The Water Nymph (11 page)

Later Crispin told himself he had done it in order to win her trust, to make it easier for her to confide in him, to make her more willing to answer his questions. Later he assured himself that he had done it to expedite his investigation, that he had been acting on professional instinct. But at the time he was conscious only of the overwhelming desire that overtook his body in her presence, the desire to stop the words she was saying, erase them from her lips, to melt the pain and the fear and the shame he heard in her voice, to grow stronger by being strong for her. The desire to hold and kiss and touch and nibble and bite and love and caress her everywhere, to know this woman completely.

In his kiss, Sophie forgot herself. She felt as if a spark passed between their lips, scorching away her self-loathing, scorching away her past, and igniting a ribbon of flame that unfurled throughout her body with amazing rapidity. The voice in her head was drowned out by the sensations of her body, by the heat that ran from where their lips touched down through her breasts, down to her toes, winding into a tight knot between her legs.

She pushed her body harder against his, pressing herself against his chest through the coverlet, and felt his warmth on the points of her breasts. Their mouths opened to each other, and she felt his tongue caressing hers, wrapping itself around her, fanning the flames of her growing desire. She willed him to touch her and, as if by magic, his hands were there, sliding over the silky fabric of the coverlet, his palms moving slowly over the sides of her breasts until his thumbs came to rest on her nipples. He stroked them gently, making small wide circles over the fabric and then smaller ones. She cried out as he touched them, softly, cried out in pleasure, and in surprise as his touch echoed from there to between her legs, setting her completely on fire.

Without thought, without taking her lips from his, she dropped the coverlet to the ground and stood before him completely naked.

Crispin could not stop himself. His desire for Sophie became almost excruciating when her naked body pressed against his chest. Tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue, his hands passed down from the marvelous globes of her breasts, sliding down the curve of her waist, reveling in the suppleness of her skin. He had never felt anything so silky, so deliciously soft yet firm, anything he craved so much before in his life. His shaft pressed desperately against the fabric of his breeches, straining the stays, begging to be freed, and bucked even harder as her hand moved down his chest and rested there.

Sophie was thrilled by the feel of his arousal, thrilled by the long, hard bulge that moved under her fingers. He liked her, liked to have her touch him. The thought of him responding to her that way intensified the flames within her, increasing the ache between her legs to a feverish pitch. As if he were reading her mind, she felt Crispin let his hands slip from her waist down to her bottom to trace slow circles there, and then move to the front of her thighs.

Crispin’s thumbs traced the outline of the triangle of red curls between her legs, then dipped lower, into her wet heat, running up and down the length of her, grazing over the small pearl of flesh hidden there, now hot and swollen.

Sophie gasped as he touched her, and Crispin took his mouth from hers.

“Is something wrong?” he asked with real concern, but without moving his thumbs from their plaything.

Sophie could not answer. The feeling of him touching her, touching her like that, touching her there, the feel of his thumbs gently massaging her tender bud, as he looked at her, deprived her of all speech. She gulped and opened her mouth. “No,” she managed to whisper. “It is only that, no one…” Her whisper trailed off.

“Do you want me to stop?” Crispin searched her face.

“Please no,” Sophie answered with feeling. “Oh, my lord, no do not stop.” She did not know what she was saying, she knew only that he had to touch her more, stroke her more deeply, soothe the ache that was threatening to take her body over. She had never felt anything more exquisite than his fingers there, anything more exalting, except now, when, together, they slid over her, first down, then back up, pulling her tight between them, one sliding over the top, the other pressing up from below.

Just when Sophie thought that nothing could ever feel better, Crispin added the rest of his fingers. All five fingertips of Crispin’s left hand now played over her body, drawing her toward him, playing over her hot, slick wetness. He toyed with her bud, tickling it with his fingertips, then crushing it against the wide palm of his hand. He let it slip along the length of his fingers, pulling it between them, between his thumb and index finger, then between his index finger and middle finger, all the way down to his pinky, which he allowed to rest directly on her, making tight little circles. A tremor ran through Sophie’s body as Crispin increased the pressure, and he knew she was close. Without taking his pinky from her nub, he lifted his mouth from hers and began to move it down her body, first dusting her neck with soft kisses, then her breasts, then flicking his lips across her stomach, until he was kneeling before her, with his head between her legs. He brushed his cheek back and forth against the soft, sweet-smelling curls beneath her stomach, then turned his lips to the little pearl nestled there and gently wrapped them around it.

When he took her into his mouth, Sophie knew she had died. Nothing earthly could feel the way this felt, nothing real could fill her with this fire, this mixture of extraordinary heat and warmth, this tightness that spiraled and became more and more taut. His tongue, slick but slightly rough, dabbed at her cautiously as his lips closed around her, one of his hands holding her open to him, spreading the petals that surrounded her bud so he could suckle it completely. The fingers of his other hand rested between her legs, and she felt one of them slide gently, slowly, slowly, inside her.

Crispin slipped the tip of his middle finger in and out of her, letting it rub against the sensitive place just inside her passage. He spread her wider and when she looked down, she could see the pink tip of his tongue flicking back and forth over her pink nub, first lightly, then harder. Faster, then slower.

Watching him, watching his mouth on her body and feeling his hands holding her open and his finger slipping inside her, Sophie felt like she was dangling at the edge of a precipice or being slowly driven mad. Instead of soothing the fire inside her, Crispin was fanning it, making its flames increase until it raged unchecked. Each time Sophie thought she was going to explode, he stopped, withdrew his fingers, lifted his mouth, just blowing on her, letting her feel his hot breath on her but nothing else. And then, when he decided that her boil had calmed to a simmer, only then did he resume, starting slowly, lightly. Each time he began again the feeling was more intense, the fire burned hotter. He tickled her, teased her, tormented her with his light touch, making her body rage for him.

With his lips he touched her gently, chastely, brushing her pearl against his stubbly cheek, and Sophie lost the battle she had been waging for control. She pressed herself against him, begging, insisting. “Please,” she cried out. “Please, Crispin. Please do something.”

She did not know she had spoken, but the next moment she gasped with pleasure as Crispin slid his finger firmly into her tight passage and at the same time opened his lips wide and drank her in deeply, entirely.

Pleasure built between her legs at his touch, unchecked this time, flooding over her as he licked at her. His teeth grazed over her, his fingers skidded across her, and pushed into her and pressed against her and Sophie knew her knees were going to give way. The fire he had been kindling inside of her burst into the whitest hot flames, which swirled over her, engulfing her, flames that surrounded her and lapped at her ankles and thighs and breasts and lips, burning through her reserve and fear and tension until they reached her most sensitive place, and as he sucked her in one last time, she exploded.

Sophie bucked against Crispin, pushing into him and pulling away from him simultaneously, stopping his hand and insisting that it keep going, moaning aloud, first quietly, then louder, until her moans turned to joyful laughter and, still laughing, she collapsed on the ground.

Crispin lay down next to her and took her in his arms. Her generous response to him, her laughter, was unlike anything he had ever experienced, filling him with a sense of power and joy he could not recall having felt before. Not to mention arousal. Which only grew worse as Sophie, recovered slightly, slipped her hand tentatively into the neck of his shirt and rested her palm on his chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “That was extraordinary.”

“Yes, it was,” Crispin agreed. “But now I think you should take your bath.”

“Mmmm,” Sophie said, moving her hand from his chest down to the stays on his breeches. She fumbled with them, brushing her hand accidentally across the bulge there, and it was Crispin’s turn to moan. Her fingers slipped into his breeches, the tips brushing at the tip of his shaft, and then she rolled him into her hand.

“What are you doing?” he managed to ask through clenched teeth.

“I want to give you pleasure too.” Sophie moved her hand up his length, and then down, enchanted with the strange texture of his organ. “I want to touch you like you touched me.”

Her caresses made him feel like he was soaring. Without wings, without supports, over an unknown land without borders but with countless dangers. This woman, he knew then, had the power to destroy him. He was not prepared for this, prepared for what she was doing to him, something that went far beyond physical pleasure. Using every ounce of restraint he possessed, he brought his hand down and stopped her caresses.

“What is wrong?” Sophie asked, alarmed.

“Bath,” Crispin said in a tight voice. “You have not taken your bath.”

“But—” Sophie began, and he silenced her.

“Bath first. Then”—he waved his free hand, waving good-bye to that uncharted territory—“then we will see.”

Without waiting for her to protest, Crispin rose and lifted her in his arms. He carried her the few steps to the pond and set her down gently. “Get in.”

Sophie shook her head. “Did I do something wrong?” Suddenly the voice came flooding back, overwhelming her. “I apologize, Lord Sandal. I could not stop myself. I should go.”

Crispin, who was having trouble thinking clearly, could not understand these words. “Apologize?” he repeated lamely. “Go?” She was never going anywhere. Or at least, not until he got answers to his questions.

Sophie nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I shouldn’t have acted that way. So, so wickedly.”

Crispin used a finger to raise her face to his and sought her eyes. “You were not wicked. You were wonderful. Do you understand?”

Sophie shook her head. “It is kind of you to say so, but I know what you must think of me.”

“I doubt that,” he said in a tone she could not read, but it was not one of disgust. “I doubt that very much.” Crispin was not sure he himself knew what he thought of her. “Sophie, what happened just now was not wrong. Did it feel wrong to you?”

“But you pulled away. You were disgusted by me.”

Crispin was having trouble understanding the words again. “Disgusted? Is that what you think?”

Sophie gave a small nod.

Crispin moved so he was standing right next to her and put her hand on his shaft. It danced under her touch. “I assure you I am anything but disgusted by you.” His voice, low and smooth, made Sophie feel strange and excited all over again. “I was merely suggesting we try something else. In the bath.”

“You will come in with me?”

“I will be back in a moment. You get in first.” Sophie was about to protest, but Crispin gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. “I promise I will be right back.”

As she slid into the bath and settled herself on the underwater ledge which served as a bench, Crispin turned and made his way back to his room. He needed a moment to think, to organize his defenses, before he proceeded with his plan. There was no question that women were more pliant, more willing to answer questions, when they were amorously inclined. That, of course, was the reason for this seduction. But he would scarcely be able to ask any questions if he did not keep better control over himself. He raked a hand through his hair. Only six days stood between him and an accusation of treason, he reminded himself. Six days during which Sophie would be sharing his bed. Six days during which Sophie would be sharing his life. He needed to assure himself he did not lose track of what was important. And besides, night was falling and he wanted to light the garden torches so she would not have to be afraid in the dark.

When Crispin returned, he found Sophie shoulder deep in the warm water, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. She looked like something out of an antique myth, a true Siren or one of the nymphs that were always such a temptation to the gods, the kind of magical creature who could lure even the most stalwart man from his duty. In the light of the torch that Crispin lit near the pond, the drops of water on her hair shined like a net of diamonds interspersed with rubies. Crispin shed the robe he was wearing and slipped into the water next to her, kissing her gently on the lips.

Her eyes opened, to look into his, but she did not speak. Crispin moved over her and their kiss deepened, its origin not in their lips but somewhere outside their bodies. Sophie’s hands moved over Crispin’s back, studying, memorizing the feel of his muscles under her fingers, the way they moved and flexed as he adjusted himself over her. She twined them in the golden hair of his chest, then let her flat palms glide down his stomach to his hard organ.

Crispin’s preparations, his plans, the words “
six days,
” none of them were force against the experience of her touch. Instead of lessening, it seemed to have become more powerful, to have grown more tantalizing, more overwhelming, in the intervening minutes. He moaned as she used both hands to move up and then down his shaft, moaned as her thumbs massaged the indentation at its tip.