Running Wild (35 page)

She slid down the bed, between his legs and, as he watched
in the mirror, directed his cock to her mouth. Her dark red lips kissed the
head, again and again. At length her pink tongue flicked out to lick him. He
jumped in her hand. “Yeah,” he groaned, “just like that.” Another lick, and
another, as her hair fell around her face and her breasts swayed. She twirled
her tongue around him, driving pleasure upward. His legs started shaking as he
approached climax.

“Enough.” He reached for her head, half to pull her
away—half to hold it there.

She sat back. “Did I do it wrong?”

“
No
.” He lurched up, twisted, and then pushed her
into the bed. “Watch.” He motioned to the mirror as he positioned himself over
her. Clenching his jaw, he held her eyes in the mirror and gradually entered
her, deeper and deeper until his pelvis rubbed against her pearl. Her face
tightened, and she choked out a little yell. “Oh no—”

“Oh
yes
.” He pulled out for another thrust, and
another, pressing against her each time. He followed each movement in the
mirror as he buried himself inside her, reveling in the tightening of the
muscles in her belly and the shaking of her hips as she started that wondrous
climb toward orgasm. Instinctively, she arched her hips, meeting his thrusts.
She started convulsing. On the next thrust, her face contorted, and she peaked,
crying out and pleading incoherently for mercy. He turned from the mirror and
started moving faster and faster, triggering another orgasm, more rolling
contractions, squeezing him, pulling him toward paradise. His blood heated,
rushed, making him unbearably hard as pleasure surged upward. He let go and the
explosion came, rocketing through him.

He collapsed next to her. For a time, through the hazy
afterglow of satisfaction, he soaked in the joy of having her lying next to
him, watched the beautiful rise and fall of her breasts and the gradual
recession of her flush. At length she opened her eyes. “That was,” she said
drowsily, “oh, but you know how it was!”

He propped his head up on his hand to look down at her.
“Good?”

“Indescribable. And the mirror—” She glanced at it, and then
turned back. “It was marvelous at the time, at any rate.”

“Not now?”

“I’d rather not see myself naked.”

“I kinda like it.”

She smiled and reached up to run a hand along his cheek and
chin. “I like this—when you’re not completely shaven. You look dangerous, as if
what’s hidden inside you is rising to the surface.”

“Me?” Shaking his head, he grinned. “No, ma’am, I’m not
dangerous.”

She laughed. “Oh, but you are. To rabid cougars and,” she
said, taking a small, trembly breath, “to me. I must confess, Nicholas, that
all I’ve thought about today is you and your attentions. And the fear that I’d
lost them. Is that how it always is when one engages in these activities, this
obsessiveness?”

He hesitated. “No. Not for me, anyhow. It’s different with
you. You’re all I’ve thought about, too.”

“Is that so?” she said with a wide smile. She propped
herself up on her hand, too, to look him square in the eyes. “Why, then I
suppose we are well matched, are we not? Perhaps we ought to make arrangements
to do it often?”

Often . . . damn but he’d forgotten the safes! “Yeah,” he
said moving to grab the box. “That’s why I moved to the hotel. Sorry I didn’t
tell you, but you were sleeping and somebody could’ve found a letter. We’d
better talk about how to avoid, uh, complications. I ought to have used these
just now. And last night too.” He gave her the box.

“Complications?” she asked, opening it. “Do you mean a baby?
Why, I have already—oh! They’re French safes, aren’t they? I found a box under
Port’s bed several years back. Next to a truly filthy magazine that Drew
Hathaway sent, illegally, mind you, from London.
The Pearl
I think it
was called.”

His eyebrows jerked up. “
The Pearl
?
Port
had
that?”

“He did,” Star said, her eyes sparkling. “He’s not nearly as
prim as most people think. Did you never wonder why he married at twenty?”

“No,” he said slowly. “You read it, I bet.”

“Some. I could not look Port in the eye for two weeks. It,
uh, detailed some matters that until last night I had thought must be fiction .
. . You know,” she said biting her lip, “it occurs to me that I oughtn’t to
talk of this to you.”

He chuckled. “Don’t know why not, you seem fine talking
about everything else. So listen, we’ll use these for now on, O.K.?”

“Agreed. I have my own devices as well. A sponge and
syringes, although not as . . . not with any harsh solutions.”

“Sponge? Did you use it just now?”

“Yes. Not last night, however. I couldn’t very well prepare
for what I didn’t know was coming, could I? I did use the syringe this morning,
however.” Her blush darkened. It made him smile and started a strange tickle in
his chest.

“O.K. Still, it could already have happened—”

“Perhaps, but I am in my ‘safe period.’ We’ll know for sure
in three weeks.”

He didn’t trust
that
method of contraception at all.
Melinda’s second child had been conceived when was “safe.”

And if Star was carrying his baby?

Marriage. His heart quickened. She’d have to marry him,
wouldn’t she? Even if she didn’t love him, even if she hated the notion of
marrying, even if he was just a rancher and not good enough for Society. A baby
changed everything.

Damn, he oughta have tossed the safes.

He could stick ’em with pins. . .

She still had the sponge.

“O.K.,” he said. “I guess we’ll talk about that if it
happens.”

***

Star laid
The Count of Monte Cristo
upon the parlor
sofa. It was her favorite book, but she could not seem to concentrate on it,
not when she was sitting upon the very sofa where she and Nicholas had enjoyed
so much pleasure but three nights earlier. Just the thought of it made her
tingly and warm. She must wait another twelve hours before those passions could
be relieved again, as they had been every night since he’d taken her on the
sofa. Three nights in his arms, followed by lovely, nightmare-free sleep.

Sighing, she slid her feet to the ground and shoved them
into slippers. Port looked up from his newspaper, watching her over a pair of
steel-rimmed glasses. “It is reprehensible the way you remove your shoes in the
parlor, Star.”

“And it is ridiculous that a man of your age insists upon
wearing reading glasses,” she said, rising to cross to the bow window. Although
she was still sore from last night’s passion, her
mind
was curiously at
peace. Who would ever have believed that spending a night in bed with a man would
provide such marvelous ease?

“Without them I get headaches,” he said turning the page of
his newspaper. “You know, I’m feeling a trifle empty. I believe I’ll ring for a
tea tray. Would you like some?”

“If you’re going to ring, yes. Scones would be nice. Oh, and
some clotted cream.”

“Your appetite, Sister, is
also
reprehensible,” Port
said, amusement tumbling through his voice in spite of the lecture in his
words. He crossed the room to pull on the bell.

“It’s not my fault the good Lord saw fit to make me so
tall,” she answered mildly as she pushed aside a lacy white panel to look
outside. Still raining, still cold. Her eyes acknowledged the angry grey ocean,
but her heart saw sunshine and warmth. Because of love, she surmised, enhanced
by sexual fulfillment. It made her former feelings for Nicholas seem like mere
shadows of love. Did he feel it as well? At least a little? Oh but he must; a
man could not behave
that
way toward a woman if he did not harbor some
lasting sentiment, could he?

Recollection surfaced, of his kisses, of those intimate
touches and the marvel of him moving inside of her. She sighed dreamily. As
expected, he was the most remarkable of lovers, at least by her way of
thinking. No poetry or serenading, but his erotic whispers of encouragement
thrilled her more than flattery ever could. She suspected most men would not
offer such encouragement. Most men would wish a woman to be but a passive
recipient in bed. Or entirely focused on
him
. Not Nicholas. He treated
her as an equal participant.

An equal. She frowned as the word hit home. Was that how
Lucy Stone and Henry Blackwell’s relationship, their marriage, worked? Like her
and Nick’s nightly excesses did?

No. No, Henry and Lucy were of similar minds as well.
Nicholas and she, however, were not. He did not agree with the movement, even
though he
had
said he’d vote for her. How his eminently logical mind
reconciled those two vastly different ideas, she didn’t know. It was likely,
however, believing as he did, that Nicholas would not approve of his wife
working for the movement. He certainly would not encourage her as Blackwell did
Lucy Stone. Quite possibly, she thought with a sinking heart, he’d forbid it. A
partnership between lovers was far different from one between spouses, and even
the limited partnership they had must end when Nicholas returned to Colorado.

A knock sounded on the door. Their young maid, Lily,
entered, carrying a long, oblong box. “For Miss Star, sir,” she said to Port.
“And you rang for something else?”

Flowers? Star wondered, with a ridiculous leap of her heart.
Oh yes, Nicholas had sent her flowers! Perhaps he did love her and if he did,
was there hope for something greater?

“A tea tray, if you would please,” Port answered. “And my
sister has requested scones and clotted cream if cook has them?”

Flowers were not discreet, of course, and they were trying
to be discreet. Oh, but she didn’t care! She’d throw discretion in the face of
Mrs. Astor for proof of Nicholas’s love.

The maid nodded. “Yes, sir. You know she keeps them around
for Miss. And a vase, maybe?”

“Why yes, thank you, Lily, that would be splendid,” Star
said, pulling off the box’s ribbons as Lily left. What sort of note would he
send? Would it say “Love Nicholas?” If he felt so strongly, perhaps he would
visit again next summer. Perhaps their limited partnership need not be so
limited after all. Smiling joyfully, she pushed aside the tissue paper.

Black. Roses. Dyed black roses.

The blood in her hands turned to ice. Her lungs tightened.
Her breathing emerged in short, rapid bursts.

“Star? What is it?” Port asked, crossing the room. “Black
roses. I’ve never seen such a thing. Not particularly romantic are they?”

She regarded him. He appeared quite composed. “Have you
angered one of your admirers, my dear?” he asked, raising his eyebrows over
eyes gleaming with mirth. “I have warned you time and again that such
flirtation was bound to cause difficulties.” He pulled out the card. “Ah—from
Romeo. ‘You belong to me.’ It seems our man is a trifle vexed.”

From Romeo. Not Nicholas. Not an expression of love, but of
menace. A shudder rushed over her body, driving away her elation. “It sounds
threatening, doesn’t it?”

Port shrugged. “No, why do you think so? I own it strikes
one as possessive, but as for threatening, he signs the card ‘love Romeo’.”
Port gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and then returned to his seat to
retrieve his newspaper.

“But,” Star objected, even as her muscles relaxed a little,
“after the Bible passages and the telephone call that you took . . . well, doesn’t
‘you belong to me’ imply a threat?”

“Why, anyone in love feels some degree of jealousy, Star. If
anything, the Bible passages
prove
that Romeo is no threat. He warned
you against your speech, but did nothing to prevent it. Moreover, those are
high quality roses and one does not get roses dyed cheaply, you know. That
proves his devotion, does it not? I suspect he merely wishes to convey his
displeasure over your flirtations these last weeks.”

Except that he
had
attempted to prevent her speech.

“Still, if it would set your mind at ease,” Port offered,
glancing up from his paper, “you could telephone the florist. I suspect our
man, Romeo, sent a messenger to purchase the flowers for anonymity’s sake, but
you never know. Perhaps the florist can tell you who he is.”

“You know, that is a capital idea. I’ll do it immediately.”
She crossed the parlor to pick up the phone.

The florist, however, could reveal nothing, for Port was
correct, Romeo had covered his tracks well. Perhaps, she thought as she rang
off, perhaps it was time to tell her family of the trunk, and to tell Nicholas
about the calls and the flowers. She
had
promised him.

They would, all of them, agree that she must quit her work.

Pictures of Minnie, broken and bleeding, rose in front of
her eyes, followed hard on by Bella’s eyes, dark with revenge, and the
hollow-eyed expression that had permanently settled upon their father’s
countenance. How could Star fail them, fail future victims, by quitting over
something as silly as a secret admirer? What were black roses or cut up
clothing in comparison to the wounds Minnie endured? Nothing. Nothing at all.

She sat on the sofa and fingered a rose petal. Romeo knew
where she lived, but other than that, he had little access to her. She’d not
planned any public appearances until after Newport’s Season. For six weeks, her
family, friends and Society would surround her. It could not hurt to hold this
to her chest for a little longer. She could continue her article writing and no
one the wiser.

She set her back. No doubt six more weeks would see the man
weary of his devotion. No, she had no good reason for anxiety. She was safe,
quite safe. Far, far safer than the victims for whom she fought.