Absolute Pleasure (25 page)

Elizabeth saved him from his folly, raising up to kiss him. "I hate that you're so distressed. Let me comfort you."

"There's no need."

"That's what I'm here for, aren't I? To make you happy?"

Yes, but it had become so much more! So much more than sex and naughty conversation and lewd interaction, and he longed to confess the sentiment, but she was nuzzling across his chest, licking at his nipple.

She kissed a trail down his abdomen, rooting across his trousers, biting and nipping at the hard ridge of his
erection. Eagerly, she unbuttoned him, and he nearly cried out with relief as she reached in and freed him from the confines of his pants.

Without dawdling, she grazed the crown, teasing and tormenting until he was writhing against the bed. Her lips parted, and he thrust into her, holding her close as he languidly conferred all she could handle and a little bit more besides.

She'd come to relish the indecent maneuver, had fully adjusted to nuance and subtlety, using teeth and tongue in a practiced fashion that never failed to drive him wild. Thoroughly afflicted, he rapidly surpassed his limit, and he removed himself—as he habitually did—disappointing her with his reticence, but even though she performed like a skilled courtesan, he wouldn't culminate in her mouth.

He'd taken advantage of her in dreadful ways, so at least he could restrain his worst impulses by spilling his seed in a less disturbing, more innocuous manner.

"You never let me finish," she pouted.

Taking her into his arms, he kissed her, a lengthy, total ravishment that kept her quiet and kept him busy. His cock was temporarily distracted from its unrelenting demand for satiation. When she aroused him so terribly, he never could control himself, and the act was regularly terminated much before he was ready.

As he made love to her mouth, he gradually stripped her until she wore naught but his mother's necklace, and he blazed a path down her neck and bosom, pressing and squeezing her breasts, torturing the nipples. When her hips responded, he moved on, to her navel, then her mound.

He sniffed at her womanly hair, then opened her with his tongue. She was well schooled now, aware of what was approaching, and her thighs parted, allowing him easy access. He laved and tasted, prodding her higher and higher. When she could abide no more, he latched on to her clit, while roughly fondling her nipples, and she came in a brutal rush, crying out as she soared to what seemed the maximum pinnacle she'd yet achieved.

As she wound down, the tang of her sex was a powerful aphrodisiac that made him frantic to seize the moment, and damn the consequences. During their prior trysts, he'd reined in his baser instincts, but abruptly, he was prepared to risk all. If he violated her, if he crudely stole her maidenhead, if he pilfered more than she'd ever intended to bestow, he no longer cared. His level of passion had ascended to an apex from which there was no feasible retreat.

Previously, his ironclad discipline had prevented him from stepping beyond that decisive line to deflowerment. However, the recent familial upheaval, coupled with his elevated dolor, had him eager to wrongly purloin the remaining bits of her chastity in spite of the damage that might result to both of them.

As if a raging, savage beast had overtaken him, his only concern was alleviation. Without warning, he was so sexually provoked that he
had
to be the one.

He rubbed his cock over her wet center. She was slippery, inviting, and he shoved in just the tiniest inch, and her eyes widened with virginal alarm. They'd never journeyed this far down the road before. Although she'd sporadically asked, and had even begged for the normal conclusion, he'd persistently rejected her entreaties.

Continued restraint was stupid. What purpose was to be gained by spurning such gratification? This was what she'd repeatedly implored him to show her. He'd cautioned her as to the perils, but he'd had the fortitude to shield her from the genuine hazards. Until now. He couldn't locate the necessary mettle to deny himself.

He eased his hips forward so that he began to stretch her, and she stiffened, promptly afraid of what he planned.

"Are you going to—"

"Yes. Lie back."

He increased the pressure, and instinctively, she rebelled. "Can we discuss—"

"No. I should have done this long ago."

"Gabriel—"

She was sincerely frightened, and he should have slowed to cajole away her maidenly fears, but he was beyond reasoning, beyond the ability to placate or wheedle her into compliance.

'Try to relax," was the best he could do. He thrust again, and he butted up against her maidenhead, but he couldn't disengage.

He lifted her thighs and draped them over his own. Peeking downward, he was tantalized by the carnal spectacle: his cock slightly immersed, her pussy hairs tickling him, urging him on and in.

"You're mine," he declared. "No matter what happens in the future, I had you first."

She nodded hesitantly. "Will it hurt?”

"Yes. I'm a big man, and you're a virgin. It can't be helped."

More agitated, she grappled against the novel predicament in which she'd landed, but he wouldn't release her.

"It doesn't seem like you'll fit."

"Your body's resisting," he explained. "It's natural. You'll eventually adjust."

"Will I—"

"Hush!" He couldn't delay, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her. "Never forget: You're mine!"

With a groan of pleasure, he penetrated to the hilt.
 
She lunged up, and called out, but he hugged her and held her still, capturing her wail of dismay with an ardent kiss. For as long as he could bear it, he was motionless, her ravished body acclimating to his incursion, but the second he felt the slightest slackening of tension, he had to carry on.

Her pussy was a saturated cauldron, slippery with her virgin's blood, and his passion escalated to a critical zenith. Proceeding deliberately, then with more force, he strained, catapulting himself until his loins spasmed, and his seed charged to the tip. He plunged once. Again. His orgasm
began, and with his final grain of strength, he withdrew, saving her from calamity and ultimate disgrace by spewing against her stomach.

He was nestled into the crook of her neck, drenched with sweat, his muscles wearied with exhaustion, and he strove for calm. Driven by lust, he'd acted outrageously, like the bastard he actually was, but he'd never desired a woman as ferociously as he'd desired her. His climax had been stupendous, astounding, yet with his ardor waning, guilt flooded in. Shifting away, he compelled himself to look at her.

She was crying!

He wrenched with alarm. How was it that he systematically moved her to such displays of woe?

He... he
loved
her! And he hated that he could behave so contemptibly, that he could maltreat her.

"I'm sorry." He kissed her mouth, her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't know I'd hurt you so much."

"You didn't," she bravely contended, but he knew it was a lie.

He was an ill-bred dog! An uncivilized beast! He never trifled with innocents! His lovers were sophisticated women who were versed in sexual procedures, their chastity long absent, and he'd obviously forgotten how affecting the incident was on the female's end of things.

Appalled with himself, he lurched away, his skin assaulted by the cold air, and he stomped across the floor to a pitcher of water on the stand by the door. He poured the cool liquid into a bowl, then swished a cloth and returned to her, blotting at his seed that was smeared across her abdomen.

Avidly and quietly, she watched as he refolded the cloth, then gently pressed it to her mistreated, swollen loins, swabbing at the swatches of blood smudged on her thighs. He finished with his cock, dabbing away the traces of his carnal sin, then he snuggled next to her, grabbing a throw and shielding them under the blanket.

"I should have gone slower; I should have—"

Amazingly, she kissed him, silencing his apologies and justifications. "I'm not injured," she declared. "Well... not badly."

"Then why are you crying?”

"It was just so different from how I'd assumed it would be. So much more... more personal. More intimate." Shyly, she professed, “I liked it very much."

He wiped her tears, relieved that they were quickly disappearing. "It's difficult to describe."

"I understand that now."

“That’s why I've been so cautious."

"You're forgiven for your circumspection."

She extended her legs and winced with discomfort, causing his heart to twist and flutter.

'The pain will fade," be was constrained to clarify, "and after you heal from this initial attempt, it won't ever bother you again."

"Good. Because I find myself in a hurry to augment my licentious education."

"Minx!"

Unexpectedly, she looked embarrassed, blushing and peering off to the side. "I didn't mean to act like a ninny. There at the end ... I panicked."

"I should have taken more time."

"There was no need. You gave me exactly what I'd sought, and very much more besides." She wiggled her brows mischievously. "I was just getting the hang of it. When may I have a repeat performance?"

"You shameless hussy! Give me a minute to catch my breath."

"If you promise you won't loaf too long."

She suggestively rubbed her crotch against his own, inciting an instantaneous stir in his satisfied phallus.

"Roll over," he grumbled.

Without waiting for her to agree, he rotated her and curled her so that her backside was spooned to his front,
her shapely ass burrowed tight. His cock energetically reacted, and she laughed and pressed herself nearer.

"It doesn't feel like you need a break."

"Well, I'm taking one." In light of his enamoration with her, he probably could have copulated all day, but she had to be sore and tender, and she was so accommodating that she would never complain. "Let's rest"

"I'm not tired."

"Neither am I."

"Then why—" She tried to peek at him over her shoulder, and he settled her down.

"Because I want to hold you in my arms."

"Really?”

"Yes. I can't predict how many more chances I'll have."

In accord, she smiled, and soon, her respirations moderated and stabilized, and he could tell that she slept. He waited a few minutes then, confident that she couldn't hear the pointless confession, he whispered, "I love you."

Overflowing with gladness and contentment, he shut his eyes and joined her in slumber.

Elizabeth awoke in a strange bed, but she suffered no confusion over where she was or what she was doing.

Gabriel was nestled behind her, his cock limp and flaccid against her bottom, his breathing regular and steady behind her ear. She tarried, reveling in the marvelous moment, wishing it could go on forever.

How many more times could she sneak away? How many more excuses could she concoct to explain her absences? How often could she evade Charlotte's questions? And most disturbingly, how long would Gabriel welcome her as a guest in his wicked cottage?

The pretext she'd used to start their affair and to continue it—his painting her portrait—wouldn't provide cover much longer. The artistic endeavor couldn't proceed indefinitely; there had to be an end.

Even if she could devise a means to account for the slowness of the project, her dilemma wouldn't be rectified, because Gabriel would never agree to an interminable dalliance.

After extensive reflection, she had developed a niggling suspicion that he sought out lovers from whom he could gain financially. Initially, he'd been after her money, but she didn't have any. When he'd learned of her dire financial straits, he'd tried to cancel their contract, but she'd refused to surrender peacefully. She wasn't certain what she'd said or done to persuade him to keep on. Perhaps he simply liked her more than he had some of the others.

He'd made numerous affectionate comments, and while she wouldn't try to read too much into his statements, she was satisfied that he harbored a genuine fondness for her.

She shifted so that she could clandestinely analyze his beautiful face, his splendid physique. Her leg muscles rebelled, her delicate, overused privates twingeing and reminding her of just how recklessly she'd behaved earlier.

In sleep, he looked young, adorable, and it was difficult to believe he was so full of passion and intensity, that he could employ his body in such raucous, fascinating, and brazen ways. In his own chivalrous fashion, he'd attempted to protect her from his nefarious propensities, but she had declined to heed his admonitions. As a result, she'd garnered an intense dose of sexual instruction.

She smiled a wise, sly feminine smile, as she recalled how aroused he'd been, how incapable of restraint. She'd had no idea a man could become so focused, so adamant, so dangerously driven to unstoppable conduct. But she couldn't say she hadn't been warned. Throughout her life, she'd been counseled about men and their sinister motives, and Gabriel, himself, had cautioned her against incitement, but she hadn't listened, and she was glad she hadn't.

She was a woman now, one who knew the mysteries of male-female relations, and she wouldn't trade the knowledge for anything in the world. That Gabriel had been the one to show her how it could be, made the event even more wonderful.

Her stomach tickled as she recollected how aggressively he'd taken her. She'd loved every electrifying, stimulating second of the magnificent episode, and she couldn't wait to do it all over again.

The interlude had been lewd and risqué, yet they'd barely scratched the surface. As she'd determined from handling his cock with her mouth and her hands, there were tricks and adaptations, unusual methods to try, unique approaches with which to experiment.

Desire was an interesting commodity. With Gabriel, she never grew bored, never wearied of the procedures he suggested, and the excitement of joining with him never decreased. Each new maneuver was more delightful and satisfying than the last. The more she practiced on his fabulous anatomy, the more she wantonly craved repetition.

Their intimacies bad formed a deep, unbreakable bond that would never have evolved had they been mere casual acquaintances. A talented, flamboyant man, he habitually interacted with scores of women, yet he was an extremely private person, too. He showed others only those traits he wanted them to see, and he hid the rest. Yet, with her, he'd dropped his guard, had let the defenses fall away, trusting her so much that he'd confided details of his mother's untimely death, and his worries about Mary and his father.

Why, he'd given her his mother's locket! She'd demurred due to the preciousness of the gift, but he'd insisted she keep it. Surely, there was no better evidence of their emotional attachment. From how he'd held her when they'd drifted off, she yearned for his level of involvement to match her own.

Oh, what was she to do when their time together was terminated?

He'd come to mean everything to her. When she was with him, she brimmed over with joy and serenity. When they were apart, she spent every hour thinking about him, speculating as to where he was, what he was doing, and if—by chance—he might be missing her just the slightest bit.

Her prior melancholia, her ennui, her irritation over her lack of responsibilities, none of it mattered anymore. Even her exasperation with Charlotte had faded into the background. Her stepmother had become, much like a bothersome insect, little more than an annoyance.

Gabriel had so thoroughly pervaded her life that the rest was simply clutter.

When they separated for good, which would be soon, she didn't know how she would bear it Just the thought of farewell made her palms sweat, her heart pound.

Disturbed by her introspection, she needed distraction, but Gabriel was sleeping heavily, and she didn't want to wake him. She glanced around, searching for diversion, and through the door that led to the studio, she saw his easel with a canvas balanced on it Dozens of sketches were tacked up on the wall behind. Intrigued, she decided to explore, something she'd never previously had occasion to do since she was always preoccupied when in his presence.

She carefully scooted around him and climbed off the bed. He didn't stir, although he did reach out toward her empty space on the mattress, and a frown curled his brow as if—even in slumber—he realized she was missing.

On tiptoe, she went into the studio. The fire had died down, so the temperature was cooler, and she cast about for a wrap. His shirt was discarded on the floor, and she picked it up, stuffing her arms into the sleeves. It fit her like a dress, the hem hanging past her knees, and she swathed the lapels around her body as she walked to see what was on the easel.

Just as she stepped to it, her attention was diverted by the sketches. There were pictures of herself everywhere. The entire wall was covered, a comprehensive and total study, spread out and arranged as though he'd spent multitudinous hours inspecting the variations.

Happy, sad, pouting, angry; diverse idiosyncrasies were articulated. In some, she was partially clothed, in others naked. Surprisingly, the grouping included the pieces he'd drawn while she was posing, but also many others, as if he'd been fantasizing about her and had been desperate to record his imaginings.

What a reassuring discovery! She'd ceaselessly contemplated whether he ever thought of her when they were apart, and she had her answer! The man seemed positively obsessed!

As she moved down the line, assessing and scrutinizing each one, she stumbled upon a collection in which Gabriel had added himself into the pictures with her. They were erotic illustrations of the two of them making love—in some of the ways they'd already explored, but also in other ways he'd never initiated. The renderings were so lifelike and so graphic that they made her blush.

There she was, crouched before him and sucking at his cock, a maneuver she enjoyed and had perfected. But there she was, as well, lying beneath him, legs spread, in the manner they'd just accomplished in the adjoining room. In still another, she was on her hands and knees, her breasts swinging down, her hair off to the side, and he was rutting on her like an animal.

The depictions were disturbing, titillating, provoking. They were authentic and precise, a haunting beauty to the facial expressions and bodily positionings. She hadn't known that a person might create such disquieting art, yet as she examined the pictures, she was tempted, lured, held spellbound by the indecency, captivated by the depravity.

Uncomfortable with how the illustrations mesmerized— and wary of the immodest ruminations they generated!— she forced herself away, turning instead to the easel so that she could review his latest work-in-progress.

Unexpectedly, she encountered the portrait for which she'd contracted. The background was filled in, the south garden at Norwich verdant and lush under a startlingly blue summer sky. The white gazebo was done, too, contrasting with the grass, shrubs, and blooming pink roses that wove up the trellis.

Only the center of the painting remained to be executed. It was a blank space, as though she was about to magically step into the middle of the pastoral scene.

She hadn't realized he'd started the portrait, let alone nearly completed it, and dismay inundated her. He was ready to paint the final section. When that portion was incorporated, there would be no reason for her to persist with her visits.

How could that be?

She stared over her shoulder, at the dozens—perhaps hundreds—of drawings, then at the canvas once more. Her exotic idyll had been reduced to these few compositions of charcoal, chalk, and oil, and she trembled with the awareness that this was all she'd ever have when it was concluded. Just a handful of any sketches he might deign to give her, and the enchanting canvas he would painstakingly finish and her father would buy.

How wrong it suddenly seemed that her great love for Gabriel would be reduced to just this—and no more.

Unbidden, Mary Smith and John Preston came to mind. Would they marry as Gabriel had claimed?

A huge wave of jealousy swept through her. How unfair that Mary should wed and live happily ever after, that she be afforded the opportunity to move on, while Elizabeth was doomed to wallow in her untenable domestic situation. The idea of never seeing Gabriel again was beyond contemplation.

Despondency swamped her, just as his voice sounded from across the room.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"You have such a remarkable gift,"

She peeked at him from around the easel. He was rumpled from his nap, his hair on end, and he lazily leaned against the doorjamb, sinfully, blissfully naked, and totally unconcerned that he was.

"I didn't like it when I awakened and you weren't in the bed. I was afraid you'd gone without a word of farewell."

"I would never do that."

He neared and hugged her. "I like having you in my shirt."

With a roguish hand, he rummaged under the dangling hem and rubbed her bare bottom, and she chuckled halfheartedly. He really was the sweetest man, despite how vigorously he tried to hide it. "I like wearing it," she admitted. "It makes me feel closer to you."

"Now, tell me how much you love what I've done— so far—with your portrait."

The consummate artist!
she mused ruefully.
Needing constant adoration and acclaim!

"It's very nice."

"Nice! Is that the best you can do?" he scoffed, pretending affront. "I'm sure you mean, Magnificent! Stupendous! Brilliant! The finest art you've ever laid eyes upon. Correct?"

"Absolutely." She nodded and struggled not to laugh.

At her tempered adulation, he sobered, rocking her gently. "What's amiss,
bella?”

"I hadn't understood that you'd actually commenced with the painting. I thought you were still sketching me."

"I started with the oils yesterday afternoon, and I couldn't stop."

"You worked all night?"

"Aye."

"It's so near to completion." She didn't need to clarify what she really meant: that their affair was so close to being over.

"Very soon it will be." He was responding to her unspoken comment Softly, he added, "We can't keep on forever. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do." Her spirit lurched at the reality abruptly confronting her. "But I don't wish it to be true."

"Each time you drop by, we risk detection."

"Perhaps"—she boldly revealed her fantasy—"I wouldn't care if we were
detected."

"But then your father would be calling for my head on a pike; perchance demanding we wed. Is that how you'd like our relationship to resolve?"

Marriage! To Gabriel! The tantalizing concept hovered between them. Such a startling, phenomenal possibility!

She never once considered it. What a fantastic denouement it would be!

She was as intrepid as Mary. She could dare all in the name of everlasting love. Couldn't she?

"What if I did want things to end that way between us?" She defiantly lifted her chin, replying to his question with one of her own, while fervently hoping that she really was as brave as she supposed herself to be.

"Do you seriously expect me to believe that you're prepared to debase yourself? I'm an unrepentant bastard, so you'd suffer untold shame and disgrace if you stooped so low."

He raised a brow, obstinately contesting her audacious suggestion. "Don't forget, you'd be allying yourself not just with me, but with my scandal-ridden father. You'd have to move into our home, where you'd be an equal with your former housekeeper. You'd be a laughingstock among the members of your precious high society. They would ridicule and mock you—if they deigned to acknowledge you at all. Why, your very own father would probably never speak to you. You'd be barred from Norwich, prohibited from calling on your relatives, refused admittance at the town house. Disowned, disinherited." He paused for effect. "Is that what you really want?"