Cheryl Holt (26 page)

Hers never remained stationary, either. Undressing him as one might a child, she struggled with the long hem, the cuff links, until she was finally able to draw the shirt off his arms. His magnificent chest was splendidly arrayed, and
she explored meticulously, discovering peaks and valleys, till she was familiar with every inch.

Enticed by his flat brown nipples, she flicked a nail across one, and it pebbled into a small, firm bud, so she pinched it, unable to believe how she instantly had him writhing.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Very much.” His jaw tight, he bit off an oath as she captured the other and began manipulating them both, much as he did to her own.

She studied him carefully, gauging his responses, until ultimately she bent down and sucked one of the taut nubs into her mouth. As her teeth closed around it and she nipped lightly, she was rewarded by the vicious hiss of his breath escaping. He urged her closer, holding her there while she delighted in his tang, his smell, his pleasure.

What a marvelous thing this was—this loving! To think that she’d denied herself this unrelenting delight for so many years! But she hadn’t understood . . . no one had told her. . . . Then again, she hadn’t met James, either. He was the one who inspired this evolving passion. What a joy! To chance upon him! To share these particular pieces of herself!

She kissed down his chest and stomach, leisurely delving into his navel, then . . . she was at his trousers. Migrating lower, she burrowed against the placard, the bumpy mound, the rounded sacs, etching patterns across the crest, constricting the fabric to get a better outline.

Her fingers went to the top button, but before she could snap it loose, his hand topped hers, stilling the motion, and she gazed up into his handsome face.

“Are you certain?” he asked, subtly reminding her that when the initial one came undone, they would all go.

“I am.”

He elevated himself and brushed a thumb across her bottom lip. “Once my trousers are open, I may not be able to control what transpires. I’ll try, but—”

She cut him off. “Don’t restrain yourself on my account.
I want to experience all, James. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid that you don’t realize . . . that . . . well . . .” He vacillated, then added, “Until we’re finished, you can’t possibly grasp all that you’ll be giving me, and then we can’t change it or fix it.”

“I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decision about how to proceed.”

“I appreciate that. I would just hate for you to have any regrets once it’s over.”

“No matter what we do together, I could never have any regrets.”

For a long, telling moment, he regarded her, assessing the level of her resolve and, apparently, deciding it sufficient. He released the upper button himself, by the act, granting permission. In agony, he propped the pillows under his head so that he could observe. Though he endeavored to appear uninvolved and unmoved, he seemed brittle as glass, fragile and breakable, as though he could be readily shattered into a thousand pieces.

Kneeling at his center, she languidly worked at the buttons, wanting this expectation to continue on forever. Finally, the bottom one was free, the fabric loose around his lanky hips. She sat paralyzed, not certain what to do next.

Sensing her consternation, he took her hand and slipped it inside. “Caress me,” he said. “Like this.” With his fingers gripping hers, he curled them around his shaft.

“Oh, my . . .” she managed at perceiving his immense size. He was so big that her fist was scarcely able to surround him. The outer skin was hot, smooth, and pliant, but underneath, he was hard as steel. His pulse was thumping into her hand, and the exotic sensation surged through her palm, up her arm, and into her chest, where his heartbeat connected to her own so that the two separate organs throbbed together in the same heightened rhythm.

Unable to bear the suspense, she shoved the material away, wanting to see, needing to see, and as he was unveiled, she determined that no painting could have accurately portrayed how he would really appear.

His cock was an abnormal creature. Attenuated, large, solid, covered with palpitating, ropy veins, it reached out toward her, reacted immediately to her slightest handling, yearned for manipulation as though it were a thing alive.

“Stroke me,” he commanded, and he guided her in the tempo until she adopted it as her own. “Squeeze me, too. Gently in the beginning, then more strongly as we progress. And the end . . .”—his breath caught as she flicked her finger over the agitated, extended tip—“is the most sensitive part. Brush across it every time. I’ll obtain the most stimulation that way.”

Still hovering amid his thighs, she massaged him for a protracted period, testing different speeds, different pressures. He bravely withstood it all, gradually growing more strained. The opening at the crown started to ooze a clear fluid, and she halted. “Is this your seed?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse, strained with exertion. “ ’Tis simply moisture, informing you that my seed is close.”

Excited by the news and ecstatic over the prospect, she leaned down and did what she’d longed to do since she’d first seen those stunning pictures of Lily. Starting at the base, she ran her tongue along his length, finishing at the wet apex, where she licked away all his juice, but more came to replace it. Powerless to resist, she closed over him, and he tasted like heat and salt and sweat.

He valiantly strove to remain stationary, but immobility was impossible, and he steadied her, then flexed, offering her just the blunt extremity, then more and more. She eagerly took what he imparted, intrigued by the strange display of physicality. There was something extremely satisfying about having him at her mercy in this fashion. What authority she wielded! It seemed that time was at a standstill, that nothing else mattered but this: her mouth on his cock.

She moved her attention to his soft, dangling sacs. They were two compact balls, layered with silky skin more delicate than her own, and she cradled them, administering to
them while her lips and tongue continued on his shaft.

Without warning, James grabbed her and yanked her to the side. A fine sheen of perspiration glistened on his abdomen and chest; his heart thundered so furiously that she could see it vibrating against his ribs. Obviously, he demanded immediate surcease, but her entire world had shrunk to the intense carnal torment she’d been inflicting, and she didn’t want to stop. She reached for his cock again, but he swatted her away.

“Wait, Abby!” His tone was stressed and forced, but she paid him no heed as she licked his length once again, reveling in how his cock jumped and swelled. He cursed, pulling her into his arms, and he buried his face at her nape. “Your first time, I wanted it to be . . .” He halted, groaning, sounding in pain. “Oh . . . I can’t hold off any longer!”

“Then don’t . . .” she answered. His body was behaving much as her own had when he’d brought her to sexual release. He was so close to completion, yet she hadn’t grasped how well she’d accomplished her task. Apparently, she’d shattered his precious self-restraint. As he’d lain there, viewing her stoically and scrupulously, he hadn’t been nearly as unaffected as he’d attempted to appear.

“Fuck me,” he said crudely. “Fuck me with your hand.” He urgently seized it and clutched it around his burning phallus.

After only a half dozen caresses, his hips thrust strenuously, and he emitted a haunting moan that reverberated through her skin and bones. A mysterious liquid heat spread across his stomach, and he hugged her so frantically that she feared he might break one of her ribs if he didn’t relax. Just as she could endure no more of the forceful pressure, his muscles eased, his grip lessened, his flesh slackened.

Silently, he held her, kissing up her chest and neck until he encountered her eager lips. Tenderly, he made love to her mouth, and she accepted his tongue and cherished it with her own. When they eventually separated, they lay side by side, their breath mingling, their hearts beating at
a singular rate. He gazed at her with a searing look of affection.

Near to love
, she thought, but with such a man, who could know?

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“No,” she said quietly, reveling in a kiss of her own.

“I’m so attracted to you . . . You make me so aroused . . .”

He couldn’t complete whatever it was he was attempting to say, or perhaps there were no words to convey his true feelings. As for herself, absolutely nothing could have prepared her for how private this moment was. She extended a finger and drew a circle on his stomach, exploring the steamy pile of moisture, then she rested her palm across it, letting its sticky essence glue her hand to his abdomen.

“This is your seed?”

“Yes.”

She twirled her finger through it, then placed the tiniest amount on her tongue. The flavor was unique. Like heat and salt and him.

“What do you think?” he queried.

“Delicious,” she responded, and he chuckled, but the short laugh drifted away and silence ensued once again.

Peculiarly, he seemed altered, apparently overly affected by the intimacy he’d allowed himself to undergo with her. He looked young and innocent, and although it was difficult to believe of a man with his wealth of life experiences, he appeared extremely vulnerable, as though he’d exposed himself in ways he’d never intended.

“I’m so glad you showed me,” she said.

He gifted her with one of those smiles she was quickly coming to realize she couldn’t live without. “I didn’t have much choice,” he replied. “You, my dear, are deadly.”

She acknowledged the compliment in the teasing vein in which it was dispensed, but as they lingered together, the closeness grew again. Studying his eyes, peering to his very core, she recognized what had changed. His smoldering anger and imposed distance had vanished. It was almost as if
the simple act of baring himself were an admission—of his emotional state? of his need for her? of his acceptance of their relationship?—that he could not make aloud.

The opportunity seemed ripe to speak candidly. At that instant, she could say anything, and he wouldn’t mind, so she boldly forged ahead. “If you had been inside me, we might have created a babe.”

He laid his hand on her abdomen, clearly imagining what it would be like to have his child nestled there.

“Would carrying my babe make you happy?” he inquired.

“Very much. I would like to give you a son. One who would be produced like this . . . with so much joy and . . .”—she almost said
love
but caught herself and modified it to, “gladness. He would be such a special child. I just know it. . . .”

She felt bereft, as if the child had been within their grasp but lost somehow because the two of them couldn’t detect the appropriate path. Tears came, and one plopped over the edge and trailed down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb and licked it away, then he cradled her face and kissed both her eyelids.

“Don’t cry, love,” he murmured. “Some things were never meant to be.”

“But that doesn’t mean”—she swallowed in order to keep her careening emotions in check—“that I have to stop wishing.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, and he sighed as he snuggled her close and held her safe in the cradle of his arms.

James walked behind the screen that was discreetly positioned on the other side of the room. There was a basin, a pitcher of water, and a cloth. He dipped the cloth and swirled it in the water, then went back to where Abby was snuggled on the bed. Just from viewing her there, stretching and purring, he began to grow hard once more.

He hadn’t meant to spew himself across his stomach; he hadn’t wanted her first encounter with male lust to be in such a fashion. In fact, when he’d arrived, he’d hoped that he wouldn’t do anything at all, that his actual participation would be minimal other than to give her pleasure, but as always happened while in her presence, he simply couldn’t resist the spiral of desire. As she’d knelt before him, wearing the erotic black clothing he’d selected, as she’d toyed with him, deftly using her hands and mouth, a wave of unmanageable passion had swept him away.

Though his orgasm had relieved some of the sexual pressure, she titillated his senses as no woman ever had, and he couldn’t stop himself from coveting her again so soon. If he continued at this level of stimulation all night, what would his condition be come the morn? Would this rampant arousal never abate?

“Are you feeling all right?” she queried, much like an accomplished courtesan who had spent years satisfying one lover after the next.

“Much better.” He’d been worried that she’d be troubled or disgusted at enduring his end of things, yet she seemed to have weathered it well. As she was a novice at love games, he’d intended to practice patience, but events had progressed much more rapidly than he’d planned. “I become so provoked when I’m around you that I can’t control
myself. Hopefully, the release I just enjoyed will keep me from behaving like an ogre.”

“You
are
grumpy when you’re in a carnal situation.”

She was so quick to notice the smallest tidbits! “ ’Tis a manly problem. Unrelieved sexual tension can be . . . distressing.”

“Well, it leaves
you
downright cantankerous.” She appeared luscious, ripe, and ready for whatever was next. “And I have to tell you that I don’t care for your bad humors at all, so you must allow me to ease your
distress
whenever it arises.”

“You didn’t find my . . . discharge . . . upsetting?”

“Not in the least. Why? Do some women?”

“On occasion. Those with less experience can be . . . shall we say . . . overwhelmed?”

“Not me, apparently.” She licked her lips like a contented cat. “I particularly liked having you in my mouth.”

He groaned and rubbed at his promptly inflating erection. He’d created a monster! “My lady,” he offered gallantly, “my body is at your disposal.”

“Does that mean I’m to be treated to an encore performance?” She was eager as a young child who’d just spied her favorite candy.