Cheryl Holt (21 page)

An adorable blush crept from deep inside and colored her cheeks. She seemed incapable of responding, so he asked, “Petticoats?” She nodded, and he queried, “Corset?” though he knew the reply.

The stiff contraption hemmed her in and, with her respiration elevated by the stirrings of desire, she struggled against confinement, and he couldn’t wait to pull at the laces and whisk it away. Avidly, he recalled the size and shape of her breasts, and he couldn’t wait to view them free and unencumbered.

“How about drawers?” he queried, referring to the newfangled undergarment.

“Yes.”

Infrequently, he discovered them on his lovers, but he never cared. The novel contraption was simply one more item meant to conceal and titillate, one more article to peel away and discard before he reached his destination.

“I’m going to remove your dress.” He stroked her heated flesh, brushing her breasts in passing, bringing his hands to rest on her shoulders. “And your petticoats. I’ll strip you—”

“Till I’m . . .”

She couldn’t speak the word
naked
aloud, and he almost took pity on her, but he refrained. He wanted her fidgety, uneasy, off balance. “To your chemise. No further for now.”

Frantically, her mind whirled. Her wishes were about to be granted, and she was terrified by the prospect, yet she didn’t disappoint. “I believe”—she trembled slightly—“I would like it if you did.”

With a few snaps of his wrist, her bodice was loose, and she reflexively grabbed to keep it clasped to her bosom.

“Put your arms at your sides,” he ordered, and she obeyed as he pushed the gown past her waist and hips, and soon it was pooled about her feet. He lifted her out of the pile of silk and lace, setting her on the floor, once again then, quick as a wink, he undid her corset and flung it away, mollified when her lungs adequately expanded.

Her chemise was delicate, cream-colored, with a dainty floral pattern stitched on the borders. It fell to mid-thigh, and he glanced down, noting a hint of bare leg, garter, and stocking.

“Face me.”

He allowed her to spin around. The fabric of the shift was thin and transparent, and he could see her breasts, navel, and woman’s hair. His erection inflated further, and absently, he rubbed across it, bidding it to recede, but to no avail. The image of her, nearly nude and calmly anticipating
his ensuing imprudence, was too enticing.

Already, he’d pushed her awfully far, but she courageously passed each test he meted out, though she wasn’t currently looking him in the eye, and she was careful not to permit her attention to wander to his lower regions where he continued to fondle himself.

Kneeling before her, he absorbed her essence, her sweat, the musk of her sex. He tugged off her shoes, untied her garters, and rolled down her stockings. More goose bumps flourished, and he massaged up and down her calves, cuddling her, warming her.

He stole one, fleet kiss against her stomach, one deep inhale of the tang on her abdomen, of the cushion of hair surrounding her pussy, then he stood, regarding her exactingly, curious as to how she’d survived the ordeal, but he needn’t have worried. She was unaffected, her shoulders squared, and she didn’t recoil in the slightest as his gaze roamed across her, hot and potent as his hands might have been.

“Take down your hair.”

Obediently, she set about pulling at the combs and pins. In seconds, the heavy mass swung downward, encasing her in a stream of auburn and gold. It fell to her waist, a shimmering ribbon of crimson designed to inflame and corrupt.

“Run your fingers through it.” She acceded, as he decreed, “Whenever you visit me, you’ll have it unbound and brushed out.”

“As you wish.” He advanced until his chest grazed her nipples, his thighs encircled her own, but she didn’t hesitate. “What now?”

“We’ll lie on the bed. You’ll learn to touch me.” He flicked his thumb across her bottom lip. Full, moist, red as a ripe cherry, he stole a kiss then, twirling her in a circle, they sank onto the mattress, with him on his back and her stretched out on top.

She was a vision to behold. The strap of her chemise had slid off her shoulder, a succulent breast was partly bare, her hair cascading about. Beautiful, arousing, she was desire
incarnate, and for the moment, she was his—and his alone—to do with as he pleased. He could barely stand the suspense, the marvelous sense of expectation, yet he deigned to go forth deliberately, to savor and relish every delicious instant of her downfall.

Adjusting her legs, he opened her thighs so that she straddled him. Her pussy was directly over his cock, instinctively recognizing the appropriate sensual route, and she spread and slumped further, dramatically increasing the explicit contact.

Tugging at the belt at his waist, he loosened it, and pushed at the lapels of his robe, exposing only his chest.

“Touch me,” he said and, when she vacillated, he gripped her hand and laid it over his heart, then rasped it in a slow circle. “Like this.”

He should have seized control of the assignation and tormented her until she was writhing and pleading for more, but truth be told, he was exhausted after his vigorous combat.

As a bastard son, who had been shamelessly disavowed by his rich and noble father, he often engaged in altercations. Offensive comments—usually aimed at his mother—were regularly hurled, and he vented his wrath at any imbecile foolish enough to make an untoward remark, so his entering into a dispute was nothing new.

A skilled, seasoned opponent, he could hurl a punch as well as take one. However, the frantic display he’d delivered to Brigham had exploded with a ferocity he’d not exhibited before, and the intensity had left him thoroughly drained. He needed Sarah’s sweet courtesy, was desperate to suffer through her virginal oohs and aahs, to bask in her fascination. The feel of her smooth hands, with those slender, questing fingers roving over him, was like a healing salve to his battered body and spirit.

She amused herself with his chest, rifling through the springy hair, exploring the ridges and valleys until her maneuvers felt as natural as breathing, as though she’d touched him just so a hundred times before.

Braver, she dipped lower, across the knobs of his rib cage, but he’d secured a grueling blow to his side and, before he could warn her to be cautious, she patted across the bruising, and he flinched and winced.

She froze. “You’re hurt.”

“Not badly.”

“Let me see.” She relocated, her lush pussy easing off his phallus as she shoved more of the robe apart. The spot on his ribs was inflamed, the abrasion ghastly, and she studied and inspected, then bent over and kissed it as she had the wounds to his temple and fist.

When she straightened, she flashed a stern look. “I don’t like you fighting.”

“It’s occasionally necessary.”

“But I can’t bear it that you’ve been injured.” Gently, she traced across the damage. “Promise you won’t do it again,” and she graced him with a tender kiss against his mouth. “Please?”

It had been a very long while since anyone had evidenced concern for his safety or welfare. In response, he could only offer a small concession. “I’ll try.”

“That’s worth something, I guess.”

The exchange concluded, the banter lagged, the quiet magnified. She focused on him with such penetrating, abiding affection that he couldn’t stand to perceive it, so he said, “Touch me again.”

Steadying her hips, he centered her so that she was, once more, lingering over his erection. How he longed to thrust against her! He was so hard, he ached. His balls wrenched and cried out, but he restrained himself. This was her first encounter with male nudity, and there would be abundant excuses in the impending days to rush toward total fulfillment, but not just yet.

More sure of herself, she now confidently nestled into his matting of chest hair, burrowing her nose, sniffing at his skin, and he caught her chin and steered her to his breast

“Kiss me here,” he dictated, and his brown nipple pebbled
into a compact bud as her superb lips painstakingly submitted. “Suck me into your mouth.”

An adept pupil, she instantly acquiesced, nibbling and toying until he could barely remain stationary. When her teeth nipped at the tiny nub, he couldn’t block the groan that escaped.

She grinned up at him. “You like that, do you?”

“Very much.”

“You did it to me . . . that night in my room.”

“Yes. A woman’s nipples are incredibly sensitive. When a man dabbles with them, he accentuates her titillation, and she is excited and relaxed. The stimulation prepares her for what is to come.”

“And what is that?”

“Soon, milady, all your questions will be answered.”

He ushered her hands to both his nipples, revealing the suitable pressure, the appropriate manipulation. She trifled and played, her eyes glued to his so that she could judge his reaction.

The minx! She was a natural! Too astute. Too disposed to attempt any risqué procedure.

Her unwavering concentration was extremely disconcerting, so he guided her mouth to his other breast, easing her to the nipple. His cock was throbbing, the crown oozing with his sexual juice. He stabilized her and partook of an unhurried flex against her cleft.

As though she’d been poked with a pin, she jerked upright. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?” He pretended innocence, flattening her against his erection, and feasting with another leisurely flex.

“That thrusting motion. It just feels so . . . so . . .”

“Extraordinary?”

“Yes. But naughty, too. And forbidden.” She wedged herself more fully along the crest of his phallus. “My body seems to fathom what you propose, when I’ve no notion myself.”

“Absolutely.” His wanton fingers slipped under the hem of her chemise and petted the smooth skin of her thighs.
“You are so ready for me to be your lover.”

“How can you tell?”

“Even though you are a woman, you need sensual animation just like a man.”

“I was told differently.”

“You were told wrong.”

The veracity of his statement sank in, and she acceded to the inevitable, initiating some flexing of her own, driving herself forward, using her knees and toes. Joyous, she smiled as though she was a child who’d just found a unique flavor of candy. “Do you feel it?”

“Aye, lass, I do.” He gritted his teeth, speculating as to how he’d persevere at a sluggish pace, how he’d take minimal steps, when his entire being was spurring him to skip to the finale without delay.

Eliminating temptation, abandoning paradise, he levered her away. “You’ve never seen a naked man,” he reminded her. “How about a boy?”

“I’ve bathed a few male children in my day.”

“Then you’re aware of how we vary.”

Her brow furrowed, then realization dawned. “In our private parts.” She peeked down, to what was concealed by his robe, but the solid vertex of flesh couldn’t be missed. “I’ve always wondered why.”

“It’s for coupling. So that we fit together.”

“How is it accomplished?”

“My cock swells, and by flexing, my seed is lured to the tip and rushes out the end.”

“What does your
seed
look like?”

“White. Creamy.”

“Where does it go?”

“Into the chasm between your legs. In the site from where your monthly blood flows.” He rested his hand on her abdomen, his thumb pressing at her mound, but she wasn’t equipped to handle more, so he didn’t move downward.

At the mention of her menses, she flushed, but the delicate subject wasn’t inordinately disturbing to her, which
he took as an excellent sign. Before the afternoon was through, they would discuss many more distressing topics.

“And a babe is conceived in this fashion?”

“It could be. If the timing is right.”

“Is this dangerous, then? I hadn’t thought that we might create a child.”

“We won’t. I’ll be circumspect.”

She shook her head. “I say it again: I don’t understand what we’re about.”

“There are techniques for dallying without proceeding to marital copulation. That is what I contemplate.”

“But why would you simply want to . . .”—she searched for a term, but couldn’t pick one of her own, so she employed his—“to
dally
?”

“For pleasure, Sarah.” The mode in which
pleasure
rolled off his tongue caused her to stir, her loins descended, instinctively extending out to him. “A man derives great satisfaction from spilling himself. It is an activity he seeks above all others.”

“So . . .
pleasure
will be our goal?”

“Yes. Our only one.”

“What do I need to do?”

“You’ll stroke me. With your hands and your mouth. I’ll show you.”

He placed her fingers on top of his bulging erection. Adding tension, he demonstrated the rhythm, but he abruptly realized that he could settle for nothing less than her bared flesh applied to his own.

He untied the knot at his waist. “Open my robe. All the way.”

Sarah didn’t hesitate. She was trembling, not with fear or trepidation, but with anticipation, so she prudently masked her excitement, not wanting to give the impression that she’d become a coward at this late juncture.

By all accounts, he’d hardly done anything to her. He’d talked, he’d eliminated most of her clothing, he’d flexed against her through several layers of fabric. Yet her body was on fire, her nipples contracted so that they hurt, her skin stretched so tightly that it didn’t seem to fit her bone structure.

He’d slackened the belt at his waist but, daring her to proceed, he hadn’t untied it. As if she’d back down! Without being conscious of it, she’d craved this moment forever.

Carefully, she controlled her shaking fingers and unraveled the knot. Deliberately, prolonging her discovery, she drew the lapels of his robe aside, sequentially revealing his navel, then the arrow of hair that shot down his belly.

Her eyes dropped imperceptibly, and she encountered all. Like a supplicant before a shrine, she pushed at the remaining material, baring him inch by glorious inch, until he was totally naked, and the reality was like nothing she’d imagined.