Cheryl Holt (24 page)

He was stockier now, no longer fitting in the wardrobe of Phillip’s old apparel in which she’d dressed him early on, so he’d had a trunk of his own possessions delivered from Bristol Manor. The first time he’d donned his finery and tromped downstairs, she’d been so stunned that she’d had to grab a chair and sit down. The cook had been with her, and she’d been so flustered that she’d burned the muffins.

Decked out as he’d been, in breeches and a tailored white shirt, his blue coat setting off the color of his eyes, his hair pushed off his forehead, he’d resembled an angel painted on a church ceiling.

No,
she thought,
not an angel
. He was too dark. Too dangerous.
A devil!
That’s what he was! A devil with the power to corrupt and seduce.

Currently, he was attired in his robe, a thin, silky garment constructed of an exotic fabric that a friend had brought him from the Orient. He shrugged out of it, and he was naked, his cock partially erect with his anticipation of what would happen once he entered the pool.

As he maneuvered the ramp, immersing himself to his ankles, to his thighs, he kept his gaze locked on hers, and she was so mesmerized that she couldn’t look away. At that very moment, she would have done whatever he requested. Jumped
off a cliff. Hurled herself into a pyre of flames. She was so enamored that there was no despicable conduct she would regard as too scandalous.

Smitten, bewitched, she’d been lured to ruin, and she didn’t care. Not about Kate, or her employees, or her customers. Not about the neighbors, or Stephen’s sister and family. She was hopelessly, miserably, totally in love, and she’d debased herself so often and so thoroughly that she didn’t recognize herself as the woman she’d been before he’d arrived.

That confident, autonomous, enthusiastic person had vanished, replaced by a seething, festering malcontent, who craved things she couldn’t have, who dreamed of things that could never be.

When will you go?
she yearned to shout, but didn’t. She never asked about his plans, because she couldn’t bear to hear his answer. He had to have a departure date in mind, but if she was apprised of what it was, she’d obsess over its gradual, dreadful approach. It would loom, like a cancerous tumor eating her alive. She couldn’t tolerate the anguish of certainty. Better to have it be a horrid, gut-wrenching surprise.

He floated toward her and sunk onto a stone ledge, reclining, his arms resting on the rocks. It was a natural seat, either created by eons of rushing water or carved by the Romans—she didn’t know which—but he appeared to be perched on a throne.

“Wash me,” he ordered, imperious as any king.

Like the pitiful minion she was, her deplorable heart pounded at having the chance to oblige him.

After fetching a cloth and soap, she swam over. Eager, excited, she couldn’t wait to begin, for she knew how it would conclude. She couldn’t get enough of his body, of the carnal antics he taught her. He was her tutor, she his pupil. He was her master, she his slave, and she participated in each foray with the fervor of a prisoner bound for the gallows, proceeding as if each encounter would be the last.

Scrubbing up a lather, she started to bathe him. Commencing at his shoulders, she traced his nape, his collarbone, his chest, his nipples. Leisurely, she circled them, played with them, then she descended, to his belly, to his privates. He was hard, his erection prodding her, and she swabbed him with the cloth, wrapping it around his rod and using the nap to incite him even more.

Rubbing lower, she cleaned his legs, his feet, until she was crouched before him, like a beggar, a supplicant, and she peered up at his dear face.

How had he come to mean so much to her? Why had she let her emotions run amok? Only suffering could ensue, yet she was determined to forge on.

The bathing emporium was temporarily closed to the public, and while she liked to dupe herself into believing that she’d done it for Stephen, the pathetic fact was that she’d reached the greedy decision so that she could have him all to herself.

For the remaining days he would be with her, she could abide no interruptions, no interference, and she couldn’t be distracted by such mundane issues as work or chores. With the resolve of a fanatic, she had to fill herself with bits and pieces of him so that after he went, she could feel as if he’d left some of himself behind.

He brushed her cheek, his thumb grazing her lips. It seemed as if he would utter a profound remark, an eloquent and deep declaration that would further confuse her, and have her reeling, but he didn’t comment, and she was relieved.

Since that hideous afternoon when he’d claimed he loved her, he hadn’t professed as much again, which she deemed a blessing. The attestation had rattled her, had made her anxious to commit any ridiculous transgression, so it was best that he was silent. When he expressed his sentiments aloud, she longed to assume they were true.

He scooted up to a higher ledge, exposing his flanks, his genitals.

“Put your mouth on me,” he said. “I want to watch you.”

Without hesitation, she complied. Before meeting him, she hadn’t grasped that a woman would do such a thing to a man, that she could enjoy it, but when he’d suggested the wicked deed, she’d been avid to try it, and she’d grown to relish the iniquity. It called to the lusty, bawdy side of her character, the one that hadn’t existed before he’d burst into her life, and she was wild to indulge.

Snuggled between his thighs, she massaged him, running across the crown, making him writhe, making him squirm. She dipped down, licked him over and over, stroking her tongue up his rigid length. Arriving at the tip, she laved it, teasing it, and he became more tense, more strained.

As she opened wide and took him inside, he hissed with pleasure, and he thrust, giving her more and more, until he was impaled. She reveled in the ribald act, titillated by how primitive it was, how electrifying. The universe was reduced to its basest elements. There was just him, and her, the dark night, and his rhythmic motions.

He persisted far past what she would have guessed was his limit, until his cock was throbbing with its need for release, and he pulled her away and slid down into the pool.

She pouted at the loss. “You never allow me to finish this way.”

“You’re not ready for such crudity.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge?”

“No.” Which meant he considered the matter settled.

As with all facets of their relationship, his dictatorial attitude rankled. She was too independent to obey his orders with any grace, and he was so used to issuing them that it was second nature.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

“No. I want to—”

“You talk too much.”

He was beyond the point of delay or discussion, and she gleaned some satisfaction in comprehending that she’d goaded him to the edge. Gripping her, he spun her, an easy task with her being so bouyant. She grappled for purchase as he positioned her on her knees, then nestled himself to her bottom.

“Do you have any idea how aroused I am when you take me in your mouth?” He slid three fingers into her sheath, provoking her with smooth, slow caresses. “I like to see you, with your breasts bared, and the moonlight glistening on your skin.”

“Make love to me, Stephen,” she implored, her voice unsteady and weak, and sounding nothing like her usual, confident self.

Chuckling, he leaned in, biting her earlobe, inducing her to thrash against his hand, but he had her pinned between himself and the rocks so that she could scarcely move.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, yes,” she whimpered, detesting how he could get her to plead and beg.

“How about that?”

“Ohh . . .”

“Should I stop? Or continue on?”

“Don’t stop.”

With a few deft flicks of his thumb, he goaded her into a powerful orgasm. She soared to the heavens, quivering with ecstasy, her body convulsing. For some reason, dallying in the water made their ardor more vehement. No doubt, it was because the naughtiness of doing it in the out-of-doors tickled her perverted soul. She’d fallen so far from the straight and narrow that it was embarrassing to realize how low she’d stoop. There was no lewd, lascivious exploit that was beyond her.

The spiral peaked and waned, and he was behind her, his
phallus stubborn and insistent at her core. He inserted the tip, taunting her, leaving her desperate, impetuous, and he laughed, preening over how proficient he was at spurring her to a deplorable state.

“God, I adore how you come.”

“Take me now,” she beseeched.

“Should I?” Pretending scant interest, he declined to confer the relief she craved.

“Stephen!”

He ran his palm up and down her back. “You’re so impatient.”

“I hate this torment!”

“Tell me how much you want me.”

“No.”

He penetrated an inch, another. “Tell me that I’m the one. The only one you’ll ever have.”

“No.” Testy, petulant, she wouldn’t stroke his male vanity. “After you go, I plan on having dozens of lovers. Hundreds of lovers!”

Clutching her to him, he sheathed himself, and her breath caught as he filled her. “There’ll be no one but me!”

He was determined to have her agree, but she wouldn’t. Let him stew! He was returning to his doting harem. “I’ll have as many as I please. I’ll—”

He cut her off, refusing to listen to her assertion, even though they both knew she was boasting. After him, there could never be another.

“Only me!” he repeated, biting her shoulder, and she was trapped and couldn’t shake him off.

“You’re a cur, a brute, a . . . a . . .”

He started flexing, entering all the way, then withdrawing. Brutal, methodical, his hips slammed into her like the pistons of a huge machine. She was splayed, her bottom slapping his thighs, her shins scraping on the stones. In the morning, she’d
be bruised and scratched, but she didn’t care. Whatever he asked to do, she would permit, however he demanded his gratification, she would acquiesce.

She was his captive, his vassal, imprisoned by his look, his touch.

His thrusting grew more aggresive, then abruptly, he halted and came. His cock pulsated inside her, his seed spewing out in a fiery torrent. She nearly wept with the rapture of it, the savagery of it. How remarkable, that she—an unpretentious, ordinary female—could propel him to such a drastic condition.

His orgasm went on and on, having no end, as he spilled himself with great relish, and she hung her head and rode the wave with him.

He descended, dragging her with him so they were in the pool. He was imbedded in her, his erection not subsiding, and she reached over her shoulder, cradling his face, his cheek, and he kissed her palm.

“I’m going to die in your arms,” he murmured.

“Do you think so?”

“I’m quite sure of it.”

Pulling out of her, he scooted onto the rocks, and he took her with him, spreading her legs and easing her down onto his phallus. He kissed her so sweetly that a sheen of tears flooded her eyes.

“What will happen to us, Anne?”

“I don’t know.”

“How will I persevere without you?”

Don’t go!
she wailed to herself.
Don’t forsake me!

But she understood that he would. There was no place for her in his world, and no place for him in hers. There was only the present, the next few days or weeks, each passing with a terrifying swiftness.

They had discussed a future, once, that horrid afternoon,
and he’d humiliated her by maintaining that she could never fit in, and she was too proud to beseech him to view their dilemma from a different perspective.

They could succeed, they could find a way—if he truly wished to—but she kept silent. She’d never beseech him to choose her, to stay with her, when he was so adamantly opposed to the notion. Some entreaties couldn’t be uttered aloud, some things weren’t meant to be.

She embraced him, burying herself at his nape, where she could be soothed by his scent. Already, he seemed to be slipping away, his form less distinct, as if he was fading.

A strange sense of menace and loss crept over her, and she shuddered, the dread of his departure looming like a dangerous, dark hole. She felt as if a thousand demons were out there in the shadows, watching her, waiting for the moment she would be alone, so that they could rain havoc down upon her.

He hugged her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, just sometimes . . .” She shuddered again and glanced into the thick shrubbery. Lately, there were occasions when she perceived a threat from whatever was out in the woods, though she couldn’t explain why, and she shook off her anxiety.

She was being ridiculous. She was merely disconcerted about their imminent separation, and the worrying had her jumpy.

“Sometimes . . . what?”

“I’m being silly. Don’t mind me.” Smiling, she couldn’t have him presuming she was distressed or apprehensive. In the short period remaining, she intended to be as happy and content as she was able, and she wouldn’t dampen their joy.

Needing to lighten the mood, she balanced on her knees, riding him, as he surged inside her. They were at their best when they were together like this. Their outside problems dissolved away, the pending anguish ceased to exist. There
was just the two of them, unfettered, isolated, seeking the ultimate bliss.

He tipped her forward, her breast in his eager mouth, and he suckled, his tongue playing wicked tricks on her anatomy, igniting the spark that would whirl into an uncontrollable frenzy.

She arched her back, giving more of herself, and she stared up at the stars.

I’m yours, Stephen,
she vowed.
Yours forever.

No matter where he ended up, no matter where the road took him, no matter the sorrows or woes he endured, there would always be one person who loved him beyond imagining.

She closed her eyes and let desire sweep her away.

Willie McGee seethed with fury.

He’d heard the rumors that Stephen Chamberlin was recuperating at Anne’s farm, but he’d discounted the gossip, for he hadn’t wanted to believe that Anne would be so reckless. Her decision to nurse Chamberlin was unnatural, perverted, so he couldn’t fathom why she’d have acceded to such a disastrous ignominy.