Cheryl Holt (11 page)

“Thank you,” she murmured, outwardly nervous, then she meandered to the sideboard. “I had tea prepared, but it’s occurred to me that you’re not a
tea
type of person, are you? Perhaps you’d like a brandy. I’d be happy to . . .”

Off she went, talking a mile a minute. Fidgety and apprehensive, she’d lost her unruffled aplomb, and he watched curiously as she rifled through bottles and yanked at corks. Quietly, he came up behind her, striding close, the fragrance of her perfume and the lavender of her soap pervading his nostrils. He narrowed his eyes and inhaled deliberately, allowing himself to be overwhelmed by all the aromas that made her so unique.

He moved nearer still, her skirts swirling around his calves, his toes buried under the hems, his legs cognizant of hers through her petticoats. He reached out, covering her busy hand, arresting it with gentle pressure.

“Calm yourself,” he whispered over her shoulder, his mouth next to her ear, his warm breath brushing across her lobe and tickling the hairs on her neck. “What has put you in such a state?”

Involuntarily, she shuddered, then turned to face him. “Everything has changed. These meetings will be so difficult.”

“Why?”

“ ’Tis nothing like I anticipated.”

She shifted, and one of her thighs wedged between his own. Although the multiple layers of her clothing offered plenty of padding, he could discern form and substance. His cock hardened; he ached to pull her tightly against him in order to allay some of the sudden pressure, yet he managed to restrain himself, traveling the more innocent route by resting a hand on her tiny waist.

“In what way?”

“ ’Tis so much more personal than I imagined. And physical. I thought we could just . . . just . . .”

Her gaze fell to his lips, lingered. A frown creased her forehead, and he had the answer to her upset. As he’d suspected from the beginning, her body’s fervor was quickly outpacing her mind’s clamoring for boring verbal discourse. Remarkably, the perception provided none of the elation he’d expected. She appeared utterly wretched, overwrought, distressed, and he felt acutely sorry for her predicament.

With any other female of his acquaintance, he’d have immediately pressed ahead, but because he enjoyed such a peculiar kinship with her, he couldn’t seize the advantage. His affection for her overruled his masculine drives, urging him to protect and cherish rather than exploit. He couldn’t have behaved badly toward her any more than he could have cut off his right arm.

“I knew this would be hard on you,” he admitted.

“You did?”

“Yes.” He smiled at her, and her attention remained fixated on his mouth. “Perhaps we proceeded a tad too rapidly the other day.”

“No. ’Tisn’t that at all.” With the greatest of effort, she returned to staring at the bottles of liquor, showing him her back. “I suppose I will sound exceedingly forward, but I’m impetuously anxious for more than mere words. I need to experience what you’re telling me. I crave an understanding of how a woman feels when a man . . . when he . . .” A blush started across her shoulders and rose into her cheeks.
“Oh, I’m a mess!” she wailed, and he couldn’t help chuckling at her plight.

“ ’Tis only natural.”

“What is? Thinking and acting like a brazen hussy?”

“No.” He chuckled again. “ ’Tis only natural for you to be curious.” With both hands at her waist, he maneuvered her until she reluctantly faced him once again, though she seemed to be extremely fascinated by his shirtfront. “A woman needs sexual stimulation just as a man does,” he explained. “Your body has been disposed and waiting for many years. You’re simply aware of it for the first time. The realization is disquieting for you, but we’ll deal with it together.”

“I want you to kiss me,” she whispered, her lashes sweeping down. “With your tongue in my mouth. Like you kissed Lily in your erotic drawings.”

A groan of frustration charged to the surface. She was offering the initial step toward everything he eventually hoped to receive from her, so he couldn’t help wondering if he’d gone completely insane when he responded, “We’ll talk about it.”

Instantly he deduced that it had been the absolute wrong comment. She stiffened, reddened further, then whirled toward the sideboard. “Oh, you don’t wish to! You don’t find me . . .” Patting her scalded cheeks, she muttered, “The thought had never occurred to me! I’m so embarrassed!”

“No, milady, no.” He raised his hands to her shoulders. She was wedged quite nicely, her back against his chest, the hint of her bottom against his groin. “I would love nothing more than to kiss you, but you are a maid, and these are dangerous waters. We must both be certain of the depths before we dive in. . . .”

He let the statement trail away as he brushed the sweep of her hair off to the side. The creamy slope of her nape beckoned. Leaning forward, he rested his lips on her heated, smooth skin, and he dallied there, tasting, nuzzling, and nipping until gooseflesh prickled.

Barely breathing, she asked hesitantly, “You desire me, then?”

“Very much.” At his admission, she sagged with relief, and he added, “But I am more enlightened in these matters. I grasp where kissing may lead. It can quickly spin out of our control, so you need to learn more of what you’re truly contemplating.” He dropped his hands to hug them around her middle, cradling her but not tightly, loving the way she fit so neatly into the circle of his arms.

“Of course, you’re right,” she said, on a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t thought ahead. I’ve just been so distressed. It seems as though it’s been forever since Thursday, and I had so many questions for you. . . .” She stopped. “Oh, but my imagination has been driving me mad!”

“I can tell.” He kissed her hair, her cheek, encouraged by the manner in which she accepted his embrace as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Come sit with me. We must talk. And look at more renderings.”

“Yes.”

He moved away so that she could proceed to the sofa while he poured a stout brandy, then he walked over and held out the glass. “Try this. It will soothe you.”

“I don’t think anything will help.” Yet she reached for it with a trembling hand. Her fingers wrapped over his own as he guided it to her mouth. She accepted a prolonged sip, then flinched as the delayed sensation burned her throat. Her eyes watered.

“That is ghastly.” She shivered.

He took a drink, fitting his lips over the spot where hers had touched the rim, then he proffered it again. “Another.”

As he had just done, she twisted the glass in order to partake from the same site. An apt pupil. The liquor went down more easily the second time. Already she was relaxing; the tense set of her shoulders, the crease on her brow, were disappearing.

“One more,” he insisted, and she did as he asked, draining the contents.

She sighed, then chuckled. “So now I’ve become not
only a wanton, but a daytime drunkard, as well. You’re having a fascinating effect on my character, Mr. Stevens.”

He shrugged, saying philosophically, “A few bad habits never hurt anyone. They make a person more interesting.”

“You would say something like that.”

The strong spirits had brought a becoming blush to her cheeks and further reddened her ruby lips. They were lush and moist, and she was staring at him with such wide-eyed, innocent appeal that it was all he could do to keep from kneeling in front of her and propelling her back against the sofa. But for once in his despicable life, he behaved himself, despite his desperate crescendo of lust, fearing that if he started kissing her, he might never desist.

He settled next to her, sitting much nearer than he had during their earlier assignation and touching her down his entire length; arms, hips, thighs—all were connected. Events were spinning out of control much faster than he could contain them. The fantasy was turning out to be nothing like the reality. She was animated and enthusiastic, downright eager to advance their acquaintance to a higher level, and the only obstacle to her longed-for ruination was his little-used, much-abused, barely recognizable sense of honor.

Who would have thought?

On tenuous new ground, and feeling as if it were constantly shifting beneath his feet, he grabbed for his portfolio, needing to hold on to something tangible. “Let’s begin again, shall we?”

“Let’s do. I’ve been beside myself, wondering what’s coming.” Seizing the lead, she retrieved the stack of parchments and centered it on her lap. She skipped the first two renderings, glancing only briefly at the initial nude sketch of Lily, at the second where he’d joined Lily on the daybed, but hurrying to the third—the drawing where they were luxuriating in an intimate kiss. Relishing a drawn-out examination, she studied the stretch of their bodies, the angle of their hips, the squeeze of his fingers around Lily’s nipple. Then, apparently satisfied, she tossed it on the table
and turned to the fourth picture before he had a chance to warn her as to what she would find.

He was there for her avid inspection, reclining against the pillows, an arm tucked behind his head. His body hair looked coarse and dark, contrasting starkly with his pale skin. It was matted across his chest in a thick pile, circling his brown nipples and descending in an arrowed line past his navel.

Only Lily’s hands were in the picture with him. With one, she cradled his rock-hard balls. With the other, she gripped his solid length, her thumb at the sensitive tip. The erotic image easily brought back to him the memories of how learned and agile those knowing hands had been, of how much pleasure they had been able to incite.

Bothered by his recollections, he closed his eyes against them, when he grasped that the woman he was visualizing between his legs wasn’t Lily at all, but Abigail Weston. It was
her
slender fingers tightened around his rigid shaft,
her
hair flowing across his abdomen,
her
tongue geared to moisten his enthusiastic phallus. In his vivid fantasy, she was practiced and adept, and the depictions were so lifelike that he could only assume that they would, one day, become reality.

“Oh, my. . . .” She reached out a tentative finger and traced over the length of his erection. The sexual jolt he received was so strong that he felt she was actually touching his flesh. “It’s so . . . so big. . . .”

She said it with such awe that he couldn’t help laughing full and long at her guileless statement. Tears of mirth stung the corners of his eyes.

Amused and perplexed, she asked, “What did I say that’s so funny?”

“Oh, milady, you are sweet.” He struggled to contain his raging humor. “A man always loves to hear how big his cock is.”

“You mean they come in more than one size?”

Her question was so genuine that he hated to pleasure himself at her expense, but he couldn’t remember the last
occasion when he’d so completely enjoyed conversing with a woman. He swallowed a second eruption of laughter that begged to burst out. “They are mostly the same shape, just like a man’s nose or his hands or feet, but no two are exactly alike.”

“How would you describe yours as compared to others?” When he stifled another snort of hilarity, she elbowed him good-naturedly in the ribs. “Quit laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just not used to spending time around a woman who is so unfamiliar with all of this.” If he could just demonstrate, it would be so much simpler! “Suddenly our situation seems particularly absurd.”

Her brow creased with concern. “But you said I should ask questions.”

“So I did,” he agreed, patting her thigh. “Forgive me my outburst. Now, what did you wish to know?”

Displaying the utmost fortitude, she pressed, “What size would you consider yours to be?”

“Bigger than most.” He sighed, reining himself in. “Not as large as some.”

She nodded thoughtfully, her attention returning to the drawing. “Why would a man like hearing that a woman found his male member to be an enormous specimen?”

“Masculine vanity, my dear,” he said. “We’re beasts at heart, and we all want to believe that we’re the biggest bull in the herd, so you’ve given me a vast compliment without even realizing it.”

Against his will, he was overcome with a wave of protective feeling for her. He cherished her brash naïveté, her originality and temerity, and he was tickled with the idea of what it would be like to make her his own. The notion was ludicrous, of course. There was no future for them beyond the next few meetings. However, he couldn’t prevent the whim from toying at the outer fringes of his good sense.

What would it be like to claim her and keep her?

Luckily, her inquisitive mind lured her back to the lesson much before he was prepared to resume, and he was forced
to abandon his opportunity to speculate about any possible destiny between them.

“What’s that she’s holding in her hand?”

“My balls.” Tired and confounded, he answered without thinking.

The session was growing more difficult by the moment. He hated having to instruct her in this analytical fashion. He despised having to provide her with explicit carnal information that she might one day use with a man other than himself. With a flash of amazement, he was dumbfounded by his desire that she ever only view his naked male form, and that she never see another with which to compare it.

For the first time, he pondered what it would be like to practice fidelity with a woman, and he didn’t care at all for the gloomy impressions that flitted through his mind—those of her in the arms of another lover. Bad enough to have to instruct her, worse still to ponder where she might head with her newly learned skills!

“What are they?”

“Two sacs at the base of a man’s cock. Usually they’re soft, but during sexual intercourse, they grow very hard. They’re remarkably sensitive, as well, and it’s marvelous to have them caressed.” Nothing could shock her now, so he said, “Frequently, a woman will lick them or suck them into her mouth. It’s highly arousing.”

“Do you enjoy it when one of your partners does it to you?”

“There is very little about bedplay that I don’t enjoy.”

A long silence played out, and she squirmed in her seat. “What is she doing with her other hand?”