Cheryl Holt (17 page)

“ ’Tis an exotic technique, usually practiced by the most proficient of females.”

“Prostitutes?”

“Not just prostitutes.”

“When a woman suckles you in this fashion”—she gestured to Lily’s active application—“how does it feel?”

His cock hardened, and she noticed his stimulated condition. Her attention dropped to his groin, remaining there, her intense observation like a physical touch. With incredible effort, he described, “Wet, warm, and tight. ’Tis highly pleasurable.”

“Do you require your lovers to give you this French kiss?”

“I have no
requirements
for my lovers,” he responded testily, irritated that she could now discuss his sexual proclivities so coldly. “They generally do whatever yields the most gratification. Some appease me with oral copulation. Some don’t. It depends. ’Tis not always an agreeable occurrence on the female’s part. My cock is large, and when I am in the throes of passion, I’m not gentle.”

“I suppose it would be strange. All that thrusting. . . .” She paused, her fingers going to her lips as though she would savor having him there.

“It takes some getting used to. Plus, many do not care for the taste of a man’s seed.”

“What is its flavor?”

“Indescribable. Like no other.”

“I presume it would be hot. Salty.”

“So I am told.”

“But even if a woman didn’t enjoy the taste, she could indulge without proceeding to the very end?”

“Yes, although I am always delighted with those who deliver me to completion in this manner.”

“Why is that?”

“I prefer coming inside a woman’s body, yet I never empty my seed against a lover’s womb. At the moment of fulfillment, I pull away and finish against her stomach or leg.”

Her pretty brow furrowed in consternation. “But that way . . . you would never sire any children. . . .”

“Exactly. I will create no children.”

“Never?”

She seemed to be asking much more than a simple question about his sexual methods. Weirdly, the inquiry appeared to encompass their own relationship, should it ever proceed that far.

After the havoc produced by his own father’s dastardly conduct, he hardly counted himself among the men who should become parents. He had no skill with young ones, no role models as to proper comportment, and no inclination to learn.

“Never,” he answered firmly.

“Your decision is very sad, James.” She sounded wistful. “Very sad, indeed.”

She looked at him with such pity and compassion that he found himself reexamining his resolution. Was he wrong? His mother adamantly contended that he was, that her two sons were her supreme blessing, and that he would miss a huge slice of happiness by avoiding fatherhood.

In the past, he’d always shaken his head at what he considered her naive, maternal musings, but a simple remark from Abby had him doubting a position he’d held forever.

He shifted uncomfortably. How did she manage to prod him until she had him reevaluating every facet of his personality? He didn’t want or need all this self-assessment. Damn her, he was fine just the way he was!

“The world can lump along without any progeny of mine,” he insisted. Then, gruffly, he ordered, “Look at the next picture.”

Without a further contentious exchange, she did as he requested.

In the next painting, he was again reclined on his back, his head relaxed on the arm of the daybed. Lily was stretched out across him, and her bounteous breasts dangled in his face. The tips were firm and elongated, and one of the alluring nubs just brushed his lips. His tongue was visible, the pointed end laving her.

She’d had the most sensitive nipples; the merest touch had always set her squirming, and he’d toyed with her unmercifully
that day, driving her to a manic condition while Pierre had grappled with capturing her expression of ecstasy. He’d succeeded well. All these years later, James could still hear her sensual growls of arousal, still sense the steamy surge from her pussy that had saturated his cock and thigh. He could smell her musk, perceive her body’s heat.

When Pierre had finally told them they could move about, she’d ridden him like a crazed woman. As she’d battled toward an apex that, at his tender age, he’d not previously confronted with a lover, he’d fucked her enthusiastically, but her level of agitation had been too immense. He hadn’t had sufficient hands to appease her, so Pierre had knelt behind her and massaged her, as well, until she’d come in a savage rush.

Just recalling her orgasm, and the one with which he’d followed, elevated his desire to a furious height once again. He’d had so many women since then, but such true rapture proved elusive. The farther he searched, the harder he sought to reclaim the bliss of that early era, the more impossible it was to locate.

Abby sat serenely, overly intrigued by how he manipulated another woman’s breast, and he had to reach around his back and physically grab the sideboard to prevent himself from running to her, baring her, and sucking forcefully as his body was commanding.

She noted his intense regard and pulled her eyes from the parchment, retaining his fiery gaze with one of her own. “When you were doing this . . . did you love her?”

“Love
has never had anything to do with it.”

“Did your coupling generate any sentiment on your part?”

“She was a good friend.” He shrugged. “Her husband was there, looking on. ’Twas extremely erotic. Extremely stimulating.”

“I realize that, but . . .”—she stared at the picture—“but surely you must feel something for the woman.”

“No,” he admitted. “I need not feel anything at all.” And
as he said it, he recognized a distinct absence in his character. The excuses he’d always employed to justify his libidinous behavior failed him, and for a change, he couldn’t defend his lewd conduct.

“Can all men proceed to sexual alleviation with a similar indifference?”

“Most.”

“So . . . that is why a happily married man could easily visit a whore, or keep a mistress, without any bothersome guilt.”

“Yes.”

“Which means,” she brooded, “that you could readily engage in a bit of love play with me despite your emotions. Or
lack
of them.”

“If the spirit moved me,” he retorted carefully.

She studied him boldly, her mind working over the possibilities. “No damage would be done to my virginal state, yet I could experience some of what you describe.”

“You could,” he reflected, “
if
I was willing to risk the consequences, but I’ve never been a gambling man.”

“That’s a strange comment from a man who owns a gaming establishment.”

His eyes widened in disbelief as her hand went to the collar of her gown. “What are you about, Abigail?”

“I’m not certain.”

“You’re playing with fire!”

“I know.” Her fingers slipped under the edge of the fabric. “And I find that, for once in my life, I don’t care.”

“I understand naught of what you hope to accomplish, but whatever it is, I’ll not help you.”

“Are you sure?”

The sleeve of her dress began to descend down her arm, and he gaped in dismay as more and more of her breast was exposed. Their rendezvous had suddenly spiraled into an insane realm! He’d lost control of the situation; he’d lost control of her, and his determination to continue on with his noble, detached course had crumpled to ashes.

“What’s come over you?” he gasped.

“Perhaps we can blame it on my spending too much time in your company,” she casually remarked, the rim of her bodice now barely covering her nipple, “but I should like to throw caution to the wind. I seek a mindless tryst, with no strings attached and no regard for the outcome.”

“I do not.”

“Why? A man of your reserve and nonchalance should have no qualms about dabbling with me. Assuredly, you may go about your business when we’re finished.”

He could think of no greater impossibility! Abby was not the kind of woman with whom one randomly trifled, and any involvement could only lead to disaster. Oh, where would it ever end? And how badly?

“I’ll not be responsible for stealing your virginity.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“What is it you want from me?” he grumbled in defeat. Rubbing a frustrated hand at the back of his neck, he realized that he needed air, needed space. He had to get away from there, from
her
, but his legs would not transport him to safety. As though he’d sprouted roots, he was anchored to his spot.

“I can’t bear the idea that I might hurt you, Abby. I’m fond of you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” And when it appeared that she might argue, he added, “You know it’s true.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” she declared. “I suppose I’ll hardly cross your mind after we leave this room.”

There was a challenge in her voice, as though she understood more about him than he suspected. She seemed to be intimating that, if their assignation progressed to the next level, he’d never be able to remain aloof upon the conclusion. It was almost as though she was demanding an opportunity to inflict her presence into his heart, fully aware that once she thoroughly ingratiated herself, he’d never be shed of her.

Impatient to advance, the tips of her fingers lingered under the front of her dress, disposed to embrace the final,
disastrous step that would bare her breast. Without giving himself an extra second to consider his rash impulse, he hastened to her side and laid his hand atop hers, thwarting her before she could commit herself to her reckless strategy.

He
would commence the journey down this improvident path.
He
would make the decision for her.
He
would brook responsibility for the affair’s initiation so that, at the termination, when she was bitterly regretting what she’d executed, she could place the entire blame on his sturdy shoulders.

Falling to one knee, they were face-to-face, her expressive, verdant eyes eager with surprise and excitement. The breast she’d come so close to exposing was tantalizing, and he caressed it through the layers of her clothing, massaging in a slow circle. “I want to love your breasts.”

“Oh, James . . .” His name escaped on a hiss of breath.

“Let me.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He cupped the two exquisite mounds, shaping them, pinching and squeezing the raised crests. At the increased sensation, she started to squirm against the firm cushion of the couch.

Gradually, the arc of his fingers expanded, teasing her neckline, working it fractionally lower until he could see the areolae. With a tug, the bodice dipped and her breasts were free. They were voluminous and round, perfectly shaped, designed for a man’s fervid attention. Her skin was creamy white, her nipples rosy and cheerfully begging for a thorough defiling. Powerless to resist, he grasped one of them between his thumb and index finger.

“Your breasts are stunning. As magnificent as I knew they would be.” He reached for the other one and gripped it as well, holding both for several long moments, simply allowing her to become accustomed to the intimate touch. As her shoulders relaxed, he applied pressure, perceptibly intensifying it until she was fidgeting against the seat once again.

“I hadn’t imagined . . .’Tis so . . . so . . .”

Unable to describe her reaction, she tipped her head back, inhaling deep, while he continued to play. With each additional manipulation, she struggled against the enhanced agitation, grappling for composure. But he didn’t want to toy with the cool and collected Lady Abigail; he wanted his Abby hot and writhing and ready for whatever sexual exploit he might wreak upon her next.

“I’m going to suckle at your breast.” He applied extra tension to the sensitive peaks, causing her to groan. “Watch me,” he advised. “Don’t close your eyes.”

“I won’t.”

He stared at her nipples, the anticipation building, then he chose his delectable morsel, leisurely flicking at it before he closed around it and sucked hard. Greedily, he dazzled her, toiling with his tongue, lips, and teeth. Progressively drawn into the undertaking, her hips began to automatically flex in the world’s most ancient rhythm, and he lowered a palm and pushed against her mound with the heel of his hand.

He kissed across her chest, tarrying at her cleavage, then he proceeded to the other breast, where he gave it the same fierce courtesy he’d lavished on the first. Once he had it throbbing and swollen, he roughly fondled both breasts, pressing them together so that he freely moved from one to the other until she could barely discern upon which he nursed.

“James, please, stop,” she pleaded after a protracted indulgence, but he didn’t heed her request. Instead, he augmented her duress, her pleasure and misery multiplying with each flip of his tongue, each wrench of his fingers.

She tried twisting away, but even as she did, the arm she’d kept behind his neck was urging him nearer. Her mind and body were at war, wanting her to travel in different directions in order to achieve contrasted purposes.

“James . . . please . . .” she implored again, more insistently.

“I can’t stop,” he said breathlessly. “Don’t ask me to.”

“But this . . .”—her words died in her throat as he rolled
her nipple between his teeth, lightly biting her aggravated, virgin flesh—“ ’tis more disturbance than a woman should be expected to abide!”

He backed off. Considering how aroused he was, he’d almost arrived at his point of no return. Soon it would become physically impractical to prevent himself from taking her all the way. They either needed to halt immediately or head on to a finale he wasn’t entirely convinced he was inclined to impart.

The stronger of the two, she decided for him by leaning back against the couch, but she didn’t release him. Her arms went around his shoulders and snuggled him against her chest. He was at eye level with a breast, and it appeared saturated and well tended, and he blew at it, the stream of air causing her to squirm anew, and he chuckled at how generously she responded to his slightest ministration. Since her raw nipples had benefited from the brunt of his concentration, he spared them any further tumult.

Forcing calm, willing his wave of lust to recede, he placed light kisses across her bosom, her neck, nape, shoulder. He traced a path to her mouth, gently making love to it, then proceeding on to her cheeks and forehead. Throughout his exploration, she didn’t speak, her eyes stayed closed, but she refused to let him go, sifting her fingers through the thick curls at the back of his hair.