Sarah's Surrender (Novella) (5 page)

The air stirred behind her. Jonathan's hands rested briefly on her shoulders. “Let me.”

She still wasn't quite ready, but shrugged as he slipped it from her shoulders, revealing the plain dress she wore beneath. It was far more suited for the country than for Town. She wasn't quite sure why she had chosen it, although it was a dress she could easily put on herself, since she had snuck out without a maid. And perhaps, just perhaps, she was hoping to harken back to the days when they had been young and full of—she wasn't sure she could say love, but she did not have another word for it.

Long fingers stroked her neck, drawing her into the moment and sending shivers down her spine. His hands spread heat over flesh she had not realized was chilled, the rough calluses on the underside of his thumb delicious against her skin. They moved lower, rubbing the tops of her shoulders, easing the tension that had gathered there; a slow easy movement that took away all need for speech, took away everything but the need to give in, to rest against Jonathan. Her body melted, easing back until she found herself leaning against him, her head nestled beneath his chin, her back secured against his chest, and the upper swell of her buttocks pressed tight against—against a very rapidly increasing hardness. She shifted her hips in exploration and one of his hands slid down, stilling her.

“Not yet, my dear, I don't think you want this to progress too quickly. Enjoy the moment for what it is, simple, easy, and so very sweet. The rest will come; there is no need to hurry.”

But she wanted to hurry, wanted to find out what she had been missing all these years—and yet she understood. She too wanted to stay in this moment, this moment when all was possible, where there was no pain, no disappointment, no worry of the future, this moment where there was only anticipation.

His fingers wrapped about the front of her hipbone, trailing so close to those private places that had already begun to quiver with that same anticipation, those places that sensed what was coming—even when she was not fully sure.

“Do you still trust me?” he whispered into her hair.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice. Whatever happens this night it is all about your choice, about what you wish, what you want.”

His words stilled her mind and then sent it racing.
About what she wanted?
It was true she had begun this seduction, that it was what she'd wanted, but she'd never expected him to see it that way. What man cared about what a woman wanted? Papa didn't. Mr. Meyers clearly didn't. She couldn't think of one man, in recent years, who had ever truly expressed a deep care about what she wanted.

Jonathan had cared. But that had been so long ago and she'd never really thought of him as a man. He'd simply been Jonathan. He'd had a category all to himself.

But now he was a man. There was no denying that.

He was a man.

A man who cared what she wanted, what she wished.

“You have become lost in thought. Are you debating if you trust me? If you do not, perhaps it is best that we end this.”

All her insecurities rose at once. “Do you not find me attractive? You keep stating how willing you are not to do this. Don't men always want to do this? What is wrong with me?”

Sarah watched as Jonathan shook his head and pressed his hips forward, letting her feel the full length of that tempting hardness. “I most definitely find you attractive, Sarah. I simply do not understand this sudden change in your feelings, in your willingness. What is so different now from five years ago? Why do you wish to do this with a man who is nearly a stranger?”

Was that a serious question? Her whole world was different from what it had been five years ago. How could she explain?
Well, I've decided to marry a man I don't particularly like, a man I may actually dislike, and I want my one night of dreams first. I've realized that you are that dream. And because I will be married soon I am not risking scandal or ruination. For the first time I can take what I want and not worry.
But she could not say any of that. It said too much, and yet not enough. “Because for reasons I do not understand you make me feel desire. Does it really matter beyond that? I am here. You are here. There is a bed and we are alone.”

“It is simple when you put it in such words,” he replied.

Simple? It was anything but simple; still, she did not argue. Her head fell forward, inviting further caresses from the hand that still lingered at her shoulder. She did not want to think, she wanted only to feel, to live in this moment, to live in her body.

His fingers stroked and soothed, slowly slipping lower, until they reached for the laces of her gown. She stiffened, but did not demur. This was what she wanted. And he had seen her unclothed before, at least parts of her. Could it really be so different to be completely naked?

But, except for her breasts, he had not seen her for years. She was not the same girl, the same body she had been back then. She stiffened further.

“What is wrong?” his voice soothed.

“I am…different than you remember.”

“I know. Do you think I do not have eyes? You are fuller, rounder, softer. I am eager to see these changes. I've always had a fondness for curves.”

“But I am also saggier and more dimpled. You may not find it attractive.”

“You are twenty-four, not eighty-four. And I do not think I've ever noticed dimples on a woman, except on her cheeks. And I've a distinct fondness for those.”

A slight heat rose on her face. Somehow she sensed he was not talking about the cheeks upon her face.

Her dress slipped low, dropping almost to her waist, only the bend in her elbows keeping it from falling completely. Only her chemise and light corset covered her.

She pulled a deep breath in, willed herself to calm. He had liked her breasts last night, and he'd adored them five years ago. There was no fear in letting him see them.

His hands slid up her bare back and brushed the straps of her chemise from her shoulders. “I want to see all of you. Be still now and let me finish undressing you.”

What was it about that hint of command in his voice that had her knees weakening and her breathing speeding up?

A slight movement at her back and she knew her corset was undone.

His fingers trailed down her shoulders, her arms, until he reached the point where her clothing had caught. With gentle slowness, he pushed the fabric lower, down past her elbows, her forearms, her wrists, and her fingertips. And then his hands were at her waist, pushing the gown and chemise past the last resistance of her hips.

The dress and undergarments fell, pooling about her feet.

She was naked. She was standing in the middle of the room naked.

Her hands started to rise, to shield herself, but he caught them and held them still, pulling them out from her body. “No, let me see you. Stay still and let me look my fill.”

He stepped back, the heat from his body leaving her. She heard him take another step, and then another, before pausing. Was it possible to feel the sweep of eyes, to know that he admired the slope of her spine, the indent of her waist, the fullness of her—he was staring at her behind, her much-too-large behind. Her cheeks, the ones on her face, must be a thousand shades of red. She started to turn. It would be better to have him stare at her breasts than at her backside.

“No,” he growled. “Be still. This is my turn. Let me enjoy.”

His turn? Wasn't this about her choice? But did she truly mind?

“God, your ass is magnificent, so full and lush.” His voice was low and husky.

No, perhaps she didn't mind at all. She'd probably stand naked at Tattersall's to put that tone in his voice. Well, no, she wouldn't, but she would have considered it.

“I love your pale skin. So white. So creamy. I want to bite you. You are far more tempting than Eve's apple.”

Now she wanted to turn, not because she felt ashamed, but because she wanted to see his face, see the look in his eyes. Did it match his voice?

Her feet stayed planted. He'd asked her to be still and she would be, no matter how great the urge to move grew.

Silence grew behind her and it became increasingly hard not to turn so that she could see what Jonathan was thinking.

What was he looking at? She was not that interesting.

Was she?

She could still feel the weight of his gaze. Her toes curled and then relaxed.

The ache between her thighs grew. Her breasts felt heavy.

Was he thinking about what they would do? Was he imagining touching her? She certainly imagined his touch, longed for it. She wanted to turn, to demand more.

She told herself to focus on something; on the flame of the fire, on the softness of the bed, or perhaps on the delicate porcelain statue by the bed, a Grecian-style piece, a couple entwined—oh dear, what were they doing? Surely a hand was not reaching…

And then Jonathan's boots clicked on the floor behind her. A step. Another step. She could not quite see him, but could sense the movement at the corner of her eyes.

“I love the side of your breast, the gentle fold, the curve, the hint of a rosy nipple. And the beginning of the soft roundness of your belly. I can't wait to press into it, to feel the comfort, the cushion, the womanliness that is all you.”

She swallowed—and swallowed again. Her belly? He liked her belly?

Another step and she could see him. He'd removed his jacket, and the white linen of his shirt was in sharp contrast to the black of his breeches and boots. Most gentlemen wore stockings and slippers for evening, but there was something about the boots that fanned the spark within her. She pressed her thighs tighter.

“And what was that thought, my dear?”

“What do you mean?”

“What caused that mouthwatering little shiver?”

He'd noticed that? He'd watched her that closely. “I like your boots.” Oh, that sounded inane.

“My boots?” he asked, but it was not a question. “I am glad, and I begin to wonder what else you might like. I begin to think that we may be more compatible than I ever dreamed.”

He took another step, moving fully into her view. His hair was mussed, his top button undone. And the look on his face, in his eyes…A flush started at her toes and moved up, spreading. She felt like a goddess, a strong and powerful goddess. And oh, the want, the need, that flashed within her at that look.

“Please…” she murmured, practically begging.

He didn't reply but, reaching out, snagged a chair and sat, his eyes continuing to move over her.

She should have felt awkward, but all of that had vanished in the hunger of his gaze.

She closed her eyes and waited, willingly allowing him to look his fill.

Her chest rose and fell. She felt dampness leak at the apex of her thighs, heard his intake of sharp breath, and let herself anticipate, let herself wonder at what was to come.

Had a minute passed? Had five? Ten?

Did it matter? She was his, his for this night, his to do with as he wished, and if looking was what he desired, then look he might.

Her breath was coming in shallow puffs. Her knees still felt weak, like they might give at any moment. And the heat of his gaze. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him. She'd thought that by closing her eyes she could shield herself, but instead everything grew more intense, more…

It must've been five minutes. Opening her eyes, she saw he still sat there, unmoving. She could take no more. “Forgive me for speaking, but is this your revenge?”

His eyes jerked up to meet hers. “What?”

“Are you just making me wait because I refused you all those years ago? I can promise this is not what I had in mind when I suggested we meet tonight. I did imagine taking my clothes off, but I feel more like an artist's model than…”

A low chuckle. “I admit I would very much like a sculpture of what I see before me. I could spend hours contemplating such beauty.”

“Pshaw. And no matter how long you stare, the sculpture is not going to change.”

“But I can be sure this moment lives always in my memory.”

What could she say to that? It was true that she would never forget.

Before she could choose her words, he continued, “I could look at you for hours, Sarah, and never tire.”

Hours? “I do hope you do not mean that literally. I would much rather be doing other things. I want to feel you, to taste you, to…”

“That is quite enough. I don't want this night over before it begins, and your words have a most shocking effect upon my body.” Jonathan stretched in his chair and it was all too clear what he meant. His breeches had been well filled before, but now—now she wasn't sure the buttons were not about to simply pop, flying with force across the room.

“Then why don't we do something else?” She hoped she did not sound like she was whining.

“We will, when I am ready. Do you not want to please me?”

Her eyes widened. Did she? She had to admit she'd approached this night thinking only of herself, of what she wanted, but somehow that inexplicably linked to what he wanted. She did want to please him. She closed her eyes and gathered herself. “Yes, I wish to please you. I will stand here and you can watch me for as long as you like—as long as I am home before the maids awaken.”

Should he let her off the hook? Jonathan let his eyes linger over Sarah's generous curves. He had spoken the truth. He could stare at her for hours and then stare at her some more. She was so beautiful. He didn't know how he could have lost sight of that last night. The gown might have been hideous, but the woman within it could never be. Beauty shone from her.

And that skin, that perfect, creamy skin, white satin over womanly curves. He'd always had a fondness for pale skin and peachy nipples. He loved the way a deep flush would flow across a woman's body and chest as her pleasure grew. He loved playing with those light colored nipples until they grew red and puffy, begging for a man's lips, begging to be devoured. He loved the way any little mark showed, the way the story of the night lay in delicate smudges and bruises. And he loved…he loved all of her. Sarah was perfection.

And she'd admitted a wish to please him. “Let your hair down; pull out the pins.”

Her arms rose, and obediently she complied, feeling her mass of curls fall in a torrent.

God, he loved her hair, loved the ringlets that moved with a life of their own.

He shifted again in his chair, his cock tight against his leg, longing to be free.

He would burst right now if he weren't careful. And he didn't want to rush this, rush her. He'd believed her when she'd spoken of her virginity, and such a gift must be treated with care. He certainly wished her to rise from this night wanting to explore her passions further. He'd run into women left damaged from earlier encounters and he would certainly never wish that for Sarah. She deserved everything he could give and more.

When had his feelings changed? He'd been bitter for years. He'd set out to test her by telling her he wouldn't marry her—and she'd failed. He'd never been able to forgive her, not for five long years.

Had it really taken merely twenty-four hours for that to change?

Evidently the answer was yes. He still wanted to be angry, to punish her, to injure her as she had hurt him, but when he stared into those quiet, dark-brown eyes something shifted.

He would admit he'd still like to torture her a bit, but in a most pleasurable way. He fully expected to have her pleading before this night was through.

“Do you still wish to move?” he asked. “I do hope you are not in any discomfort.”

Her thighs twitched. Oh, she was in some discomfort; just not the type she would want to admit to. She was probably embarrassed to discuss the wants of her body. That was something they could work on together.

“No, I am fine,” she answered with a glare. “I just said that I could stand and let you look at me for the entire night.”

“But I believe you also indicated that perhaps you would prefer to move onto other activities.”

“That is true.”

“Then fetch the pillows from the bed and lay them before the fire.”

She moved to follow his direction, but said, “I am not your servant.”

“But you do wish to please me.”

Stopping, she turned and faced him fully, those edible breasts bobbing in the firelight. “And it pleases you to have me perform menial tasks for you?”

There was a certain sincerity in the question and he considered it carefully. “I cannot say that I consider fetching pillows menial; I am not asking you to scrub the floors. However, I would admit that in a sexual situation—” He paused and let her feel his words. “In a sexual situation I do like a dominant role, and sometimes that entails being waited on. And it certainly entails being obeyed.” He glanced at the bed and back at her.

She trembled.

If he had not been looking for it, he might have missed it, but it was unmistakable.

His sweet Sarah very much liked the idea of his being in charge. He would have to see just how far it went, how deep her need to please was.