Cheryl Holt (13 page)

She was so anxious for relief that on one desperate occasion, she’d sought to alleviate the pressure by
massaging them, but she set off such a flurry of sensation that she’d frightened herself and hadn’t tried it again.

“It’s all right to indulge yourself,” he contended. “There’s no harm in having a bit of fun.”

She bumped into his desk. “There is when the amusement you seek leads to folly and ruin.”

“Do I look as if I’m bent on ruining you?” He was all innocence, all sweet, decadent resolve.

“Yes, and don’t you dare. You won’t find the easy mark you encountered prior.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

In a swift move, he lunged forward and pinned her to the desktop, his arms on either side of her so that she was trapped. He leaned in, and she was terrified. If he snuggled himself to her, she couldn’t resist him.

“I’ve missed you,” he claimed, and her idiotic heart soared.

“Don’t say such a thing to me.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It is not, but I’m foolish enough to believe you.”

He was urging her down when she was determined to remain vertical.

“Have you missed me?” His expression was peculiar, as if he was genuinely curious.

“No,” she lied. “Now, behave yourself.”

“I have no desire to.”

“Stand away so that we can chat.”

“I’m not about to speak with you from across the room.”

“I insist.”

“And I’m ignoring you.”

“Talking to you is like talking to a wall.”

“So I’ve been told.” His hand was between her shoulder blades, and she was a palm’s width from being prone.

“Do you ever listen to what anyone says?”

“Yes, if what they’re telling me is worth hearing.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know about your wards?”

“My wards?” He seemed confused by the question. “That’s what we’re here to discuss.”

“I don’t think so.”

He dipped under her chin and bit at her nape, the attention giving her goose bumps. She hadn’t realized the area was so sensitive, and she shivered with delight, which made him laugh. The sound was like a splash of cold water on her burgeoning passion.

She would not yield!

“Margaret had a wonderful day,” she commented, pretending he wasn’t seducing her. “She’s assimilating quickly, and she’s becoming fast friends with my niece, Rose.”

“Is she?” He nibbled down her arm. “I’m so glad.”

“Pamela, on the other hand”—he buried his face in her cleavage, which made it difficult to focus—“is a problem. When we were shopping, she wandered off, and I couldn’t locate her for many minutes.”

“Yet she returned unscathed?”

“Eventually.”

“So you’re informing me of this because . . . ?”

“You’re their guardian, and this is your daily report.”

He glanced up. “Have I asked you for a daily report?”

“Yes.”

“You’re positive?”

“Completely.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t care to be apprised of these trivial details.”

“Lord Winchester . . .”

He slipped his fingers inside her dress and slithered across to grab and pinch her nipple. Her anatomy reacted with a gleeful vigor, her pulse pounding, her womb in spasms, her womanly core weeping. In an instant, she’d tumbled into another mess, when she hadn’t intended any rash conduct.

How did he overcome her better judgment? He was a master at coaxing her to iniquity. Why was she so weak? Why couldn’t she say no and mean it?

“We’re beyond
Lord Winchester,
remember? It’s Michael now.”

“It is not.” She attempted to push him away. “And stop that.”

He tugged on the bodice of her gown, and her breasts popped from their confines. Smiling at the sight, he clasped both nipples.

“You have the most fabulous breasts,” he remarked, and he bent down and sucked on one of them.

She arched up, not sure if she was shoving him away or dragging him nearer. “Lord Winchester . . . milord . . . Michael . . .”

Grinning, he halted his torment. “Yes?”

“I really, really can’t do this with you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Michael . . . I . . .”

He wrapped his lips around her nipple again, and whatever complaint she might have registered was lost. It was simply impossible to protest when he was feasting like a starved man at a banquet. His actions were too
thrilling, and deep down, she didn’t want him to cease.

Oh, she was so spineless! So irresolute!

Was this why she’d visited? Had she been hoping that another tryst would transpire? Perhaps she had the soul of a slattern but had never recognized it.

“Have you discovered how a female is pleasured?” He cupped her between her legs.

“No, no . . .”

He was inching up her skirt, easing the hem out of his way. His hand was on her knee, her thigh, roving higher and higher in slow, agonizing circles. “I’m going to touch you, Emily.”

If he would grant her a reprieve from her misery, she’d let him try anything.

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“You mustn’t.”

“It will be like nothing you’ve ever imagined.”

He slid his fingers into her mysterious feminine sheath, and he stroked them in a languid, tantalizing motion that rocked her world and altered her view of life as she’d known it. She felt as if she’d been waiting forever for him to caress her so intimately. It was heaven; it was bliss. Her agitation increased, her tension spiraling to a hazardous level. She was about to explode, to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“What’s happening to me?” she managed to ask.

“This is sexual desire, Emily.”

“I don’t want it,” she asserted. “I can’t stand any more.”

“Of course you can.”

“You’re killing me!”

“Almost finished,” he soothed.

His thumb flicked out and prodded at a spot she’d never before noted. It seemed as if all the sensation in the universe was centered there. He jabbed at it, as he sucked on her nipple, and she leapt over a precipice, her body in free fall, and she blindly careened through space and time as if she were being hurled across the sky.

She cried out, and he captured her lips in a torrid kiss, silencing the sound. The commotion went on and on, until she began to worry that it would never end, then gradually, she floated to earth, and she was cradled to him. She blinked and blinked, peeking around to get her bearings, but everything was different, as if reality had been transformed.

He kissed her, sweetly, tenderly. “You are such a gem.”

She struggled to push him off, to sit up and right herself, but her arms had turned to rubber, her torso a limp rag. Dazzled by new perceptions, she demanded, “What was that?”

“The French call it the
petite mort
.”

“Don’t spew foreign phrases,” she snapped. “Speak to me in English.”

“The little death,” he whispered.

“Can it occur more than once?”

“Definitely.”

She quivered with excitement, and she was alarmed by her response. Was the exploit habit-forming? Could one become obsessed, like an opium addict to his drug? Had she already started down the path to destruction? What if she developed into an uncontrollable amorous fiend?

She had a vision of herself, old and aged, and sneaking down the hallways in his house, desperate to catch
him alone. She was blatantly fascinated. Who wouldn’t be? The bounder was irresistible. What if she’d joined herself to him in a way she couldn’t sever?

He was gazing at her, a look of gentle speculation in his eye, and she couldn’t abide it.

Was he growing fond? More than fond?

The exhilarating, absurd prospect had her scoffing. She had to recollect how they’d met, what he’d been doing. He was the type who would cavort with anyone, and when she jumped into these ridiculous situations, she was only torturing herself.

He wasn’t like the men from Hailsham, and any fantasies she might have to the contrary were folly. The ordinary man of her acquaintance never trifled with a woman unless marriage was the ultimate goal. The ordinary
woman
never permitted liberties unless she had a ring on her finger.

Why was she misbehaving? What was she striving to achieve? He wasn’t a marrying sort of fellow, and though his position required that he wed someday, she would never be in contention for the role of bride.

He would toy with her until he tired of the chase; then he’d move on. No other result was possible, so why persist? Why attend him, without a chaperon, when she was powerless to refuse his advances?

With the cooling of her ardor, she felt like a trollop. She was sprawled on the desk, her bosom exposed, her hair down, her legs wrapped around him. What must he think!

The answer was obvious: He presumed she was loose, that she would engage in whatever licentious conduct he
suggested, and why shouldn’t he have a low opinion? From the first, she’d continually disgraced herself.

“How do you do that to me?” she asked.

“Do what?” Pleased as punch with his male prowess, he smirked.

“I can’t be around you for a single second without acting shamelessly.”

He helped her up, arranging her bodice and dropping her skirt. “You shouldn’t feel bad. Or guilty. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your reactions are perfectly normal.”

“Maybe in your world, but they’re certainly not in mine.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

What was he implying? That her tiny village of Hailsham was a swirling hotbed of immorality? The insinuation was preposterous.

He appeared as if he was about to utter a profound remark, or explain an important fact, but couldn’t. He stood before her, assessing her, pondering her, and out of the blue, he inquired, “Would you be my mistress?”

She gasped. “No. You insult me by mentioning it.”

“Your talents are wasted in working as a governess.”

“My
talents
?” How could he suppose that she had any aptitude for this kind of endeavor? He was the sole man who’d ever kissed her, and she was positive she wasn’t very adept.

“I want us to be lovers.”

“I’m not very experienced at this, but I believe we are.”

“But there’s so much more to it than this furtive groping. Wouldn’t you like to find out how it could be between us?”

As she was convinced it would be wonderful, her reply was easy to render. “No.”

“Let’s go to your room.”

Once they arrived, what naughty antics might he initiate? She was terrified to know.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

“Emily?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

She couldn’t pretend no interest, for she was extremely anxious to glean the particulars. It dawned on her that there were probably ways in which she could please him, too, and the notion was thrilling.

“Maybe a tad,” she admitted.

“You can’t tell me that you feel complete.”

“What do you mean?”

“Concentrate on your body—on the inside.” He stroked her breast, his merest caress sending shivers down her arms. “I want to lie down with you, in your bed. I’ll take off your clothes; then I’ll touch you and kiss you all over.”

She blushed, though not from embarrassment. The image he painted was so stirring, and so vivid, that she was eager to clasp his hand and lead him up the stairs.

“Michael . . .”

“Then
you
can take off my clothes and do the same.” He grinned. “We could order up a bath and wash each other.”

Men and women bathed each other? She thought of having him nude, wet and slippery and at her mercy, and even though she wasn’t certain what she’d do with him if he was naked, she suspected she’d quickly figure it out and that it would be fabulous.

My, my! How swiftly she was becoming a strumpet!

“Just because I
can
doesn’t indicate that I will.” She hated how she sounded so prim and proper.

“After we are both naked, I’ll arouse you again.”

“To bring on the ‘little death’?”

“Yes.”

She gulped. “Then what?”

“Then, I’ll make you mine in every way that counts.”

“You’re babbling in riddles.”

“If I told you what it entails,” he stated, “I doubt you’d believe me.”

“Try it, and see if I will.”

“Let’s go to your room,” he repeated. “It’s simpler if I show you.”

If she agreed, she couldn’t begin to calculate the number of sins she’d likely commit. “Why not demonstrate right here?”

“Because I’m not about to debauch you on the desk in my library.”

“Define
debauch
.”

Apparently, she’d exasperated him, and he blew out a heavy breath. “It involves what you’d call mating or coupling.”

“What is required?”

“We’re built differently.” He gestured between them. “In our private parts.”

They were? She was so naive!

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So that we can fit together when we fornicate.”

The word
fornicate
was new to her, and it seemed so
exotic and unusual that she mulled it, envisioning the places where she might use it in a sentence.

I fornicate all the time,
she pictured herself gaily expounding at a party. Or,
Do you fornicate whenever you can?

“How would we . . . would we . . .
fornicate
?”

“Well . . . you have a sort of sheath, while I have a sort of . . . a sort of . . .” He stopped, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Emily?”

“Yes?”

“Quit asking so many questions.”

He grabbed her and hoisted her over his shoulder. She was dangling upside down, her rear in the air, her head swaying across his waist. She struggled and kicked, but he tightened his grip and made for the door.

She shrieked and pummeled his back. “What are you doing?”

“We’re finished talking.” He swatted her on the bottom. “Now be silent, before someone hears you and sees what we’re about.”

“We are
not
going to my room!”

“You have no choice in the matter.”

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