Cheryl Holt (27 page)

She plucked at the hem, the lapels, yanking the sleeves off, then she snuggled down so that she could find his nipple. She licked and bit at it, and he grew more tense with each lave of her tongue.

While she dallied, she massaged his back, his shoulders, and she reached lower, petting him through his pants, until he couldn’t endure the animation. He jumped up so that she could drag his trousers off his hips, down his thighs. In a jumble of fabric, shoes, and stockings,
they wrestled and tangled together until they were both sinfully, blissfully naked.

He covered her, but with no clothing as a barrier to sensation, and they molded perfectly. The bristly hair on his chest and legs abraded and tickled her delicate skin. The energy that regularly sparked between them was alive, pulsating, and he was greatly perplexed by the strength of it.

“Do you feel that? Jesus, Emma, it’s indescribable.”

“Yes.”

She was delirious, elated, and he smiled his devil’s smile and flexed his hips, letting her savor the glide of his cock across her abdomen. The appendage was adamant, a pounding entity that demanded satiation, and he needed only to move slightly and he would enter her.

With the realization, her fortitude fled, and she
had
to postpone the inevitable, even if it was for a few minutes.

She rolled him onto his back and kissed down his stomach. Without his trousers blocking access, she was able to fully indulge. He was rigid, erect, his cock proudly jutting out, and she ruffled her nose through his manly hair, rooted till she was at the oozing crown, and she took him into her mouth. He rewarded her with a quick inhalation of breath, his abdomen clenching.

Most sane, virtuous women would have considered the deed appalling, but she reveled in the decadence, the abandon. Her level of enjoyment was further indication of her dissolute nature, of how far she’d fallen from the straight and narrow.

He permitted her to wallow, but he was nearing his limit. His body was taut, his respiration labored and rapid.

She braced for the conclusion, when surprisingly, he
twisted away, shifting her so that they were stretched out with her on the bottom once more.

On witnessing her puzzled expression, he clarified. “I want the first time to be between your legs.”

It should have occurred to her that he’d seek the normal route, and she could conjure up no excuse to forestall the culmination, but still, she was nervous.

“Promise me one thing.”

“My darling Emma”—he placed a sweet kiss on the middle of her palm—“I will grant you whatever is within my power to bestow.”

“I need you to swear that you’ll pull out at the last. That you won’t spill yourself inside me.”

He frowned. “You’re afraid we’ll make a babe?”

“Of course I am, you big lout.” She slapped his bare backside, and he laughed, then sobered.

“I can’t sire a babe, Emma.”

“Why would you imagine you couldn’t?”

“I haven’t. Not in all these years.”

If it was true and the promiscuous rascal had no children, she suspected his lack of procreativity had more to do with his choice of paramour than any physical defect. Very likely, his lovers didn’t want children, and they were in a position to acquire methods of preventing pregnancy.

Emma had heard gossip of tonics and concoctions dispensed by barbers, apothecaries, and others who vowed they were a panacea, but even if they were authentic, they weren’t available to women in her world. In her experience, when a woman had sex, she typically had a baby nine months later.

“Promise me,” she fervently repeated, not sure what she’d do if he said no. Would she have the mettle to rebuff him?

Shrugging, he smiled lazily. “As if I could refuse you anything.”

Beginning anew, he kissed her, and within minutes, they were once again at the sharp crest of passion.

His competent fingers indolently roved down her torso, each inch bringing him closer, closer. She couldn’t impede him, couldn’t back down, couldn’t alter their direction.

He riffled through her womanly hair, ensuring she was slippery and wet, when there hadn’t been any doubt, then he clasped her thighs and spread her, his cock dropping into the correct spot as though it knew the way and needed no guidance.

When he stroked her with the crown, she pointlessly decided that he was too large, that he wouldn’t fit, and she fought down a wave of panic.

Instantly, he sensed her trepidation. “Don’t be scared, my little beauty.” He urged in the tip. “Relax, and let me make you mine.”

In an agile, fleet motion, he was inside her. The smooth thrust was graceful, efficient, and hadn’t hurt as badly as she’d predicted it might. Yet the laceration burned and stung. Tears welled into her eyes, because of the pain, but also because of the significance of the moment and what it represented.

Though John was aroused, he wasn’t stupid, and he recognized what had transpired. He froze, his body turning to stone, an angry scowl creasing his brow, then he jerked away. The evidence of the sin they’d committed—the red of her maiden’s blood—was smeared across his phallus.

As if he’d just ascertained that she had the pox, he leapt off the bed and landed on the floor. Hands on hips, he glared down at her.

“Explain yourself.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“You’re a damned virgin!”

“I was.”

She didn’t understand why he was so upset. He was such a libertine that he could probably have a virgin on a daily basis. What was one more?

“What the hell are you up to?”

“I
thought
we were making love.”

“Bloody right!” He grabbed for his pants and wrenched them on, hastily concealing himself. “What’s going on? Do you have some incensed male relative about to dash in and discover us?”

“I don’t have anybody,” she said quietly, but he wasn’t listening. “Not in the entire world.”

“Well, it won’t do you any good. Do you hear me, Emma?” He ranted on, floundering with his shirt, stuffing his arms into the sleeves. “If this is some kind of . . . of . . .
plot
to compel me to the altar, it won’t work. I’ve had shrewder people than you attempting to coerce my behavior, and they haven’t succeeded yet!”

The thick oaf actually surmised that she’d set a marital trap. How could he impugn her motives! The idiotic scapegrace! Didn’t he comprehend that she was here because she loved him?

Her virginity had been a gift! How dare he discount it!

“As if I’d have you!” She vaulted off the bed, too, and snatched up her dress, hauling it over her head, then she marched to him till they were toe-to-toe, and she poked an irate finger at his chest. “You think you’re some marvelous catch? Hah! I wouldn’t marry you if you begged me!”

“Then what are you doing? A virgin gives herself to a man like me for one reason and one reason only:
marriage! Well, I hate to break the news to you, but you’ve picked the wrong fellow!”

“I certainly did!”

“Are you so foolhardy that you’d assume I’d bed you then wed you?”

“You pompous bastard!” she seethed.

Embarrassed and frantic to escape, she scrambled for her shoes and stockings, prepared to risk fleeing into the hall half-dressed if only she could be away.

She ran toward the door, but before she could exit, he seized her from behind, his arm snaking around her waist. Struggling against the restraint, she kicked with her feet and lashed out with her fists, but his grip was like an iron vise.

“Let me go!”

“No.” He battled to hold on in the force of her fury. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Yes you did! Unhand me!”

“Emma! Stop it!” he decreed softly, and he snared her flailing arms at her sides. His command sucked the resistance out of her. She went limp and slumped into him.

“I’m sorry,” he reiterated.

“It was a gift! A gift for you!” She gave a final, ineffective kick at his shin. “I loathe you!”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do! I absolutely do!”

He started across the room, lugging her along like a sack of coal, and not loosing his grasp for he knew if he did, she’d scurry out of his clutches. He pitched her onto the bed—precisely where she did
not
want to be—and he pinned her down before she could elude him.

“You know, Em, if I didn’t already drink, you’d drive me to it.”

He chuckled! Which enraged her so much that if
she’d had a pistol, she’d have shot him through the center of his black heart!

“Get off me.” He didn’t move a muscle, so she added, “Please?”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

She couldn’t maintain her wrath. Any low opinion he harbored was due to her flagrant episodes of lascivious conduct. If he presumed she was a whore, she had no one to blame but herself, and she could scarcely condemn him for inferring the worst. She was tired, distressed, overwhelmed, and saddened, and she wanted to go home and never come back.

He embraced her tightly, which hindered any egress. “I’m sure your friends and neighbors have bandied many despicable rumors about my character—”

“And I believed every one of them,” she petulantly interjected.

“I deserved that, I suppose.” He swatted her on the rear. “I have my standards, Em. I’ve never made love to a virgin before.”

“Well, let me tell you, you’re not very good at it.”

“I deserved that, too.” He laughed, then balanced his finger on her chin so she had to match his gaze. “Why?” he inquired, bewildered. “I’m not worth it. Why did you do it?”

“Because I wanted you to be the one. Because I love you.”

The simple explanation didn’t begin to describe her feelings, and he nodded, accepting her profession of affection, but he didn’t reply with a comparable attestation. Not that she’d expected a declaration of strong sentiment, but still, now that she’d thoroughly debased herself, it would have been nice to receive one.

“You know I can’t marry you, don’t you?”

Imbecilic lummox! “Have I suggested you should?”

“No, you haven’t, and it makes me crazy. You’re the only person I’ve ever met—besides my brother—who doesn’t want something from me.” He was probing, intent, and he appeared young, self-conscious, anxious. “Am I forgiven?”

She was astonished that he’d asked for her pardon. Considering his station, he likely never had to apologize to anyone about anything, and the fact that he had was a sign that he entertained some fondness for her.

She was such a ninny! “Yes, you bounder.”

Tenderly, he kissed her, sending her defenses plummeting. “I want to try this again,” he sweetly cajoled. “Let me show you how it can really be.”

Fool! Fool! Fool!
she chastised herself, but even as the admonition spiraled past, she was helping him to lift her skirt up her legs, raising her hips so he could ease her dress up and over her shoulders.

With no more discussion than that, he had her naked and willing, ready to acquiesce—once more—to whatever he wanted.

Lord, give her strength! She had no self-control. Not a shred of dignity remaining.

There was no longer a barrier to restrict his penetration, so he easily glided inside. She was sore from his first invasion, so she winced at his second, but her bruised body swiftly acclimated. Reaching for her hands, he spread them on either side of her head, their fingers linked.

He smiled, and she smiled, too, cherishing him, relishing the moment and the man. She was weak, obsessed, daft, haunted by her need for him, and with no further rumination or reflection, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him close.

C
AROLINE
wandered aimlessly down the dark hall, the polished floor cold on her bare feet. Even though it was midsummer, the rambling residence was drafty, and she tugged on the belt of her robe.

As John had been out all day, touring the estate, she’d wasted the tedious hours, drifting through the lonely mansion, pondering why she’d been so absurd as to believe a visit to Wakefield would rectify their relationship. When he’d finally appeared for an extremely belated supper, he’d seemed different, happy, and content in a fashion she hadn’t previously noticed. Depressingly, it had occurred to her that the changes had nothing to do with herself.

After the meal, she’d endured another unpleasant
talk
, and since then, she hadn’t had the heart for any diversion. She’d declined to degrade herself by passing the evening in the downstairs parlor, socializing and pretending all was fine, as was her wont when events went awry. Despite how often her mother had counseled against displays of emotion, sometimes a woman simply had to react!

John had said no, and he’d really meant it. Where before, her parents had been a stalwart buffer, convincing her to discount his rejections, she couldn’t any longer. Reality was a bitter tonic to swallow, and she hated its harsh taste, but he was sincere and resolved, and his intent had been brutally clear.

There would be no wedding. Ever.

She was despondent, forlorn, angry; she could very well explode from the cauldron of suppressed feelings she was holding inside. Her toleration was gone, her resentment simmering.

As usual, when the conversation had been transpiring, she’d bitten her tongue, had placidly put up with his gentle rebuke over her unbidden appearance, had obediently agreed to his demand that she depart, but afterward, in the privacy of her bedchamber, she’d conjured up dozens of scathing retorts.

How she wished she could have said what she really thought! What she wouldn’t give to speak her piece! Just once! If she ever let loose at the inconsiderate scoundrel, she’d likely never stop ranting!

She’d been so sure that her arrival would alter their association, that he’d be proud of her daring, that he’d see her in a new light. But he pictured her as he always had: an immature girl, who was frivolous and irrational, and who needed men to constantly watch over her.

Why . . . if asked about her father—his whereabouts, or how he would regard her behavior, or what he might do if he found out about her trip—once more, she might start screaming.