In My Wildest Dreams (24 page)

“Garrick?” Her voice squeaked a little.

He didn't seem even to have heard her. He concentrated on disrobing her to the exclusion of all else, concentrated so hard her heart began the slow, deep thump of terror and exhilaration.

“Garrick.” She half-laughed as he pushed her hands away from him so he could remove her gown. “What's the hurry?”

He didn't answer, didn't slow as he stripped the dress away, turned her around, untied her petticoats. They dropped to the floor, rustling as they landed in the starched heap. Wrapping his arms around her, he picked her up and out of her clothing, kicking everything aside in his quest to reach the cushions on the floor.

As their bodies met, they both froze.

He wore nothing but a pair of boots.

She wore nothing but a thin, white, lacy chemise and silk stockings.

There might have been nothing between their heated bodies. Her puckered nipples pressed into his chest. His penis prodded her belly.

He stared at her, face to face. “Corset?” he asked.

“None.”

His eyes dilated until the pupil swallowed the gray iris. “Pantalettes?”

She shook her head. “I was coming to you.”

The world dropped away as he fell backward, landing on the cushions so she could land on him. She didn't even catch her breath before he rolled until he was
above her. She cried out, not from fear exactly, but from surprise and bewilderment as he pulled her chemise out from under her and up to her waist. Opening her legs with the thrust of his knee, he placed himself between them, his hips pressing her hips, his chest against hers. The onslaught, the rush, his seizing of domination brought a tardy brush of prudence.

She tried to push against him.

He paused to catch her hands and wrap them around his shoulders. “Hold on.” Sliding his hand beneath her neck, he lifted her face for a brief kiss. “Just hold on.”

His hand disappeared. He touched her . . . below. A brief touch at first, nothing more than a brush of fingers. Reconnaissance, it would seem, for next he moved to open her to his touch.

She squeezed his shoulders, his arms. Caution clogged her throat and brought heat to her skin. Caution was natural the first time a woman—any woman—was with a man—any man. And the first time altogether . . .

How could a man in such a blazing hurry handle her with such delicacy? His thumb grazed her lightly, but with such precision she cried out again. But this time there was nothing of protest, and everything of delight. Her legs . . . she didn't know what to do with her legs. Her feet moved restlessly on the floor . . . she and Garrick had fallen only partially on the cushions . . .

He found the entrance to her body, circled it lightly with his finger, then entered. Not much, just far enough to make her bear down with her feet and lift her hips.

“That's it.” He pulled away.

“Don't go.” Now she clutched at him.

“It's far too late for that.” He shifted position, put his hands beneath her hips, lifted her and touched her again.

She smiled. “Better.”

Then the pressure grew. His weight bore down on her.

Oh, God. He was on her. He was
in
her.

It burned. She struggled. He paused, but didn't retreat. Shiny, black and straight, his hair fell about his forehead. His cheeks were concave with strain. One drop of sweat trickled down his temple, and his chest rose and fell with harsh breaths.

How dared he look as if he were suffering? She wanted to smack him. “You promised me enchantment,” she said, indignation smoldering in her tone.

“Soon.” He smiled at her, a slash of villainy.

“You lied.” He had. He knew he had, too.

“I just . . . didn't tell you . . . all the truth.” Lifting her hips, he adjusted their bodies, sliding a little away, giving her ease.

But before she could sigh with relief, he drove forward and the pressure started again.

He had the audacity to say, “Patience.”

Worse this time. The stinging was worse, with an inner resistance that brought tears to her eyes.

Grabbing his hair, she tugged.

Intent on his task, he paid no attention.

So she distracted him, pulling him to her for a kiss, nipping his lip as he had done to her, thrusting her tongue in his mouth. Angling his head, he kissed her back, fighting her for command.

Deep within her, her maidenhead yielded, but she did not. The kiss deepened, flared into fire, damped down and flared again.

And all the time he forged on.

She didn't know when he started thrusting in and out,
she only knew when she drew back from the kiss and gasped for air, the pain had faded to discomfort. Everything about this was alien, yet . . . her body knew how to respond. He made it easy; he moved unhurriedly, sliding in all the way, pressing his pelvis to hers, putting himself right where she felt him the most. Then he moved back, a deliberate sweep that compelled her to acknowledge every inch of him. Back he came in purposeful cadence, deep inside her, then back. In and out . . . in and out . . .

She found herself waiting on his advance, taking pleasure in his advance yet desperate for that moment when he was all the way inside, his member touching her womb, his body against hers, as close to her as he could be. Then when he pulled away, the pleasure changed, became impatience rendered bearable by the promise of more to come.

She watched him, memorizing his determination, his vehemence. He was hot, like a stove, and as he thrust his heat entered her, stretching her. Her legs shifted around him, lifting to clutch his hips, her feet sliding on the back of his thighs. Her hands grasped at him, roaming his neck, his shoulders, his arms. Her hips rocked and her back arched.

And all the while he kept up that slow, measured, calculated rhythm, each thrust a little more intense, each moment bringing her a little closer to climax. In and out . . .

He was relentless. When the pleasure got too powerful, she began to shy away. The blood throbbed in her veins. She found it an effort to keep her eyes open, and each time they fluttered closed she could hear her body that much more clearly. She panted, and someone—oh,
it was she!—moaned with the advance of sharp, desperate desire. She wanted to move more quickly, to finish this her own way, but he controlled her; his hands beneath her buttocks rocked her toward him. He forced her to maintain his pace, his fingers clasping and releasing in a pulse that echoed the one inside.

He adjusted his weight, leaning his chest against hers, forcing her down further into the cushion. Close against her ear, he spoke in that slow, inexorable, dark velvet voice. “Celeste. Let me see you. Let me hear you. Show me your joy.”

She didn't know where she found the strength to defy him, or even why, but she did. “No.” She could scarcely whisper.

Deep inside, the pressure grew, yet she fought to hold together, to keep from letting Garrick see her, exposed and desperate and wanting.

“This is pure pleasure.” He thrust a little more slowly. “Can you feel how much I love being inside you?”

“Yes.” She tossed her head back and forth on the pillows.

“How each inch glides in?”

Her back arched as, in her mind's eye, she saw their joining. “Yes.”

“You're dark and warm inside. So tight.” He drew the words out, making each one a counterpoint to the advance on her body and on her emotions, making her more aware of the motion, the heat, the pure sexuality of their union.

She whimpered.

“Hold me deep inside you.” He caressed her with his
language. He overwhelmed her with his body. “Hold me.”

She tried. She tightened her muscles on him—and climax struck her like a tidal wave, roaring along her nerves, lifting her hard against him. She convulsed, drowning in pleasure, mindless with the agony and the rapture. She cried out. She hung onto Garrick with her nails and her love. She forgot him in her ecstasy and memorized him in her heart.

And when she was done, when the wave rolled and she was left panting and exhausted, she opened her eyes to see him, watching her, holding her . . . moving on her.

“I love watching you,” he whispered. “Show me again.”

23

M
ost men would not feel so grim when they woke in the morning to find a beautiful, nude woman kissing their way down their chests. Most men would not be suffering from guilt after having spent a night of bliss in Celeste's arms. Most men would count themselves lucky to find themselves in such a fix.

But Garrick Stanley Breckinridge Throckmorton the Third was not most men.

Keeping his eyes firmly shut, he lay among the cushions in the conservatory, suffered the sensation of her mouth on his skin, and considered his dilemma.

There was nothing about the evening before of which he could be proud. Equally, there was nothing about the evening before that he regretted.

And he should. Blast it, he should. He had, in sound mind and in total sobriety, taken the virtue of a young
lady, a sweet woman, the daughter of one of his employees, and exulted in the process.

Of course, she had claimed to know her mind. She had claimed to love him.

He swallowed.

Sadly, he wanted it to be true. She was the gardener's daughter, yes, but as he'd told her the night before, he considered the difference in their stations immaterial, a product of the aristocrats' need to set themselves above everyone else for no reason other than their heritage. He judged people by their characters, and Celeste was everything he wanted in a woman: clever, beautiful, witty, open.

His.

No other man had had her, and the sentiment wasn't pretty and it wasn't respectable, but pride and possessiveness held him in twin grips.

Celeste stroked her palms along his ribcage, following the grooves toward his back. She moved lower, pressing her fist hard against his abdomen, seemingly fascinated by its unyielding quality.

What kind of man was he? Not the man he'd believed himself to be. He had thought himself a responsible businessman of dignity and good sense. Instead, he'd proved that dignity and good sense didn't stand a chance against temptation, true temptation. Temptation with the name of Celeste.

She ran her hands down the tops of his thighs, then down the outsides, then in a slow, strong glide, she traveled up the insides, and finally she rested her cheek against one.

For some reason, she seemed obsessed with his thighs.

For some reason, pride made him flex his thighs.

Vanity, he supposed.

He hadn't ever thought about his body. He was big, and for that he was thankful for his size gave him an advantage in a fight. He rode, he fenced, he practiced boxing with a retired boxer; all requisites for a man who lived with the threat of danger. But those activities had honed his muscles, and right now, as Celeste examined him, he was glad, for like a child with a new toy, she inspected everything. She rubbed his calves, lightly touched each toe, glided all the way back up his leg . . . he tensed, waiting, hoping . . .

Temptation had kept him awake half the night, tormenting him with the need to take her again. He imagined sliding into her from behind as she slept, wakening her with his gentle thrust. He imagined kissing her lips, fondling her breast, waking her with arousal, facing her and taking her. Mostly he had imagined spreading her legs, entering her from above, and coercing her, once more, to acknowledge him as her master.

Celeste's fingers glided over his hip bones and down into the sculpted concave of his belly.

He wanted to dominate this woman, engrave her with his possession, make sure she never doubted that her place was by his side. There was nothing to admire about such an archaic instinct; nevertheless the need burned in his gut.

This morning he needed to stop imagining and show some bloody wisdom. He firmly believed if a man made a mistake, he should accept the consequences and do everything to set the matter straight. He, Garrick, had to face the fact he'd gone wild for Celeste, breaking all the rules of society and civilized behavior, and reparations
must be made. He knew what those reparations must be; he would face what must be done and do it like a man.

As he made his resolution, Celeste stroked his diabolical cock. His erection stood at stiff attention, just as if he hadn't blasted his seed into her last night like some youth with his first woman.

In his adolescence, he would never have been able to hold back as he had, for like all youths he had thought what worked for him would work for her. He knew differently now, and last night, once he had surrendered to his baser needs, he had been determined to show Celeste all the pleasure a woman could find. After all, what was the use of giving into temptation unless he embraced it wholeheartedly?

Of course, when she had approached climax, she'd tried to evade it, and him.

That hadn't surprised him. Before, in this very conservatory, he'd forced her to climax. It had been a lesson for him in his own beastly nature, and a lesson for her, too. She hadn't easily accepted that her body could turn traitor to her good sense. Moreover, he had not joined her in ecstasy, but compelled her to experience it alone.

So for all her openness and pledges of love, she had been wary, and was still. Instinctively she knew that, for her, surrender was not the giving of her body, but the acceptance of pleasure, the yielding of the self.

She explored him with a light touch, weighing his testicles in her palms, discovering the shapes within with a succinct, “Gracious!”

Today in the light, her curiosity led her, but she didn't understand. She thought maybe last night had been a fluke, or that she hadn't really cried out and convulsed in his arms, or that now she could control herself.

He knew better. She
would
yield again, and each time she'd come closer to knowing that he wouldn't harm her, or ever betray her. He'd teach her to trust him, one climax at a time.

A difficult task, but one to which he would willingly—no, eagerly—apply himself.

She licked his nipple, once, twice, then stopped. He peeked beneath his lashes to see her, nose wrinkled, taking one of his curling chest hairs off her tongue.

He wanted to laugh. Blast her! He had been gravely considering how he should make amends, then she made him forget both restraint and the momentous topic at hand. She had made him want to laugh.

Glancing up, she caught him watching her. Dropping the hair off the cushion, she asked in the most prosaic tone possible, “How do you avoid this?”

Sunlight leaked through the curtains, showing him a rumpled Celeste: hair tangled, lips swollen, and proudly naked. She sat on her heels, her skin glowing brighter than the golden roses that bloomed in their pots. “It's a constant hazard,” he admitted.

“Only for me,” she said grumpily.

Now he did laugh. Bless her for an innocent! “For me, too.”

“Why? I don't have hair on my chest.”

“No.” He tucked his hands beneath his head. “Not on your
chest.”

“Well, where else would you . . . oh!” She clapped her hands over her mouth and stared at him with huge, appalled eyes.

He smiled at her with wicked delight—and that was another change she'd made in him. He'd never been any kind of wicked before.

Worse, he liked it.

She realized he liked it, too, for she straightened her slim shoulders and folded her hands primly in her lap. In a lofty tone, she announced, “You can't be serious.”

He sat up, a slow flexing of muscles, a purposeful message of intent. He was bigger than she, stronger than she, more experienced than she.

She didn't stand a chance.

Which she realized at once. “No,” she said.

He reached for her.

She didn't waste any time. She scrambled backward. “No.” She sounded a little more desperate.

He caught her around the waist. He picked her up—she weighed no more than a feather—and carried her to the sofa.

“No, no, no!”

But she wasn't really fighting. She struggled more from a combination of shock and the maidenly embarrassment that made her insist, “No!” as he sat her on the sofa.

He sank to his knees before her. Holding one ankle, he straightened her leg, lifted it to his mouth and kissed her toes.

She caught her breath. “No.” But she lost her tone of unequivocal denial.

He slid his lips along her arch, up her heel, up her calf.

“Garrick, no.” Her voice had lowered to that husky, knowing-woman tone.

He lingered at the soft skin of her inner knee, kissing it, wetting it with his tongue.

She put her other foot on his shoulder and pushed, but not hard enough to shift him.

He kissed his way up her inner thigh.

Her head fell back on the cushion. She breathed his name.

Placing her leg over his shoulder, he carefully, tenderly, parted the lips to reveal her sweet, inner core.

Her eyes closed. Her breath came quickly.

“Beautiful.” Last night, he had bathed her with his handkerchief and water from the pitcher, pressing the cool cloth against her to ease the ache. But in the dim light, he'd not been able to see. Now he could, and he smiled. How pretty she was, pink and fragile, everything shyly hidden, the feminine opposite of his bold genitals. Unable to resist, he stroked each place where he had been last night, where he would go today.

Cheeks aflame, she moved restlessly. He enticed her, yes, but he embarrassed her, too. How peculiar women were, that they would allow the deepest intimacy yet be uncomfortable to show themselves! Women were inscrutable creatures, never revealing all of their hearts, their minds. He could be with Celeste for years and never discover all her secrets.

But he would reveal at least one now. With delicate precision, he placed his mouth against her. She tasted like woman. His woman. With slow, sweet, hot caresses, he found each sensitive spot. He entered her with his tongue again and again, imitating his kiss, imitating coitus.

Her hips surged beneath him. The foot braced against his shoulder trembled.

He wanted her. He wanted to be inside her.

Yet there was another place, one he'd already proved to be responsive. Moving up the scant inch to her feminine nub, he coaxed it into his mouth and traced its outline.

She made a sound; perhaps a protest, perhaps involuntary encouragement.

Meticulously, he suckled.

“Garrick.” She bucked beneath him. “Garrick!”

She was on the verge when he pulled back.

She cursed him.

“No, love. I've got to be inside you. I've got to feel each tremor and ripple.”

On the edge of climax himself, he awkwardly stood and pulled her to her feet.

She blinked, swayed unsteadily, unsure what he expected.

“For you.” His voice was hoarse, probably because all his body fluids were elsewhere. Sinking down on her seat, he added, “It's your turn.”

She still didn't understand; probably she'd had too many surprises to comprehend, but he pulled her down on his lap, her delightful bottom right on his bare thighs. “Face me,” he instructed, and noticed with a distant amusement that she could still look shocked.

Shocked, but not confused. She comprehended now, and with wary curiosity she slid around to look toward him. Her thighs opened and embraced his.

Hands on her hips, he urged her up on her knees. “Take me,” he said.

She looked down at his cock. She looked up at his face, and in the tone of an interested pupil, asked, “Does anyone else know about this position?”

He couldn't laugh now. It was impossible when his cock was only inches from paradise. But he did, a laugh that cracked in the middle. “It is perhaps not as common as the other, but I didn't invent it.”

Reaching between her legs, she took his cock and
guided it to the entrance to her body. “Where did you learn it?”

How could she talk now? She couldn't be impervious to this fever. Not when he'd prepared her so well.

Not when he was so desperate.

She paused, holding him, taunting him.
“Where?”

Her voice slurred a little, he noted. Her lids drooped, her cheeks flushed. She did want, but he had given her power and she was going to exercise it. That was what he'd wanted, for her to know the freedom of coupling; but did she have to take advantage
now?