Anne trudged to the pool. She tarried on the edge, dangling her feet. The cool breeze chilled her, so she shed her robe and dipped into the pond. Lounging on her back, she dawdled until she was overheated, until she was wrinkled like a prune, then she waded over and reached for a towel, rubbing it over her skin, but the solace she typically attained was absent.

She shuddered.

Behind her, the trees and shrubs loomed, ominous and sinister, as though they held a thousand eyes, and she sensed that she was being observed, which was silly.

Her property was isolated—securely fenced!—and there was no adjacent farm within comfortable walking distance. If the grotto’s location had been otherwise, she’d never have risked bathing in the nude.

The quarrel with Stephen had her distraught and unsure, and she peered toward the house. The window to his room was open, and it dawned on her that he might be able to see her from his bed.

Had he been watching her? Was that why it seemed as if someone was spying? If so, why did she perceive such menace? Such danger?

Like a talisman, he lured her inside. For hours, she’d dodged him, had intended to evict him, but she couldn’t. She needed him as she needed water to drink or air to breathe. If he was insolent, pompous, imperious, she didn’t care. As an earl’s son, he represented everything she despised, everything she hated, but it didn’t signify. The fact that he was betrothed meant nothing, that he kept a beautiful mistress meant nothing.

She was eager to continue on, to debase and shame herself for any tidbit of affection he might toss in her direction, and a novel thought occurred to her: was this how her mother had felt about her father? Anne had deemed her mother a ninny who’d fallen for a man she could never have, who’d gone to her grave pining for him.

Anne was prepared to make the same mistake, to forge ahead to a predestined bad ending, but she was unconcerned as to the result. When Stephen left, and she was alone, there would be plenty of opportunity to mourn, but not now. Not when he was so near, and waiting for her.

Frantic to be with him, she struggled into her robe, and rushed across the lawn. In case he was asleep, she crept in, but even in the shadows, she could discern that he was awake. He was undressed, on top of the covers, a blanket across his loins, and he glittered with a strange fire.

“Come to me,” he decreed.

She raced across the floor, and eased down as he clutched her around the waist, pulling her to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“So am I.”

“Forgive me.”

“I have.”

“Don’t send me away.”

“I won’t. I can’t.”

He initiated a steamy kiss, their tongues sparring, and he took her hand, guiding it to his crotch.

He was hard! His phallus erect and prodding at her, he wrapped her fingers around it, and began to flex.

Shocked and surprised, she tried to grasp what this portended. The questions she’d been posing to herself, about fornication and babies, had to be answered.

“When?” she sputtered, more perplexed than ever.

“A while ago. It just . . . just happened.”

She pushed the blanket away and had her initial glimpse of an aroused male cock. It was so big! She knew that it was supposed to fit into her sheath, but she couldn’t figure out how. Huge, red, and throbbing, it had thick, ropy veins that beat in a rhythm with his pulse, and it extended out toward her.

Stroking him, she slid up and down, her thumb trailing over the oozing crown. “Does it hurt?”

“Only in a good way.” Laughing, he flexed again.

She punched him on the shoulder. “I
mean
: does it hurt on the inside?”

“No. I feel perfectly normal.”

The body was a mystery she’d never unraveled, and she wouldn’t try to explain the event. She’d suspected that his manly capacity might return, and it had, so he would spur their intimacy to the next level. Was she ready? Was he?

“Touch me,” he commanded, sounding strained and anxious. “Don’t let go.”

He clasped her hand and lowered it to his loins, once more, applying pressure when she didn’t squeeze tightly enough. Rooting under her robe, he found her nipple and suckled as he hugged her with all his might, the tip of his phallus rubbing her belly.

After several thrusts, he went rigid, taut as a bow, and a haunting wail escaped from him. His seed spewed out, a fiery pile seeping between them. It was hot, sticky, a glue binding them. Gradually, his lust abated, and he slowed, then stopped. His respiration ragged, his heart thundering under his ribs, he crushed her to him.

She was stunned, both by how swiftly his desire had escalated as well as how rapidly it had peaked and waned, and she wasn’t certain how to react. She hadn’t realized that a man could spill himself without being impaled in the woman, but then, most facets of carnality were a puzzle to her.

Down below, he was still hard, and she speculated as to how he could have the energy to maintain an erection. Perhaps with the quickening of his ability, he was like a fountain bubbling over, and he would be in a savage rush to copulate as often as he was able—if for no other reason than to prove to himself that he could.

With his ardor demonstrated so vividly, she had no idea how to proceed, and as a purported widow, she couldn’t bumble around. She clambered off the bed, relishing the excuse to do something concrete so that she could avoid thinking about what would come next.

She grabbed a towel and wiped at her stomach and his own, and when she was finished, he pitched it on the floor, and drew her to him.

“I’m randy as a lad with his first girl.”

“I can tell.”

“I could frolic with you all night.”

She chuckled. “You’re an optimist.”

“Want to see me try?”

“I’ll
let
you philander, but not until you tire yourself.”

Nestling with her, he murmured, “My dearest Anne, how did I ever get along before I met you?”

He rotated them so that they were spooned together, and he yawned, his muscles drooping. The sexual display had him much more weary than he cared to admit. He yawned again.

“I’m going to nap for a few minutes.”

“All right.”

“Don’t you dare sneak out.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, I’ll have to find you. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to make a cripple climb the stairs to your room, would you?”

“No.” She laced their fingers. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Within seconds, he was slumbering, his breathing steady, his torso a heavy, relaxed presence behind her. She relaxed, too, wallowing in the luxury of tarrying with him.

She was glad that he’d nodded off, for his fatigue gave her the opportunity to ruminate over her choices. After he’d rested, he’d take her virginity, and she couldn’t imagine saying no.

What benefit was her chastity anyway? It had served no purpose for twenty-eight years of her life, and after he was gone, she couldn’t fathom how it would be of use. After knowing him, she couldn’t cavort with another.

This was her one and only chance to love and be loved, to
experience all the ecstasy a man could bring to a woman. She wasn’t about to pass it up.

Peaceful and content, she drifted off and dozed, too.

Stephen roused as dawn was breaking. A rooster crowed, and a sliver of light was visible on the horizon. As Anne had promised, she hadn’t left, but was snuggled with him, her lush hair scattered across the pillow, her arms and legs tangled with his own.

His cock was stiff with morning passion and wedged to the cleft of her shapely ass, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He’d worried that his nocturnal stimulation had been an aberration, a fluke.

Grinning, he conjectured as to what she must have thought of him the previous evening, when he’d acted like a barbarian. He’d suckled her breast, thrust a few times, and emptied himself all over both of them. It was as if his months of loathed celibacy had created a dam in his loins, and it had burst so vehemently that he hadn’t been able to exhibit any finesse.

Likely, she was pondering what sort of erotic partner he’d prove to be, and he intended to show her.

She was cuddled to him, and he massaged down her arm, her flank. He’d never awakened with a paramour before. His prior trysting had been more expedient, usually based on luck and location. Sleep was a private endeavor, and he couldn’t abide sharing his bed, hadn’t wanted to endure the awkwardness of rising.

But with Anne, he couldn’t wait to observe her as her eyes fluttered open, as she recognized where she was, as she smiled just for him.

He dipped down to toy with her nipple, as his fingers rambled down, to her stomach, her navel, her mons. He slipped them inside her, and instinctively, she flexed, her hips responding with an eagerness that thrilled him.

“Mmm . . .” she purred. “What are you doing?”

“I’m having my way with you.”

She was warm, fragrant, drowsy, and as he gazed down at her, a profound wave of emotion swept over him. Bliss. Serenity. Affection.

Near to love,
he mused, cherishing how he felt complete and whole when he was with her.

He abandoned her breasts and traveled down to her abdomen, so that he could burrow his cheek in the silky pile of hair shielding her mound. Scooting off the mattress, he balanced on his knees, and he draped her thighs over his shoulders, widening her, exposing her soft, pink core.

Leaning in, he parted her with his tongue, and she stiffened and came up on an elbow.

“Stephen?” She was scowling.

“Did your husband never pleasure you like this?”

She gave him the strangest look. “No.”

“Lie back. I’m going to taste you.”

“Taste me?”

What kind of oaf had she married? How could he have declined to know her so intimately?

He delved in, and she flopped onto the pillow, her complaint forgotten. She was wet, ready, his manipulation of her nipples having aroused her, and in seconds, a powerful orgasm shook her.

As she bucked and writhed, he pinned her down through the tumult, then, lingering and exploring, he nibbled up her torso.

Finally, he arrived at her mouth, savoring the tang of her sex on his lips. Her legs were spread, and he centered himself, his cock pulsating, impatient, and he had to be in her.

Reaching down, he traced the crown across her, and he prodded in the smallest inch.

“Stephen, I—”

“I can’t bear it that another man had you before me.” He
pushed in a tad farther. “When we’re together, I won’t have you remembering him. From this moment on, think only of me.”

She was assessing him with consternation, and what appeared to be alarm, but he couldn’t understand why she was nervous. He hadn’t inquired as to how long she’d been a widow. Perhaps, it had been a lengthy interval, and she was unsettled as to how it would go. Or perhaps, it had occurred recently, and she was anxious about commencing anew. Or it could be that she wasn’t promiscuous, that it went against her grain to fornicate when she wasn’t married.

What they were about to do was morally inappropriate, but he couldn’t prevent himself from proceeding. He wanted her so badly, all his life it seemed now. How could such fervent desire be wrong?

“Stephen,” she repeated, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something that I should have—”

“It will be all right,” he interrupted. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. It’s just my—”

“It will be wonderful.”

He scrutinized her, surmising that she was frightened, and he wished he knew what was the matter so that he could allay her fears.

Had her husband abused her? Had her carnal interludes with him been ghastly?

He wasn’t about to discuss her dead spouse! Not when he was partially sheathed inside her.

“Put your arms around me,” he instructed. “Hold me tight.”

“Please. I’m not positive what—”

A gentleman would have delayed, would have soothed and cajoled her into acquiescence, but the sad fact was that he was beyond restraint, beyond the spot where he could withdraw. He
had
to have her, had to finish it. There could be no debate, no chatting or comforting words.

“Hush,” he chided.

He flexed, once, again. She was tense as a virgin, and perverted as it sounded, he grew even more titillated. It seemed as if he was her first.

Gripping her hips, he steadied her, then he thrust hard, harder, and burst through.

He sensed the rip, the rush of her maiden’s blood, and he frowned, confused as she arched up and cried out. Mentally, he comprehended what he’d done, but physically, he was past hesitation. He couldn’t stop.

His pulse pounded through his veins, his seed surged, and after several brisk penetrations, he started to come.

“I can’t . . . can’t—” he ground out.

Whatever else he might have said was lost in the ripple of ecstasy that washed over him. He spiraled higher, higher, the exhilaration never ending. The torrent was so intense that he worried his heart might quit beating.

Would he die in her arms? In the throes of the most exquisite rapture he’d ever encountered? What a way to depart the earth!

The maelstrom waned, and he became cognizant of his surroundings. He was poised on his elbows, hovering over her, and she watched him with equal amounts trepidation, horror, and a shy joy. A sheen of tears made her eyes sparkle like diamonds, and he brushed a kiss across her lips.

“Why didn’t you confide in me?”

“I couldn’t work it into the conversation.” Tremulously, she smiled. “I tried to warn you, there at the end, but it was a little late for confessions.”

“It was a splendid gift, but I don’t believe I’m worth it.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.”

He studied her, and so many details were clear. “You’ve never been married, have you?”