Whitney, My Love (65 page)

With quickened pace, Clayton retraced his footsteps,
drawing to a relieved halt in the doorway of his bedroom. Whitney was at the
opposite end of it, standing near the dais, staring at the huge four-poster
bed upon it. In the glow of candlelight, he could see the memories, the fear
in her expression. He moved into the room and his shadow lengthened down the
long wall.

Whitney looked up at him, and Clayton saw her quickly
hide her fear behind an enchanting smile. "Who are you- really?" she asked
in the same conspiratorial tone she'd used at the Armands' masquerade so
long ago.

"A duke," he offered, smiling as he remembered the way
they had bantered that night. "Also your husband. Who are you?"

"A duchess!" she exclaimed with a mixture of joy and
disbelief.

"Also my wife?"

She nodded, slowly, her smile widening delightfully. In
his mind, Clayton saw the provocative goddess she had been that night with
yellow and purple flowers entwined in her hair. At the same time, he beheld
her standing there near his bed, and suddenly it didn't matter that he
couldn't make love to her tonight. All that mattered was that he had finally
made her his! He had done it-she really was his wife! He felt exhilarated
and triumphant. "My 'obedient1 wife?" he teased, emphasizing the word
obedient.

Whitney nodded again and he could almost see the
laughter in her eyes.

"Then come here, my obedient wife," he commanded
huskily.

A shadow of apprehension crossed her vivid features, but
she turned fully toward him and began walking to him with that natural,
fluid motion of hers. That was when Clayton realized what she was wearing,
and he almost groaned aloud. Her dressing robe was made entirely of fragile
white lace, revealing glimpses of skin along her arms, her breasts, and even
her long legs; and there was enough soft flesh swelling above her bodice to
send him into fresh agonies of desire and regret.

She stopped a few steps away from him, gazing at him in
fear and confusion, as if she wanted to come the rest of the way but
couldn't make herself. "About. . . about your promise," she said in a
hesitant voice. "Remember?"

Did he remember his promise! "I remember it, little
one," Clayton said quietly. He went to her and gently enfolded her in his
arms, trying to ignore the incredible feel of her almost naked breasts
softly crushed against his thin shirt. He wanted to kiss her but she was
trembling so violently that he was afraid to, so he just held her with her
face cradled against his chest and slowly stroked her long, lustrous hair.

"When I was a little girl," she whispered unsteadily
against his heart, "lying in bed at night, I used to imagine that there were
things-in the closets."

She fell silent and Clayton urged her, "There were toy
soldiers in my closets. What were in yours?"

"Monsters!" she whispered. "Huge, ugly ones with claws
for feet and enormous, bulging eyes." She drew a shaky breath and said,
"There are monsters in this room too- hideous memories lurking in the
shadows and coiners."

Clayton flinched with pained remorse. "I know there are.
But you've nothing to be afraid of; I'll not ask anything of you tonight. I
gave you my word."

She leaned back a little and looked up at him, her face
so lovely and vulnerable that Clayton wondered for the thousandth time how
he ever, ever could have hurt her that night. She tried to say something and
couldn't; instead she rested her cheek against his chest, sliding her arms
around his waist.

After a moment, she began again, "I used to lie in bed
at night, afraid of what was in the closet. And then, when I couldn't endure
it any longer, I would run across the room and snatch the door open and make
myself look inside."

Clayton smiled inwardly. It was like her to grow weary
of cowering under the blankets and confront the darkness- monsters or no
monsters. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that he had to strain
to hear it.

"The closet was always empty. No monsters . . . nothing
to fear." She drew a shuddering breath. "Clayton, I don't want to spend our
wedding night lying alone in your bed, afraid of what is in the shadows."

Clayton's hand froze in mid-air, then he made himself
continue the soothing motion, giving her time to reconsider. "You're
certain?" he asked quietly.

Whitney nodded and whispered, "Yes."

Leaning down, he swung her up into his arms and carried
her to the big four-poster where he had taught her how degrading the act
could be, promising himself, every step of the way, that this time would be
so perfect for her that the other time would be banished from her memory. He
slipped his hand from beneath her knees, and the gliding feel of her legs
sliding down his thighs made his hands tremble as he untied the ribbons at
her breasts and tenderly shoved the lacy gown aside.

Her ivory shoulders and full, rosy-tipped breasts
gleamed in the light from the fire across the room. "My God, you are
beautiful," he breathed, and felt her body quiver sharply when his hands
slid down her arms, sending the fragile lace gown spilling onto the floor.
He took her dewy lips in a long, sweet kiss, then swept the satin coverlet
back and lifted her gently, laying her on the cool sheets.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away, and
Clayton saw the flush that swept up her long shapely legs, her slender
curves, staining the glowing ivory skin right up to her hairline. Out of
consideration for her obvious embarrassment, he reluctantly extinguished the
candles burning on the bedside table. Afraid to leave her alone with the
memories she was ready to confront, he undressed there beside the bed, then
stretched out alongside her and carefully pulled her into his arms. Whitney
stiffened. He ran his hand soothingly over her naked back, and she stiffened
even more. Clayton stopped caressing her and lay back against the pillows
with her head on his chest.

In the next few moments her breathing went from slow and
shallow, to rapid and shallow, and he was not even touching her. Christ, how
he hated himself for what he had done to her that night! She was so tense,
so taut in every fiber of her body that, unless he could help her relax, he
would hurt her no matter how gentle he was.

So that she wouldn't be overly conscious of their
nakedness, Clayton reached down and drew the sheet over them. "I want to
talk awhile first," he explained. Relief flooded her features and he
chuckled because she looked as if she'd just been granted a last-minute
reprieve from the guillotine. "If yon possibly can, I would like you to try
to put out of your mind what happened before. I'd also like you to forget
whatever yon may have heard about what happens between a husband and wife in
bed, and simply listen to me."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Expressions such as 'submitting to him' or 'taking her'
should never have been applied to lovemaking, yet I know this is the way you
must think of it. The first implies a duty, performed reluctantly. The
second is rape. I am not going to take' you, and you are not going to
'submit' to me. Nor are you going to feel any pain." With a tender smile at
her upturned face, he said, "I promise you that you are not malformed. You
are perfectly and exquisitely made."

He ran a forefinger over her lovely cheek. "What is
about to take place between us is a sharing, born of my desire to be as
close to you as I can be, to actually become a part of you. Little one, when
I am inside of you I am not taking, I am giving. I am giving my body to you
as I gave you my love before, and my ring today. When I am inside of you, I
will put the seed of my own life into you and leave it there for you to keep
and shelter within you-a symbol of my love and need for you, like your
betrothal ring."

In the flickering orange glow from the fireplace across
the room, Clayton saw her hesitate, and then imperceptibly tilt her face up,
offering her lips for his kiss. Very slowly and gently, Clayton leaned over
and began to kiss his wife. He kissed her long and lingeringly, with all the
aching tenderness in his heart and she, after a few moments of tense
passivity, laid her slender fingers against his cheek and began to kiss him
back with all the shy, trembling love Clayton knew she felt.

Her soft lips parted with only the slightest urging from
his probing tongue, and her arms went around his neck as she drew his tongue
into her mouth, then gave him hers. He teased her, tormented her, offered
himself to her by thrusting deep with his tongue, then slowly retreating and
thrusting again and again, until Whitney was clinging to him, her mouth
moving back and forth over his in passionate surrender to the wildly erotic
kiss.

He stroked her hair and slid his hand down over her
throat to her breasts, circling the pink crests with his thumb until they
stood up proudly. Whitney shivered with delight and started to fit herself
to his hardened length-then jerked away as if she had been scorched. Clayton
immediately knew what had terrified her and although she resisted, he moved
his arm to hold her hips against his. "No," he said gently as she tried to
pull her lower body away from his rigid manhood. "Nothing is going to hurt
you."

Her long lashes swept up and she gave him such a
doubtful, accusing look, that he nearly smiled. "Put your hand on my chest,"
he instructed gently. "Only on my chest," he assured her when she lifted her
hand to obey and then hesitated. The instant she moved her fingers over his
warm skin, his muscles leapt reflexively. "See how my body responds to your
touch?" he told her quietly. "The part of me that you are afraid of is only
responding to your nearness, reaching for you." He gathered her closer
against his thighs and hips, but she remained stiff and tensed. "You aren't
still afraid that I am going to hurt you, after I've promised I won't?"

Whitney swallowed convulsively and shook her bead
against the pillow. If Clayton said this wasn't going to be painful, she
would believe him. Tentatively she moved her fingers over the furring of
dark hair on his chest and felt the slight increase in the steady thudding
of his heart, the rippling of his powerful chest muscles when she slid her
hand a little lower.

Clayton felt it as a flame racing uncontrollably through
his veins. "Oh darling," he half laughed, half groaned, "please feel pride
in what you can do to me. It humbles me to know you can make my body respond
to your slightest touch, even if I will against it. It humbles me more to
tell you so. But I tell you anyway, because if you can take pride in having
such power over me, I can find a reason for joy in it, as well. But if it
frightens you or makes you ashamed, then our love must be a timid thing, a
thing of shame."

Whitney drew a long, unsteady breath and, reaching her
arms around his neck, she pressed herself to the full length of his hard,
unyielding contours and began to kiss him. Trembling in his embrace, she
kissed his forehead and his eyes and his mouth. She slid her tongue over his
lips, feeling the warm smoothness of them, and Clayton groaned, his mouth
opening passionately over hers. And when he shifted her onto her back and
leaned over her, kissing her and caressing her with his gentle, skillful
hands, Whitney didn't know if what she was feeling was pride, but whatever
it was, it was drugging and delirious and wonderful.

"I want you," he whispered against her parted lips. "I
want you so badly that I ache for you." He took his-mouth from hers and his
hand trembled as he lifted it to cup her face. "I'll never hurt you, little
one," he promised, his voice hoarse with tenderness and love.

Whitney's answer made his throat ache. "I know you
won't," she whispered. "But it wouldn't matter if you hurt me every night-as
long as you always say those things- about wanting to be a part of me."

Clayton couldn't help himself; he covered her mouth with
his and devoured her with tender violence. He fondled her breasts and teased
her nipples with his fingers, and she moaned softly when his mouth began
retracing the path his hands had taken.

Every slight movement of her awakening body twisting
beneath his gentle assault-every sound she made raced through his
bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. He could not believe the passion she
contained, nor the violence of his body's craving for her; he was ravenous
for her.

Her hands were tangling in his hair-, running over his
shoulders and back, her nails digging into his flesh. But when he moved his
hand down to the soft triangle between her legs, Whitney gave a leap of fear
at his intimate touch and clamped her thighs together.

"Don't, darling," he murmured body, capturing her mouth
in a deep, consuming kiss as he gently, inexorably, parted her thighs, his
fingers teasing and toying with her, exploring and delightfully tormenting
her until she was soft and damp and more than ready for him.

When he shifted up and over her, however, Whitney was
jolted from the sensual whirlpool that had been sweeping her toward sweet
oblivion. In fright that would not be banished she felt Clayton part her
legs, felt her hips being lifted to receive him, and she swallowed back a
cry of sheer panic at the probing hardness of him coming into intimate
contact with her. Despite his promise, her body automatically braced itself
for pain ... but there was only the proud heat of him sliding slowly into
her. Instinctively, she relaxed and opened for him, then gasped with
exquisite pleasure as he plunged full length into her welcoming softness.

She wrapped her arms around him, lost in incoherent
yearnings to have him stay inside of her like this forever, to draw him
somehow deeper. She thought this was how it ended, and she could have wept
with longing to have it continue. And then Clayton began to move within her,
and Whitney ceased to think at all. Something small unfolded in the pit of
her stomach, then spread like a mellow glow, slowly building and gathering
force, until it began to race in a trembling fury along her every nerve.
Twisting her head fitfully on the pillows she began arching to meet his deep
plunging thrusts. "Please," she begged him in a whisper, but she did not
know what she was asking for.