Absolute Pleasure (22 page)

Better to remain silent.

"It was different than I imagined it would be."

"How so?”

"More physical, I suppose. More special.”

"Wait until I'm inside you—between your legs. It's a thousand times more intimate."

Just considering it made her tingle with anticipation. “Will you today?”

"I don't know," he said vaguely.

He sat up, and for a panicked second, she thought he was leaving, but he simply grabbed for his shirt, wiped his drying seed off her stomach, then stretched out once again.

"I hadn't intended to do anything today. Except, perhaps, to send you home immediately after you arrived. I can assure you that I wasn't going to do anything approaching this." As if he couldn't fathom his conduct, he gestured at their naked torsos. "When I'm around you, despite my best laid plans, I can't seem to behave."

"I'm delighted."

"So am I."

"On Saturday, you seemed so sure that we would ... would ..." How she wished she possessed the appropriate vocabulary! "Why have you changed your mind?"

"Over the weekend, I cogitated our situation at length, and I'd determined we shouldn't be lovers, but then"—he scrutinized her breasts, her stomach, her thighs—"I set eyes upon you, and I simply had to have you. You're driving me mad."

He shifted so that he was underneath her, and she was stretched out on top of him, her nipples dangling over his mouth. With a shock, she realized that his cock was promptly elongating.

"Blissful insanity," she said.

"I want you incessantly." He clasped her bottom and held her against his erection, perplexed by his swiftly accelerating passion. "Yet I'm so afraid that—if I persist— I'll end up abusing you terribly."

"You never could," she gently pronounced.

"How can you make such a claim? You don't know what—"

Alarmed by what he might disclose, she silenced, him with a kiss, declining to listen to a confession of sins. She didn't need to be apprised of all the ways he would inevitably break her heart for she'd learn them all much sooner than she wished.

"Let's focus on what
is,"
she said, "and let it be enough for now."

He searched her eyes, then blurted out, "I care about you."

His declaration was wrenched from some inner spot where it had been solidly buried, and she nodded prudently, accepting it as a priceless gift. "Then I'm sure everything will work out."

"I'm hard for you. Again! Already!"

He was severely disturbed by the discovery, but she could only laugh at his discomfort. How phenomenal to observe him so bothered! It could only mean that his feelings ran much deeper than she'd suspected.

"Then take me, you silly man"—she leaned down, so that her nipple brushed his lips—"and quit fretting about the morrow. It will arrive before we expect it to."

Evidently, he concurred, for he sucked her breast far into his mouth and, easy as that, his consternation was forgotten.

Chapter Thirteen

Mary paced back and forth across John Preston's slightly worn parlor.

She hadn't meant to visit him, yet here she was, stewing, nettled, and impatient for his arrival. The pending encounter couldn't be avoided any more than she could stop breathing. A destiny had presented itself, and much to her dismay, it appeared to involve John.

Since their tryst days earlier, her world had been turned upside down. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, could barely attend to her duties in the Norwich household. The sole topic upon which she could dwell was John. While formerly, she'd vehemently denied any affinity, she had been lying—to him and to herself.

He was the only person she'd ever met who truly understood her, he read her mind, he comprehended her worries and woes. She was desperately lonely, and it was a relief to stumble upon someone who cared about her well-being, and even though he'd made her an indecent offer, she was convinced that his underlying feelings were genuine.

Though he would never propose anything more than an occasional tumble, she was thoroughly disposed to acquiesce. In her current state, she craved the attention and friendship he would provide, not to mention the salacious joys he would lavish upon her in an illicit liaison.

Over the years, she'd heard many stories about him and his lascivious habits. Where previously, she'd snobbishly condemned him for his behavior, now she was glad he'd had such extensive experience as a roué. After enduring a small sampling of the prurient delights in which he'd been schooled, she couldn't wait to willingly submit to further indoctrination.

She was neither a starry-eyed girl nor a chaste virgin, and definitely not the proper, upstanding lady her mother had raised her to be. To her undying shame, she'd played the part of whore to Findley Harcourt. The reasons were convoluted, complicated, and difficult to rationalize, so she'd quit trying.

Even though she was an intelligent, assertive woman, she'd let him take advantage of her in humiliating ways, notably the libidinous. He was her sole sexual partner, and what she knew of mating games, she'd learned from him.

But from her condensed interlude with John, it was eminently apparent that much had been brushed over—and downright omitted!—in her erotic education. Findley was a selfish man, so she'd adapted to his wants and needs, perceiving her role as that of intimate confidante who was there to soothe and comfort.

She'd never been bold enough to seek her own gratification, for it had never occurred to her that her bodily requirements might equal his own. Whenever she'd achieve satiation, she was invariably surprised that it happened, and she even hid her violent reactions from him, not wishing to have her response interfere with his.

Yet, with John, from the very first, he'd been intent on her satisfaction, and his enjoyment escalated simply by pushing her to heights of ecstasy. After having discovered this novel approach to lovemaking, she was absolutely enticed and could not stay away.

Footsteps sounded down the hall. She recognized his determined step, and her anxiety spiraled.

Would he be glad to see her?

A proud man, he'd been sorely vexed by her snub of his proposition, and she hadn't heard from him since—though why she would have expected to after scolding him so hideously, she couldn't explain.

Was he angry with her? Or was he—hopefully—in her same predicament? Irritated. Out of sorts. Ready to carry on, despite her absurd insistence that they shouldn't.

He halted in the threshold, cryptically assessing her as if he hadn't quite believed the footman who'd announced her.

"Lady Elizabeth isn't here," he said as his welcome.

"I know. I came alone."

He entered the room and walked to her until he was so close that the hem of her dress swirled around his trousers. "Why are you here?"

There wasn't a trace of emotion in his voice, and she panicked, but she'd never been squeamish or shy, and vacillation could prove fatal. For once in her sorry, disorganized life, she was prepared to reach out and grab for what she desired.

"I missed you, and I had to see you again." He didn't reply, but merely studied her enigmatically. Her heart sank. Nervous, worried that he might toss her out on her ear, she hurriedly added, "I had thought we might—"

Before she could finish, he held a finger to her lips, silencing her, then he clasped her hand and yanked her out to the hall. Loudly—for the benefit of any servants who might be lingering in the vicinity—he pronounced: "Gabriel has numerous paintings scattered around the house. I would be thrilled to show some of them to you."

Then, he was rushing her up the stairs. He whisked her along so that her feet scarcely touched the floor, rapidly climbing two flights to a quiet corridor, and he dragged her to the room at the end. She had only a brief second to observe that he'd led her to his bedchamber before he sheltered them inside.

Without hesitating, he folded her in his arms, grabbing her bottom and twirling her around, pinning her back against the door. Fighting for balance, she gripped his shoulders as he lifted her, jerking at her skirts and petticoats, until he had her thighs wrapped around his waist He steadied her, pinioned, her privates splayed wide and pressed against his loins.

"You madwoman!" He was wild for her, taking her mouth in fervent, savage kisses. "Do you have any idea how furious I've been with you?"

"Yes, yes. I didn't mean—"

"Sending me away! Insulting me! Questioning my intentions!"

"I'm sorry. So sorry."

"I've cursed you a thousand times over."

His fingers were between her legs, stroking her, pushing inside in hard moves that made her whimper and beg. The pleasure was so intense that she had to bite at her hand to keep from wailing and having a passing servant guess what they were up to.

His thumb circled her clit and—just that fast, just that easy—she was on the edge and ready to spill over into orgasm. She tensed, struggling to escape the primitive torrent, but he wouldn't let her go.

"Tell me you love me," he decreed.

"No, I can't... I won't..."

"Say it!"

"John—" He flicked at her clit. Again. Again. Her orgasm started, a blistering, fiery explosion.

She cried out, and he covered her lips with his, catching her rapture and sharing in the lengthy ascension to paradise. As her senses returned, he was fumbling with his pants, opening the front He positioned himself, his hips flexing, and easing him in the slightest amount.

"Tell me," he repeated, but gently. "I want to hear you admit it."

"I love you."

With a smooth thrust, he drove into her, and she lurched at the sudden invasion. He was much larger than she'd anticipated, and he felt so bloody wonderful. He retreated, then deliciously slid in to the hilt.

"Oh, God ... John—"

“I love you, too."

They both froze, the significance of their pronouncements so extraordinary that time seemed to stand still. She stared into his luscious brown eyes, and it dawned on her that she'd known this man forever. The magnificent perception caused a flutter of euphoria to ripple through her, and he nodded arrogantly, as if to affirm that he grasped her insight and heartily concurred.

"Show me how much," she said.

He laughed in response, a full, robust sound, and their gazes remained locked. Leaning in, he clutched her hips, his cock an inflexible wedge that impaled her. With great relish, he worked at her, taking her boisterously and emphatically, prolonging the episode so that when he finally came, she joined him.

As he let himself go in a turbulent flood, her body contracted and spasmed around him, and she could feel the heat of his seed against her womb. She crushed her lips to his, snaring the groan of fulfillment that erupted as he emptied himself.

"Sweet Jesu, woman, I'm fifty years old." His pulse was racing, his breathing labored. "You'll be the death of me."

"Not too soon, I trust. I plan to have you a few more times before you expire."

"I must lie down. I'm so undone, my legs can scarcely support me."

He whirled them around and staggered toward the bed, dropping her, then tottering after her. As they bounced on the mattress, the ropes swinging from their combined weight, they were giggling like frivolous schoolchildren.

Rising up, he knelt between her legs, his trousers loose around his thighs, his cock prominent and imposing, ready to be serviced, once more. Delighted with his ample size, she shoved him back, scampering up and over so she could suck him into her mouth, and he expelled a hiss at her startling action.

She hadn't meant to behave so rashly—at least, not in the beginning!—but she couldn't resist tasting him.

Within seconds, he wrenched away, threw her on the pillows, and wrestled her down.

"You strumpet," he teased.

"I wasn't finished.”

"Neither was I, but I want you naked."

He was tearing at her clothes so frantically that she was afraid he'd rip the fabric, and she'd never be able to account for her condition when she arrived at home.

"Slow down." Batting at his questing fingers, she couldn't recall when she'd last joked and frolicked. It had been so long. Too long.

"I can't wait."

"Well, we have all day. I don't have to be back until four."

He wiggled his brows in naughty invitation, then rolled her over to unlace her corset. Now that he had ascertained that they had plentiful, decadent hours stretching ahead, he languidly disrobed her. As each piece of clothing disappeared, he oohed and aahed, kissed and fondled, tormenting and entrancing in equal measure. He continued undressing her until she was wearing nothing but stockings and garters.

"I love your tits," he said irreverently as he cupped one of them.

"They're not as firm as they used to be." She flushed at the disparaging comment and couldn't conceive of why she'd expressed it. What did it matter if John found her breasts attractive or not? She was forty-five years old; she didn't need reassurances as to her appearance. Did she?

Perhaps her spirit had taken more of a beating than she'd suspected when Findley had married his young, pretty wife!

"Do I look like I care?" He pointed at his crotch, where his erect cock rudely protruded.

She chuckled and shook her head. "No, you don't."

"Then don't insult me with stupid statements. I think you're beautiful." He bent down and started to suckle, but she prodded him away.

"Not yet." She came up so that they were both kneeling, their bodies melded, thighs tangled. "I want your clothes off, too."

"Well, never let it be. said that John Preston refused a lady's request."

He extended his arms, primping and posing, so that she could proceed as she liked. She dawdled, leisurely removing coat, cuff links, cravat, shirt, shoes, trousers, tarrying in between each piece of attire to kiss and caress. Finally, blessedly, he was naked, and she shifted nearer, their nude torsos connecting.

"Oh, Mary," he sweetly declared, "how lucky I've suddenly become."

He kissed her, a dear, almost chaste peck and, as he laid her down, tears prickled her eyes. She wasn't sure if it was the simple kiss or the precious remark that had moved her so, but she was abruptly filled with such joy that she felt she might burst

Before a single tear could fall, he kissed them away, then idly entered her, inch by glorious inch. He tarried, cherishing and treasuring her, and when they came together, the teardrops swarmed and overflowed onto her cheeks.

With his cock still semihard and planted inside her, he tipped them to the side so they were facing one another. He hugged and petted her, calming her with his hands, his lips, his body. But nothing could stem her swell of emotion.

"What is it,
chere?”

"I'm just so happy." Flustered, she swiped at her cheeks, but he reached for the corner of the blanket and promptly assumed the task.

"So am I."

"I feel so ... so ..." She couldn't describe the sentiments that were coursing through her. Any attempt would have brought on a wave of weeping.

"Like you're walking on clouds?"

"Every minute."

"I have a confession, darling."

"What?"

"Mere moments before I was informed you were downstairs in my parlor, I'd decided I was heading over to Findley's house to speak with you."

"You weren't!"

"I was!"

She climbed on top of him and conferred her most stern glare, but the practiced scowl had no effect on the overbearing man. "To what end?"

"I had to talk some sense into you." He flashed a cheeky grin. "If you'd forbidden me entrance, I was prepared to beat down the door."

"Now that's a sight the neighbors would have paid to witness! John Preston demanding an appointment with the earl's housekeeper!"

The smile left his face, and he grew serious. 'I absolutely hate that you believe me to be such a snob, and I'm sorry for my conduct the other day when we were in the coach."

"Sorry for what? Making love to me?"