Cheryl Holt (20 page)

“No, it makes you a lusty, bawdy wench”—he wiggled his brows—“but I like you that way.”

While he didn’t mind engaging in coital banter, his unassuaged cock was so hard, it was throbbing. There couldn’t be many more occasions where he provided her with gratification but attained none of his own. He’d soared past constraint, and if he wasn’t soon sated, he might rupture.

She must have recognized his tension, because she clasped his hips and urged him closer. On his end, the move was dangerous. The tip of his cock was brushing against her. She was slick, open, and with a bit of pressure, he could glide into her.

The temptation was extreme, the proximity staggering, and he slid off her and onto his back, nestling her to his side.

“Touch me,” he ordered her. “As I showed you before.”

She clutched him in her fist, tamely manipulating him, but he needed more stimulation. He enveloped her
hand in his, tightening her grip so that she ran her fingers over the end with each stroke.

An avid, eager pupil, she complied with his coaching, but she wanted more, too, and she scrambled up onto her knees and straddled him. With her blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her ruby lips moist and swollen from his kisses, her sassy breasts taunting him to recklessness, she looked like a pagan goddess, a Valkyrie.

He drew her down so that she was directly on him, her center a sleek crevasse where he could flex. The titillation was hazardous as he was, once again, located where he should not be.

“If we were truly lovers,” she said, “you’d enter me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It would hurt?”

“Only the first time.”

“Do it!” she decreed.

“No.”

“I want you to.”

“You assume you do.”

“Ooh . . .” she pouted, “you frustrate me beyond my limits.”

He laughed aloud. If anyone was frustrated, it was clearly himself! “Take me in your mouth.”

“A marvelous idea.” She scooted down, abandoning her perilous perch.

Like a skilled wanton, she trifled and teased, going at him as if she regularly luxuriated in the risqué maneuver. She grazed and kissed, laving him over and over, until his sexual juice was oozing, his balls two solid stones, his anatomy stiff with insatiable need, then she slipped her crimson lips over the crown.

Considering how new she was at libidinous games, it was wrong and crude of him to use her so badly, but
he
had
to be inside her, even if it was for only a brief moment.

Rotating them, he draped a leg over her. Focusing solely on the impropriety—on her, her mouth, and the driving force of his cock—he was able to fleetingly endure, to relish and revel in the vulgar indiscretion, but he couldn’t keep on for long. His craving for release was too strong, and he had to finish.

He pulled away, and she reached out for him, wanting to lure him back, but he slapped at her hand, and dragged her into his arms, his erection squeezed to the silky skin of her stomach.

“I’ve got to come.”

“What should I do?”

“Hold me.”

“I will.”

Crushing her to his chest, he began the race to fulfillment. There would be no stopping, no demurral, and with a groan of indescribable pleasure, his passion surged, and his semen spewed from his phallus in a hot, potent deluge.

He thrust again and again, his orgasm never seeming to wane, until finally, blessedly, it was over. His pulse thundered. Perspiration drenched him, and he was hovered over her, his respiration labored, his thoughts in disarray.

Collapsing to the side, he buried his face in the pillows, his fingers on her breast.

How would she perceive his behavior? What would she say? He’d been too overcome to be gentle or passive, and he imagined it would always be so. Without trying, she goaded him to new heights of desire.

She wiggled away, her hand slithering down onto her abdomen. “Is this your seed?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her as she dipped a finger into the
sweltering pile, and daubed it to her tongue, sampling its flavor.

“Will you spill yourself in my mouth sometime?”

Flabbergasted at her nonchalance, he rolled his eyes. “You’ll be the death of me, woman.”

“Do you think so?”

“I
know
so.”

The air was heavy with the smell of fornication, humid from their sweat and toil, and he crawled off the bed and retrieved a towel and a wet cloth, then he returned to her and scrubbed clean the stain on her skin. Quiet, studious, she observed all until he’d completed his task.

“Was it wonderful for you?” she shyly probed.

“Oh, yes.” Grinning, he tossed the towel away. “If it had been any more exhilarating, my heart might have quit beating.”

“So I did it correctly?”

He was charmed by her maidenly doubts. “You couldn’t have been better.”

“Does that mean we can do it again?”

Shaking with mirth, he stretched out next to her, spinning her and spooning himself behind her. “Give me a few minutes, you little hussy. I need to catch my breath.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I’m not as spry as you.”

“How long will you need?”

“As long as it takes.” He swatted her on the rear. “We’re going to rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

Rising up on an elbow, she glared at him over her shoulder, appearing rumpled, satisfied, her cheeks rosy, her lips sulking. She was so beautiful, so enticing and alluring. And she was all his. At least for now.

“I want to snuggle with you,” he said.

The news mollified her. “I’d like that.”

He settled her down, an arm under her head, the other across her waist. She cuddled nearer, pressing her delicious ass into his groin.

“I guess I
am
a tad exhausted.” She emitted an unladylike yawn.

“Close your eyes.”

“I daren’t fall asleep.”

“I’ll watch the clock.”

She yawned once more, her inhalations slowing, and shortly, she was slumbering peacefully.

Shutting his own eyes, he memorized every detail of the stunning encounter. He couldn’t predict if she’d ever join him for a subsequent tryst, and he wanted to be sure that if this was the last one, he would never forget a single particular.

Riffling through her hair, brushing over her skin, he traced her arm, her waist, her hip, marking the nips and tucks, the ridges and valleys.

She fit against him just right, as though God had created her as Phillip’s perfect mate.

What a cruel jest! The Good Lord must have a bizarre sense of humor.

Phillip had spent his entire life on the outside, looking in, yearning to belong, waiting for his legitimate place at the table, but he’d never garnered it. She was the epitome of all he’d ever wanted, all he could never attain, and the realization tore at him, killing him with how he hungered for so many things that could never be his.

“I love you, Livvie,” he whispered, and he could feel her smile. Despite her deep sleep, she’d heard and understood.

With the ebbing of their ardor, the room had cooled,
so he tugged a blanket over them, wrapping them in a snug cocoon, and he stared at the clock so that he could wake her before the cock crowed with the approach of dawn.

Penelope stomped down the hall to her room. In a temper, she swept inside and slammed the door forcefully enough to rattle the paintings on the walls.

“How dare he!” she fumed.

Since that dreadful night in the gazebo, she’d seen Freddy Blaine on a trio of separate occasions, and all three times, he’d ignored her.

Another interminable meal had just concluded, with Freddy lounging across from her at the table, and despite how often she’d tried to garner his attention, he hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction. After the repast, she’d strolled out on the verandah, at a moment when he could have trailed after her without being noticed, but she’d waited and waited, and he hadn’t come out.

“Bastard,” she grumbled, relishing the crude word.

He thought he was so bloody magnificent. Ooh, how she hated him! A pox on his despicable hide!

While she couldn’t quit ruminating about what they’d done together, about how thrilling it had been when he’d held her down, when she’d fought him, it seemed to her that he hadn’t been moved in the slightest. And the realization that she’d had no effect on him infuriated her.

Of all the boring, stupid fellows she’d met at Salisbury, she’d chosen him for a tryst, but he wasn’t grateful. In the gazebo, he’d repeatedly insulted her, had
touched her in terrible, exhilarating ways, and even though she’d ordered him to stop, he hadn’t heeded her commands.

Then he’d had to gall to try and make her put her mouth on his ghastly, manly rod. When she refused, he’d taunted her, sending her away as if she’d misbehaved. His scorn continued to incense her. It was like a burr under her saddle, enraging her, aggravating her.

No one was ever rude to her. No one was ever condescending or belittling. Others knew who she was, who her father had been, and they exhibited the respect and deference that was her absolute due. Yet he felt as if he had the right to treat her like a common whore.

Who was he to deem himself so grand? According to her mother, he was naught but a poverty-stricken neighbor who came sniffing round at supper, just so he’d have something to eat.

How she longed to get even!

She yanked the pins from her chignon and let her hair swish down, preferring it free and loose, and it made her wild and reckless. She abhorred that Margaret insisted she keep it bound, that she use combs and caps to conceal it. When men espied her auburn tresses, they were mesmerized. They wanted to run their fingers through it, to smell and pet it.

If Blaine were to see her beautiful hair, he wouldn’t regard her as a child. He wouldn’t tell her her breasts were too small or that she was a tease. He’d desire her, as a man desires a woman. She’d humor him, would watch him become aroused, would feign a bit of passion, and when he was chafing and ready, she’d walk away.

She’d show him who was in control. She’d teach him the consequences of trifling with her.

The notion of how she’d humiliate him caused her to
grow very excited. She’d welcomed their scuffling, how he’d bared her breasts and pinched them so hard. He’d hurt her, and for some reason, she was delighted that he had. She’d liked being anxious and unable to escape, and though she’d tried to deduce why it had been so stimulating, why she was so eager to do it again, she couldn’t figure it out.

She’d flirted with many, many boys, but none of them had acted comparably, so she had no means of comparison. However, she’d relived that amazing encounter over and over. She wanted to dally with him, to experience what he would do to her, but when she’d had enough of his groping and pawing, she’d change the ending.

She
would insult him.
She
would offend and slander, by remarking on his poor amatory skills, his sissified character, then she would have him trotting off like a coddled baby who hadn’t got his way.

The idea of putting him in his place had her gleeful. In a thrice, she conjured a dozen methods by which she could extract revenge.

She
would
retaliate, and he would be
so
sorry.

At the window, she loitered. It was a warm, cloudless night, the stars twinkling, the moon illuminating the grounds and rolling hills beyond. She looked down into the yard, and she could detect the outline of the gazebo, the white paint stark in the dark garden.

A light glowed on the steps. She narrowed her gaze, focusing in, and . . .

It was he! Freddy Blaine!

Bold as brass, he was slouched against the railing and smoking a cheroot. His horse was tied in the rear as it had been for their previous rendezvous.

Hah! He’d wanted her, after all. Oh, this would be so amusing. She’d settle the score between them and be
back in her bedchamber with scarcely a minute wasted.

Marching to the wardrobe, she grabbed her cloak, then tiptoed to the corridor and peeked out. Everyone was downstairs socializing, and her mother believed she’d gone to bed with the woman’s headache, so it was a simple matter to sneak out.

She crept into the hall, detouring through Olivia’s room. Within seconds, she’d found her sister’s portfolio of drawings, and she hefted it onto the bed and dragged out the sketches. There were many new ones, evidence of an increasingly torrid romance. The stablemaster was portrayed naked, his privates exposed, though for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom how Olivia was managing to engage in such intimacies.

They went riding every afternoon, and twice Penny had tracked them as best she could, but all they did was talk. She hadn’t come close enough to hear what was said, but she’d seen nothing they couldn’t have done in front of Margaret. How was Olivia accomplishing it?

She pilfered three of the most indiscreet poses, in which the stablemaster’s masculine staff was prominent and unmistakable, then she made for the servants’ stairs and out the door.

When she revealed them to Freddy, he’d never call her
child
again!

Speeding across the grass, she slowed once she approached the gazebo. She wasn’t about to let him know she’d rushed to be with him, and she dawdled, hiding behind a hedge so that her breathing could level off.

After calming, she ambled onto the pathway and sauntered over, but as she neared, he chuckled as if he’d been observing her through the entire journey.

“Well, well,” he crooned, as he took a lengthy draught from a bottle of liquor, “if it isn’t the spoiled little rich
girl. What brings you out so late? Did you lose one of your dolls?”

Seething with fury, she strove to remain aloof and disdainful. “I don’t play with dolls. I have many more interesting toys to occupy me.”

“Really?” he scoffed. “Tea sets and samplers?”

Strutting past him, she seized the bottle and flounced onto a bench. She drank from the decanter, too, making sure he saw how she could swallow the vile stuff.

“No. I’m an artist,” she lied, and she set the bottle on the floor and removed Olivia’s illustrations from beneath her cloak.