Yuletide Treasure (7 page)

“Do you?” he demanded, lowering his weight onto hers. “Because, Lord help me, I don't.”

His kiss was consuming, his hands blindly unfastening her gown, tugging it away from her body. With awkward fingers, she unbuttoned his shirt, parting the edges to explore the warm, hair-roughened skin of his chest.

With a muttered oath, he pushed her hands away, flinging his shirt to the floor, dragging off her undergarments in several hard, fierce motions. He moved away only long enough to shed the rest of his clothes, devouring her with his eyes in a way that made Brigitte feel as beautiful as he'd claimed she was.

He came down over her, his whole body shuddering at the first contact of their naked flesh, his mouth capturing her moan of pleasure.

Brigitte couldn't form a coherent thought, so intense were
the physical sensations coursing through her. She clutched at his arms—desperate to please him, uncertain how.

Eric raised his head, staring down at her.

“Teach me,” she beseeched, more demand than plea.

The harsh lines about his eyes softened; an odd light flickered in their inky depths. “You need no teaching. I'm already undone.”

“But …”

“Hush.” He brushed each corner of her mouth with his, muttering, “Let me.” His hands moved to cup the silky weight of her breasts, a sound of pure male satisfaction rumbling from his chest as he felt her inadvertent shiver. “This, at least, I can give you. Let me, Brigitte. I want to watch those incredible golden eyes of yours shimmer with the wonder of discovery.” His lips found the pulse at her throat. “I want to feel you shudder with a pleasure you never dreamed possible. Brigitte—let me.”

She tried to answer, but at that moment his thumbs found her nipples, teasing them with featherlight strokes until Brigitte couldn't speak or think or even breathe. Oblivious to anything but feeling, she sank into the bed, eyes sliding shut as she wordlessly gave Eric the permission he sought.

He sensed her surrender, and acted on it.

Lowering his head, his mouth replaced his thumbs, and Brigitte had to fight to keep from screaming as he surrounded her nipple, bathing the sensitized peak with his tongue, tugging it rhythmically with his lips.

“Eric …” It was the only sound she could muster, and it emerged like a strangled sob.

He didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, he shifted to her other breast, lavishing it with the same seductive caresses as he had the first. His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her waist and hips, savoring the softness of her skin. His knees nudged her legs apart, settling in between to grant him the access he sought.

At the first brush of his fingertips on her inner thighs, a floodgate of desire erupted inside Brigitte. Disregarding the tiny inner voice that branded her a wanton, she parted her legs wider, whimpering as he traced erotic circles higher and higher up her trembling limbs.

“Open your eyes, Brigitte.”

Her lashes lifted at his command and, by doing so, discovered something even more wondrous than the exhilaration of his touch.

He was as affected as she.

Damp wisps of hair clung to a forehead that was slick with sweat, his features whip-taut with desire. Most wondrous of all was the inferno blazing in his eyes—an inferno rooted in something entirely different from anger.

“I want to watch you,” he muttered thickly, his thumbs stroking the sensitive area where her thighs ended and joined her torso. “From this moment on, I want to see the beauty of your passion as it unfolds.” His thumbs crept a fraction closer to where her entire being screamed for him to be. “Show me, Brigitte.”

Reaching out, she clutched his wrists, urging him higher, her gaze wide and fixed on his.

It was enough.

His fingers opened her, found her, and he made a rough sound deep in his throat as he explored the velvety folds. “Perfect,” he managed, his breath coming in shallow pants.

Brigitte cried out, undulating against his hand, pinpoints of pleasure radiating out from her very core. Eric was watching her intently from beneath hooded lids, and he deepened his caress, somehow knowing just where to touch, how to heighten the ecstasy. Engulfed in sensation, Brigitte tossed her head on the pillow, certain she was dying and not giving a damn. She was already as close to heaven as one could get.

Until he stopped.

“Eric?” Her dazed eyes searched his face—needing a reason.

Needing him.

“I want to be inside you when it happens,” he rasped, coming down over her until his rigid shaft was poised where his fingers had been. “Christ, I'm not even sure I can wait.” He shuddered, his hips moving of their own accord. “Brigitte, I'm going to have to hurt you.”

“I don't care.” Her arms stole around the damp contours
of his back, tugging him down to her, her untried body's demands more powerful than her mind's fears.

Another profound emotion crossed his face, then vanished in the wake of physical craving.

Eric entered her slowly—as slowly as their straining bodies would allow—pausing every few seconds to give her time to adjust to his penetration. When he reached her maidenhead, he stopped, staring so deeply into her eyes that Brigitte wondered which possession was more absolute.

“I swear I'll make it worth it,” he growled. Raising her hips, he lunged forward, tearing the thin membrane of her innocence in one powerful thrust.

Brigitte's breath suspended in her throat, the pain an unwelcome intrusion. Determined not to destroy the miracle of their joining, she battled back her cry of pain, biting her lip until tears stung her eyes.

“Don't.” Eric kept himself perfectly still, his knuckles grazing her cheek. “Don't hide from me. Not now.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “Ah, Brigitte, I'm sorry,” he breathed into her lips. “So damned, damned sorry.”

The agony in his tone was more painful than the rending of her body. “Don't be,” she whispered fiercely, her meaning as vast as his. “It's so beautiful. How can you be sorry?”

On the heels of her words, she moved—tentatively lifting her hips to his, stunned by the breathless resurgence of desire that resulted.

Easing back, she stared dazedly into Eric's eyes, repeating the motion only to find that the pain had subsided, supplanted by a frantic need for completion. The friction was unbearable, magnified threefold by the thick, full feel of him pulsing inside her, stretching her inside and out.

She gave a harsh whimper—and Eric's patience snapped.

“Yes,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “Again—when I tell you.” He withdrew slowly, then stopped. “Now.” He thrust downward, cupping her hips as she arched up to meet him.

This time she sobbed aloud, and Eric gave a feral shout.

“Again,” he commanded. “And again, and again, and—”

His voice shattered, along with his control. Gripping the
headboard, he plunged into Brigitte, over and over, and she met his wildness with her own. The bedsprings grated with each frenzied thrust, the sound punctuated only by their broken cries and labored breaths.

Something was about to happen. Brigitte could feel it. It was as if she'd scaled a magnificent rainbow and now hovered just shy of its exquisite peak.

“Eric …” She moaned his name, silently willing him to take her where she so desperately needed to go.

He did.

Clenching her bottom, he lifted her up—hard—drove deep into her core, ground himself against the very damp, throbbing flesh that yearned for him.

Brigitte splintered into a million fragments, explosion after explosion crashing over her, radiating out in hot, convulsive spasms. As if from a distance, she heard Eric groan, felt his grip tighten as he fought to prolong her pleasure.

Until holding back became impossible.

Lunging forward, he surrendered to his climax, swelling to massive proportions before he erupted, shouting Brigitte's name in conjunction with the pulsing surges of his release.

Please God,
Brigitte prayed during that brief, final instant when Eric was truly hers.
Let this miracle last. Please.

—

Hers were not the only prayers being offered by a resident of Farrington at that precise moment.

Two halls away, tucked in her bed, Noelle cradled Fuzzy on the pillow beside her. “She's still in his room, you know,” she advised her plaything with a sage nod. “And Uncle's not angry, or we'd hear his shouting way down here. We have to pray, Fuzzy.” She squeezed her eyes shut, accomplishing the same for Fuzzy by covering his button eyes with the palm of her hand. “God—I know I do lots of bad things,” she began. “But I promise I'll stop. I'll listen and I won't break stuff, and I'll never need chest-izing again. Only please”—her lips quivered, and two tears slid down her cheeks—“please don't take Brigitte away.”

“N
OELLE, NOT SO CLOSE TO THE POND,”
B
RIGITTE INSTRUCTED,
simultaneously reaching up to collect another sprig of holly.

“But Fuzzy wants to learn how to sail.” Flat on her stomach, Noelle crept a bit closer to the water's edge, straddling Fuzzy across the piece of driftwood she intended to serve as his boat. “And he wants to learn now, before it gets too cold and the water freezes.”

“How very ambitious of him.” Abandoning her task, Brigitte approached Noelle with a pointed lift of her brows. “But tell me, can Fuzzy swim? Or, more important, can you?”

Noelle frowned. “No. We can't.”

“Ah. Well, you're in good company—neither can I. And, since I suspect that pond is far taller from top to bottom than either you or I—and certainly Fuzzy—I'd prefer not to tempt fate. All right?”

“All right.” Grudgingly, Noelle rose, rubbing her dirty hands on her mantle, thereby transferring stains from the former to the latter. “What are you doing?”

“Gathering holly.”

“Why? You said Uncle won't let us celebrate Christmas.”

“He won't.” Brigitte grinned. “I'm hoping he'll change his mind.” She squinted at her rapidly growing collection, visualizing Farrington's sitting room alive with the spirit of Christmas: its barren walls decorated with wreaths of holly and mistletoe, its fireplace reawakened and aglow, its floor piled high with gifts. And in the center of it all, she, Eric, and Noelle, standing about a glorious evergreen heralding the season.

On cue, Brigitte's gaze shifted to the magnificent fir she'd selected for that all-important role, the perfect nucleus of a perfect fantasy.

“Brigitte?” Noelle's voice interrupted her daydream.
“'Cept at his window, I haven't seen Uncle for more than three weeks—since the day you talked to him. Have you?”

The fantasy shattered into bitter shards of reality.

“No, love.” Brigitte shook her head. “I haven't. Apparently, your uncle needs more time alone.”

“More time? He's always alone. He didn't even come out when your grandfather visited. Though I'm positive he knew the vicar was here—I saw him watch the carriage arrive.”

A slight smile. “Noelle, you spend far too much time spying on your uncle's window.”

“It's only too much 'cause he's there too much. If he weren't, it wouldn't matter how often I looked, 'cause he wouldn't know I was looking.” On the heels of that bit of reasoning, Noelle pursed her lips. “Why don't you visit him anymore?”

Brigitte sighed. “You and I have discussed this. I didn't
visit
him at all—not even the one time I went to his chambers. I merely went to ask if we could celebrate your birthday, and he agreed.”

“I didn't hear him shouting. Neither did Fuzzy.”

“That's because he didn't. I explained the situation, and he gave his consent.”

“Then if you weren't arguing and you weren't visiting, why were you in there such a long time?”

Heat suffused Brigitte's body as she recalled the answer to
that
question.

Those moments in Eric's arms had been the most unexpected and exquisite of miracles—excruciating pleasure and equally excruciating anguish. Oh, he'd warned her, been honest with her from the start. Not only about his motives for taking her to bed, but about the aftermath, how it would affect her. He'd been right. They'd dressed and parted like strangers, leaving her emotionally raw, bereft, craving something Eric was unable—unwilling—to give.

But he was wrong that the ache would result in regret. It hadn't. Anguish or not, Brigitte wouldn't erase their lovemaking for anything on earth. She was Eric's wife now, and even if he chose to denounce it, they were bound in a
beautiful and irrevocable way that was hers to cherish for the rest of her days.

Lonely days, if Eric had his way.

“Brigitte?” Noelle was tugging at her skirt. “Can't you remember what you and Uncle talked about?”

Brigitte's flush deepened. “We didn't talk about much, Noelle. Other than celebrating your birthday, which he conceded to—and Christmas, which he did not.”

“Why do you think you can change his mind about Christmas?”

“Because I'm a fool,” Brigitte answered, gazing wistfully down at the lush greenery in her hands.

“No you're not!” Noelle's defense was fast and furious. “You're just up-to-mist … ick,” she added. “Up-to-mistick. I always forget the ‘ick' 'cause I can't understand how such a yucky word got to be part of a good one.”

Brigitte grinned. “I see your point. And, yes, I am optimistic. However, I'm also playing with fire. Your uncle will doubtless become livid when he learns of my plans.”

“You're not afraid of Uncle, are you, Brigitte?”

“No, Noelle, I'm not.”

“What
are
you afraid of?”

“
H-m-m?”
Brigitte blinked at the sudden change in subject.