Cheryl Holt (12 page)

“No,” he claimed, but she didn’t believe him. There were many kinds of
hurt
.

He’d asked her what it had been like to become blind so suddenly, but she could ask him the same sort of question. By all accounts, he’d been dashing and attractive, but his military service had altered him, and he’d been thrust into high society appearing very diverse from how he’d left it. From his attitude, it was evident that his peers hadn’t been gracious in accepting the changes.

He was different from everyone else, on the outside
looking in—as was she. She smiled. She’d erroneously assumed that they had naught in common when, in reality, their situations were very similar.

“What is your opinion?” he queried.

“Tall, broad, fit.” When he relaxed, she adjoined, “Arrogant, conceited, bossy.”

He harrumphed. “You can gather that much?”

“And a good deal more.” She smirked. “How did I do? Was I on the mark?”

“You’re a nosy, meddlesome mind reader, and thus, I shall guard my thoughts around you, lest you glean much more than you ought.”

“A wise course. I’m not a woman to be underestimated, though I usually am.”

“I can see that. Now, why are you grinning?” He was suspicious and wary, expecting her to mention his disfigurement, which she would never do. Between the two of them, how could it possibly signify?

“Because we’re going to be great friends,” she maintained.

“We are, are we?”

“I’m convinced of it.”

Her hand dropped away, and he clasped it and linked their fingers so that he could lead her toward the bed. She trudged after him, not helping, but not resisting, either. She was in turmoil, struggling to deduce what she wanted to occur.

By visiting her room, he’d been administering a test, which she’d passed, though she wasn’t aware of how she’d pleased him. Perhaps it was no more complicated than her being blasé about his deformity.

He was bent on seduction, but she was confused as to
what would be best. She was an adult, a widow, with no one and nothing to stop any misconduct, but for her ingrained sense of morals. Fornication would be wrong, a sin she must not commit, yet she was intrigued by him.

Was she wishing to philander? Dare she?

Throughout her marriage, she’d been disappointed by the absence of raw excitement, and trifling with Alex Farrow would be an astounding event. He was raging on the inside, driven by an anguish and torment she didn’t fully comprehend, and in a libidinous relationship his agony would metamorphose into potent, powerful emotion.

She’d lived a sheltered life, surrounded by ordinary, contented people, and she was captivated by the opportunity for titillation, for turbulent passion and uncontrolled ardor. Could she frolic with abandon? Could she set loose her unrestrained character?

He wasn’t a villain. She could tell him to desist and he would, but for some absurd reason, she couldn’t force the command from her lips. Her torso had made the choice that her mind couldn’t render, a nagging fascination overriding her better judgment.

A giddy impression of freedom washed over her. She—plain, unpretentious Mary Barnett Livingston—was about to misbehave with complex, sophisticated Alex Farrow. What were the odds?

He lay down and stretched out, and he pulled her on top of him. Down below, she was comfortably snuggled, and there was no mistaking the bulge in his trousers.

“Mr. Farrow, what do you intend?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered candidly.

“You must have some idea. Why are you here?”

“I’m still trying to decide.”

“Are we to be lovers?”

“It seems that we are.”

He was as bewildered as she. What was their goal? Would they rut for sport, like beasts in a field? Would she enjoy such a cold coupling?

He’d view any exchange as a simple, straightforward romp and naught more. Could she participate without letting her feelings become involved? If she succumbed, how would she face him later on?

In an instant, before she could rationalize further, he kissed her, his hand on her neck, his tongue in her mouth.

For a moment, she was so stunned that she froze. Her husband had never kissed her in such a way, so she hadn’t realized that kissing could be so wild and uninhibited. She jerked out of her stupor and joined in, holding him tight, euphoric at being able to explore. She trailed across his shoulders and arms, his head and back, even bravely dipping down to squeeze his buttocks, which definitely thrilled him.

He groaned and deepened the kiss.

She reeled, responding to his slightest caress. While she’d recognized that she was lonely, it had never dawned on her that she’d been so starved for affection. She felt as if she’d been lost in the desert and stumbled upon an oasis.

He rolled them, so that she was on the bottom and he was on top. As he was a big man, his weight pushed her down in a manner she liked very much. Like an old pair of slippers, he was extremely familiar, and her body welcomed him, her legs widening of their own accord. He slid between her thighs, his phallus pressed to her privates and rubbing where it should. She was breathless,
overwhelmed, nearly paralyzed by the expectation he induced.

They fit perfectly, and she was elated to note that he was acquainted with the female anatomy and exceedingly cognizant of what he ought to do with it.

He knew precisely how to touch her, what would spur the encounter to a higher level. In fact, he understood more about her preferences than she did, herself. Not that she was an expert. Her husband should have taught her, but he hadn’t liked the sweating and effort that fornication required, and if she was honest, she’d have to admit that he’d been revolted by the whole sordid exploit.

Impatient for more, she was eager to go where she’d never had the chance to travel. She tugged at his shirt, yanking it off and tossing it on the floor.

While her husband’s chest had been smooth, Farrow’s was muscled and covered with a thick matting of hair. Anxious to investigate, she burrowed down to nestle through it.

He was rigid with desire, and he wrenched at her dress, ripping the fabric in his haste to bare her bosom; then his fingers were inside the bodice and roughly massaging her breasts.

He grabbed her nipples, squeezing so hard that it hurt, but it felt so good! She was on fire, every nerve tingling, until she couldn’t tolerate much more.

Just when she thought she’d burst, that it couldn’t possibly get any better, he latched onto her nipple. She’d speculated as to whether such sucking wasn’t supposed to have been part of the mating ritual. With her husband, her nipples would be so tender that she’d cry out in frustration, but the sole time she’d asked him to stroke them,
he’d been so appalled that she’d never subsequently made the request.

Farrow grasped how to manipulate them, how to nip and play until she was writhing in agony. When would it stop? How would it conclude? Did he know what could happen to a woman? How she could shatter in ecstasy?

The wave had crept over her sporadically with her husband. The first occasion, she’d been so astounded that she’d been very loud, which had resulted in his chastising her for being loose and wicked.

After that, whenever the feelings rushed over her, she’d stifled her reaction. If she was swept away, would Farrow be shocked? Would he be repulsed?

He was drawing up her skirt, fussing with his trousers, and she was aware that this was the last spot where she could reverse their course. But she said nothing. She did nothing.

Clasping her legs, he spread them and prodded in, the blunt crown stretching her. Then, with a swift lunge, he drove in, his phallus filling her to her womb, and she arched up in exultation.

He started thrusting, penetrating all the way, then retreating to the tip, and the motion was so fabulous that pleasure seized her in its vehement grip. The stimulation was so strong that she couldn’t hide it, and she called out.

He kissed her again, swallowing the sound of her joy, and he was goaded to his own swift end. He spilled himself inside her, and their combined passion went on and on, the deluge never seeming to crest. She savored every second, cataloging the details so that she would remember them after he’d gone.

Finally, the apex was achieved, and they floated down together. They were very still, and he was studying her and frowning, though she couldn’t figure out why.

Was he horrified by her response? Was he aghast to learn that she was so lusty?

Her temper ignited. Had she invited him to her room? Had she given him any indication that she’d wanted this to transpire?

If he was disappointed, she cared not, and she wouldn’t disgrace herself by trying to explain her wanton nature. She’d wandered down that fruitless road during her marriage, and she wouldn’t humiliate herself.

If he wasn’t happy, he could leave, and though it pained her to conceive of this being their only tryst, so be it. She was a grown woman. She’d agreed to the fling of her own free will. There was no reason to lament.

She looked away, staring at the wall, providing him with an unqualified signal that she considered the rendezvous to be over. As if he might say something, he tarried, and she prayed that he’d be silent. What could they have to discuss?

Without a word, he pulled out of her, and as soon as he moved, she rolled away and showed him her back. Though she couldn’t see him, she could picture him rising, stuffing his privy parts into his pants, straightening his hair and clothing.

For another moment, he dawdled, his perplexity and embarrassment billowing out, and, as if he might pat her shoulder, he reached out. She stiffened, letting him know that the gesture wouldn’t be welcome.

He left, and she lay quietly, listening as he walked to the stairs, as he sneaked down. Her hearing was
exceptionally acute, so she could perceive him entering his bedchamber, pacing the floor. Her imagination supplied the rest, his ultimately shedding his clothes and climbing into bed.

Unblinking, she gazed at nothing. A candle was burning, and she stayed awake till it petered out. Then, feeling more alone than ever, she sighed and drifted off.

 8 

“Lock the door.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“I intend to ravish you,” Michael announced. “If you don’t care whether someone walks in on us, that’s fine with me. I don’t mind an audience.”

Emily whirled around and turned the key in the lock, sealing them in the library. It was very late, the entire house abed, but she couldn’t risk being discovered. He’d been eager to receive his daily briefing, so he’d commanded her presence, and she’d obliged him, though she couldn’t figure out why she had. She should have insisted on an innocuous morning appointment, and the fact that he was dressed in the flowing pants and shirt he’d been wearing when they met only underscored how wrong she’d been to come.

She had to keep her wits about her, had to give him her report, then depart before she landed herself in another imprudent predicament.

“What’s this nonsense about ravishing me?” She
scowled. “You’re not going to, are you? Because tonight, I’m not about to allow any mischief.”

“You’re not?”

“I let you get the better of me once, but now that I grasp your wicked ways, I’m prepared to fend you off.”

He was walking toward her, taking slow, casual steps, and with each stride he advanced, she retreated twice as far.

“Have you brought a club?” he asked. “Or a pistol?”

“Hardly.”

“Then how will you keep me at bay?”

“I plan to remember my morals and upbringing. Just because you tempt me to all manner of indiscretion doesn’t mean I have to succumb.”

“I loathe your high standards.”

“You would,” she said. “You’re a libertine, so it would never occur to you that I might be able to control my base inclinations.”

“Why would you wish to control them?”

“Because I’m not like you.”

He chuckled. “You’re more like me than you want to admit.”

“I am not!” she was honor-bound to declare, although she couldn’t help worrying that he was correct.

He made her feel free and unencumbered, as if she could attempt any loose deed that tickled her fancy. Her body was inflamed, with various spots irritating her in a fashion she’d never noticed. Her breasts were fuller, her nipples constantly rubbing her corset so that she had no surcease from the torture he’d instigated.