Blooming: Veronica (19 page)

“How does this feel?” he asked.

“Fine,” she murmured listlessly. “No need to concern yourself.”

As limp as the stem of a dandelion, utterly spent after her crying jag, she simply could not bring herself to care what he did to her.

“I like your pussy shaven,” he said conversationally. “I can see your clit without even trying.”

“Goody, goody for you,” she said and threw an arm over her eyes, covering most of her face while he fingered the crevice between her buttocks, his digit rimming the hole within.

“Dainty,” he pronounced. “But doable.”

She gave another listless nod.

“A little stretching will be required first,” he whispered, and his fondling turned more directed, until he was pressing inward against the puckered egress.

“Tight,” he pronounced. “Tell me if the pressure becomes intolerable, and I will stop.”

Her interest reclaimed, she shook her head, a vehement no. “Do not stop. I want it all. Every perversion, every debased act.” She was without shame, uncaring of what her husband thought. His opinion of her had no effect on her. Then again, very little did have any effect on her these days.

Except sex, as she had just discovered.

When he inserted a finger inside her back entrance, she dropped her raised arm down by her side again so he could see her face and smiled without coyness. “I like it.”

“How very reassuring.”

He pushed a second finger deep inside her, and she saw no reason to suppress her moan of rapture. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

“After the first time, you will wear an anal plug to keep you open and ease subsequent penetrations. As an auxiliary benefit, the friction will stimulate you into a state of near constant arousal. The unabated tension will make you more accommodating.”

“I could not possibly be any more accommodating, sir, than I am at present.”

Like the laudanum the doctor had dispensed after her miscarriage, sex had provided her with a respite from her cares and woes, a temporary amnesia without the unwanted side effect of addiction. But the afterglow of her lovely orgasm was slowly but surely wearing off, and she needed another dose of forgetfulness.

Now!

“Make me climax, sir.”

The fingers withdrew from her crevice.

What? How dare he! Just like a man to leave her in her hour of gravest need.

After her sputtering anger at his desertion, curiosity got the best of her. Where had he gone to, anyway?

Getting up on her bent elbows, her legs lax, her thighs open, her pierced nipples erect and hard, she searched him out. Splashing drew her attention to the farthest region of the pool.

And there he was, diving about like a dolphin in what was presumably the deep end of the water. She watched him intently through the swirling cloud of steam as his dark head and tight ass appeared and disappeared. He made for quite the exotic fish. Surprising the amount of pleasure the sight of his naked swimming gave her.

Their marriage was a legally binding contract orchestrated by her father and accepted by her husband, the full terms of which were unknown to her. She had resolved to do her marital duty in bed and nothing more, and so the randy consummation of their vows had come as an unforeseen treat. Her husband had breathed life into their arrangement with each of his thrusts.

Now, though, his bath completed, his former chilly distancing had made a return. When he waded back to her and took hold of her knees, he handled her as if he had somehow removed himself from the proceedings. He touched her as if nothing had changed, as if nothing out of ordinary had happened during the heated consummation of their marriage.

Though she was inarguably listless and uncaring, alternately sad and enraged, then curious, then indifferent, even she, a ball of conflicting emotions like her, had been able to figure out that something had indeed happened during the consummation.

Which placed her one giant step ahead of him.

“This is called cunnilingus,” he tediously explained as if he were giving a dull lecture, and kissed her, an intimate kiss applied to her pubic lips.

She felt the change in him right away. The kiss was merely an exercise for him, done with the consummate skill of a male whore and containing about as much genuineness.

Nuzzling and nibbling, he bestowed more expert kisses on her, kisses meant to elicit a response from her while keeping him apart from the messiness of real lovemaking.

Not that she cared, of course. Not that his reserve mattered one way or the other to her. As long as she climaxed, the technique he used was all the same to her. Sex, not affection, was her drug. And as he said himself, love was not a necessary ingredient of orgasm.

Then the execution of his kisses altered. His expertness became less so. His technique became far grittier than perfection. Making highly complimentary grunty noises, he began eating her.

Oh, dear, Lord, how he went at her. His mouth and lips and nose butted against and into her, while all the time he made crude ravenous sounds. He even latched on to her pubic lips and pulled.

“Pull at my clit piercing too.”

He did, and the sharp sting only added to her excitement.

In her vivid imagination, she had pictured this. She had pictured a particular kind of man doing this to a particular sort of woman, would
want
to do this to a woman, would insist upon the right to do it to
his woman
, but her imaginings had gone unverified. She had never known for sure if this sort of thing actually occurred outside her own erotic mind.

Until now.

Her husband was that particular type of man. Was she
his woman
, though?

The legality of society and natural law were two distinct entities. For whatever the reason, Talbot Bowdoin had married her in the eyes of the judicial system, but she had never thought his body would truly wed her body in the natural sense, would never join with her body in the primitive way she craved. The wild passion of their consummation had given her a glimmer of hope that she had been mistaken.

He confirmed that hope now.

He rubbed his face back and forth against her slit while sniffing her robustly, then suckling her noisily. Though clean shaven, he was bound to leave whisker burns.

Her husband lifted his head. “Mmmm, madam, but you taste sweet. And your scent acts like an aphrodisiac on me.”

“You smell and taste the oil you just used.”

He chuckled. “Think me a fool? I deliberately chose the unscented and tasteless oil so as not to interfere with you.” He licked her pubic folds, hiking his jaw afterward and meeting her gaze with his. “It is your cream I taste.” He took a great gusty inhale, his nose burrowed deep inside her notch, and then raised his head. “It is your musk I smell.”

Talbot Bowdoin had declared himself a man given to romantic gestures. Alas, she thought herself long past appreciating such cloying sentimentality. Discounting fanciful phrases, she placed her confidence only in results.

Her husband seemed hell-bent on giving her both.

As he mouthed her folds, she arched her back, ardently giving herself over to him. Indeed, she clutched him to her, her hands knotted in his hair, her knees covering his ears like mufflers. Could he hear her moan?

She did moan loud and remorselessly as he shot his tongue deep inside her.

Panting, she heaved her bottom high off the floor as her body clamored for more.

He gave her more, an abundance of more, and enough orgasms to make her forget her own name.

But not his. Even if she received a constant supply of sex, enough of her drug to bring on a permanently altered state of mind, she would never forget his name.

“Talbot, Talbot, Talbot,” she said for the very first time aloud as she came.

Chapter Twenty-four

After a multiplicity of orgasms delivered by various means, Veronica fell asleep. Heaving her dead weight up into his arms, Talbot had then carried his slumbering bride to bed.

Her bed, not his.

Mind over gonads, he picked self-preservation over fucking himself into an early grave. He had been in too much pain then to chance her waking mid-night and ordering up another go round.

The woman was insatiable.

Too bad she was using him as a sedative.

It was now morning, the chafed aftermath of the night before, and as he sat at his desk in his library, he gave a tired grin and touched the front of his white linen shirt, beneath which lay several nasty scratches. His neck and back smarted, so they evidently sported several more. To be honest, the wench had clawed him all over, sparing only her new toy.

His cock.

Everything else had been up for grabs, including his ass, which she had dug her nails into during their first and only sanctioned intercourse of the evening, everything else being disallowed by church and state and common decency.

Her bloodletting seemed to have worked wonders. She had appeared much improved at his predawn check of her. Repose had softened her pinched expression. By the illumination of the lamp in his hand, she looked even more beautiful.

Obviously, he was good for what ailed her. If she took him several times a day, at least morning, noon, and night, and not necessarily with meals, he was confident her tenseness would rapidly diminish.

He sighed. Now if only his stamina proved equal to the prescribed dose.

A knock on the closed door had Talbot rising creakily from his seat and calling, “Come in.”

Alfred entered the room and placed the immense box he carried on Talbot’s desk.

“New outfits for Mrs. Bowdoin, I presume?” Talbot said, cocking an eye at the lid.

“Only the male apparel you ordered.”

“Good. My wife will have something to wear this evening at your club.”

Alfred’s brows shot to the ceiling. “The Dungeon? This evening? You are bringing her to my gentlemen’s club tonight?”

“Give me one reason why I should not.”

“Officially, this is still your honeymoon, for one.”

“Ah…well…ours is not a conventional marriage.”

“Whatever sort of marriage it is, Bowdoin, you look almost human today, and I can only attribute that miracle to her.”

“Must be all the greasing she did to my springs and coils last night.”

Clutching his chest, the tailor fell back on his well-polished heels. “No! Egad! It cannot possibly be. Is that the glimmer of a sense of humor?”

Talbot ignored the insult. “You know, if you are discouraging me from taking her to the Dungeon owing to my little hobby, you have nothing to fear in that regard. I already told her I like to watch people.”

“She probably thinks you meant people watching in the park.”

“She might have, had I allowed her to fall under that misapprehension, but I explained.”

“And she approves?”

“No. But neither does she strenuously object. Veronica has exhibitionism tendencies of her own, which I plan to give free rein to this evening in the relative safety of your lust-appointed peep room. The fantasy should prove highly arousing to my bride.”

“If you say so…”

“I do.” While standing beside his desk, Talbot drummed his fingers on the leather blotter. “Why should I not take her? The facemasks you require at the club protect anonymity. After all these years, I remain in the dark about who here on the North Shore indulges themselves at the Dungeon.”

“That was the basic idea.”

“And the walking sticks you provide! Now there was a stroke of genius. Numerous members carry them for caning purposes, and their abundance camouflages my real need for one. More often than not, my lameness makes me stick out like a sore thumb wherever I go. But not at your club. There, I look like any run-of-the-mill pervert.”

A stunning thought occurred to Talbot. “Why, Alfred—did you do that with the walking sticks intentionally? Provide them to your patrons so I would blend in?”

“If I did, Bowdoin, would you thank me?”

“I suppose I might. In fact, yes, I think I shall. Thank you, Alfred! That was most kind of you and I am touched. Truly touched. Your generous intercession on my behalf was the act of a friend.”

Alfred coughed. “Did you have any doubts on that score before?”

Talbot had no doubts because he had never once considered that he might have found a friend in Alfred. But he could see now that he had. “You have my gratitude, Alfred. Not having to worry over my wife’s reputation tonight comes as a tremendous relief. Knowing there is no possible way for her to be identified with illicit activity through me greatly relives my mind. Thank you once again.”

“Stop, Bowdoin. For Christ’s sake, enough. Being human can be taken too far, you know.”

“Oh…it can?”

“A jest, Bowdoin. Only a jest.” For the first time in their lengthy acquaintance, Alfred clapped Talbot on the back. “Veronica is a good influence on you. And you care for her.”

“I care
about
her. Mind you, caring need not have entirely selfless motives attached.”

“You love her, Bowdoin. Admit it.”

He did love her. Love had prompted his marriage to her. But was his love a conventional love, an acceptable love, the kind of love others experienced? Or was it as twisted and flawed as he was himself?

And was he worthy of loving a vital woman like Veronica? He had his affliction, a varied sexual background, present tendencies that included certain unorthodox behaviors in the bedroom…

He sighed. “Love is a strong term whose true meaning escapes me.”

“There is no one true meaning, Bowdoin. Love is as peculiar as the two individuals involved.”

“I answer to peculiar, all right. And I will say this—fucking her is no chore.”

“If you ever need a third, call on me.”

“Thank you, but no. Even thinking of her with another man enrages me. I would easily kill any prick who dared to touch her.”

“Murderous impulses from a gentleman like you? Congratulations. You finally found the right woman.”

Talbot let that absurd assertion go. He had found the right
writer
for his publishing company. But the right woman for him personally? This made no sense to him. Was there even such a creature in existence? He loved Veronica, yes, but not like other people loved. Not wholesomely. Not purely. Not how a man
should
love his wife. Never having been shown how, he was cast adrift now.