Cheryl Holt (15 page)

He directed her inside, and she was elated to follow wherever he led. At encountering his cock, she was incredibly surprised.

“We’re built differently,” he remarked. “Remember?”

“You told me so, but why?”

“So that we can mate.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t understand you.”

“I’ll show you.”

Would he? Could he steal her virginity? He didn’t think so, but if he didn’t find a release and soon, he was concerned for his well-being. It couldn’t be healthy to be so hard, for so long.

He wrapped her hand around his erect rod, and he taught her how to stroke him. She quickly adapted to the task, and he felt like a lad of fourteen, ready to spill himself at the drop of a hat.

“What do you call this thing?” she inquired.

“It has many names. A phallus, a cock.”

“What is it for?”

Her gestures were excruciating, and he didn’t know how much more he could endure. “For pleasure. And for making babies.”

“How is it accomplished?”

“You have an opening in your body. Here.” He delved
his fingers into her sheath. “If we were to mate, I would push my cock into you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and then I would thrust it back and forth. The motion is very satisfying, and it creates a friction that causes a white cream to erupt from the tip. It is my seed, and it can plant a babe in your womb.”

“This . . . this mating, would it hurt?”

“Only the first time. You have a thin piece of skin covering the entrance—it’s your maidenhead—and when a man initially takes you, it tears and bleeds.”

“Aah,” she mused, “that clarifies the stories I’ve heard. Will you . . . will we . . .” She blushed, not possessing the terminology for salacious discussion.

“Will I penetrate you?”

“Yes.”

“Not today.”

“When?”

“Maybe never.”

She scowled. “Why not?”

“Because we could make a babe.”

The enormity of what they were about occurred to her. “So we must be very careful.”

“Yes. And if I deflower you, you can never marry.”

“Why?”

So many questions! He hadn’t realized that bedding a virgin could be so tiresome. “Because your husband would know that you’ve lain with another. That you’re not a chaste bride.”

“I don’t believe we have to worry about that situation ever arising.”

“You can’t predict what the future will hold.”

“Trust me,” she assured him, “it will never be a problem.”

What was she claiming? That she had no wish to wed? Or was it a more personal comment? After him, would she forsake all others? He was foolish enough to hope that he meant that much to her, but such strident emotion was hazardous.

He couldn’t deduce her rationale and wouldn’t try. There was one thing that he wanted from her, and that was fabulous sex. He would come as close as he could to that grand event without stepping over the ultimate line.

“So if we’re not about to . . . to . . . mate,” she ventured, “what are we going to do?”

“I can experience the same pleasure as you,” he explained. “I’ll instruct you in how to give it to me with your hands or your mouth.”

“My mouth? You’d put it in my mouth?”

“Yes, but no child would be conceived.”

He couldn’t imagine using her so badly, tutoring her to perform a whore’s tricks, but the notion of impaling himself between those lush ruby lips was nearly his undoing. Throughout their conversation, she hadn’t ceased her rhythmic stroking, and he was goaded beyond sanity, while striving to appear under control.

“May I look at you?” Not waiting for permission, she’d scooted down and hovered over his crotch.

“I suppose.” If he shed his trousers, they were in trouble.

She must have noticed the agony in his voice, because she halted. “Are you in pain?”

“I want you so much it hurts.”

“You’re ailing physically?”

“Yes.”

“Can I relieve your distress?”

“Very easily.”

“Then perhaps I should.”

She grabbed his trousers and tugged them down, baring his loins with a fast yank. He stared at the ceiling, ignoring her, pretending she wasn’t inches away.

She inspected him, checking every detail as a scientist might a novel invention. She traced a path from root to tip, journeying over and over, trailing across the ropey veins, the velvet skin, the smooth end.

“It’s so big,” she finally murmured. “How can you walk around with it in the way?”

“It’s only enlarged when I’m aroused.”

“Then you must be very, very aroused.”

“Oh, I am.”

Without warning, she bent down and took him into her mouth, gliding over the crown as if she’d implemented the maneuver a thousand times. She was so wet, so tight, and the deed so unexpected, that he almost spilled himself, and he lurched away, dragged her to him, and rolled on top of her.

“What’s the matter?” she frantically queried.

“I have to come.” He crushed her to his chest. “Now!”

“What should I do?”

“Just hold me.”

She hugged him, his phallus wedged to her belly. He thrust once, twice, and he exploded. Usually, he could last forever, but she’d pushed him over a spectacular edge. He couldn’t recollect ever being so provoked.

How did she manage it? How did she keep him so inflamed?

He soared to the heavens, his orgasm going on and on until he wondered if his poor heart might quit beating. Eventually, he reached the peak, and he tumbled down, falling and falling, then landing in her embrace. He collapsed, his face buried in the pillow, his weight squashing her, and he was terrified to look her in the eye, terrified to learn her opinion of the endeavor.

He must have revolted her. How could she have found any satisfaction in what he’d done?

Slinking to the washstand, he dipped a cloth, retrieved a towel, and returned to her. He swabbed away all evidence of his sin, accomplishing it without meeting her gaze.

But as he finished, he had to glance up, and he was stunned to see her smiling. She stretched and arched up, which made him want to jump on her like the rapacious creature he was.

“I love your body,” she asserted. “I didn’t realize a man’s torso could be so . . . inspiring.”

“Is that what you’d call me? An inspiration?”

“I’ve definitely been moved.” She assessed his flaccid cock, and she was annoyingly smug. “You’re not hard anymore.”

“The erection passes with the pleasure.”

She fondled him, noting the change in size and texture. “Is this an indication that you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes, you scamp.”

“So I did everything correctly?”

“If you’d been any more
correct,
I couldn’t have survived it.”

“When can we try it again?”

She was caressing him, utilizing the slow, captivating
strokes he’d taught her, and the unruly rod leapt to life, pulsating with a rekindled energy.

How could he be titillated so swiftly? What was happening to him? He was thirty years old. Was he planning to kill himself with dalliance? What a way to leave the earth!

She was like a carnal disease for which there was no cure. He was crazy for her, impatient to proceed, and he couldn’t refuse.

“How about right now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She opened her arms, and he snuggled into them, eager and ready to begin anew.

 10 

Pamela looked down the park’s congested promenade and was certain she saw Amanda Lambert. Miss Barnett was busy at the pond, helping Margaret and Rose toss bread to the ducks, so it was simple to slip away. She took a hasty step, then another, and the crowd swallowed her up.

Since the day she’d discovered Miss Barnett’s loathsome affair with Michael, Pamela had been dying to confer with Amanda, to ask her advice as to what she should do with the information.

Amanda had been a favorite of Pamela’s father, had been regularly invited to his unending parties. She was independent and sophisticated in a fashion Pamela hoped to be, herself, when she was older. Though others whispered as to Amanda being a fallen woman, and snubbed her because of it, Pamela had never witnessed any questionable conduct.

Her father had cherished Amanda’s company, so Pamela would, too.

She hurried along, and eventually, she espied Amanda
as she climbed into a fancy coach. The vehicle had Michael’s family crest on the door. If Amanda was riding about in his carriage, they had to still be close, so it was even more imperative that Pamela impart her secret about Miss Barnett.

“Hallo! Amanda!” she called, waving and gesturing. “It’s me, Pamela.”

Amanda paused and grinned. “Pamela Martin, as I live and breathe.”

“I’ve been searching for you everywhere!” Pamela exclaimed as she hastened up.

“Have you now?” Amanda glanced about. “Where’s your chaperone?”

“Back by the lake. With Margaret.” Pamela leaned in and whispered. “I had to speak with you, so I sneaked away.”

“Fabulous. Why don’t you join me in my carriage?” She clambered in and darted out of sight.

Without hesitation, Pamela followed, not fretting over whether she should parlay with Amanda. If there was anyone watching who might be upset or shocked, Pamela could not care less. She wasn’t about to have the stuffy snobs of the
ton
choosing her acquaintances.

Pamela made herself comfortable, as Amanda pulled the curtains, hiding them from prying spectators. Amanda murmured directions to her footman, and momentarily, they began a slow trip down the tree-lined lane.

“How are you?” Amanda started. “I’ve been so worried. I’ve sent you a dozen letters, but they keep being returned, when I can’t imagine why.”

Pamela fumed. Who would have stopped her mail from being delivered? It had to have been Barnett, the witch.

“It’s been awful,” she confessed.

“Has it?” Amanda patted her hand. “You poor thing.”

“I’m treated like a child. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without permission. I feel as if I’m in prison.”

Amanda clucked her tongue in dismay, her empathy a welcomed relief.

“Why . . . you’re absolutely distraught, aren’t you?” Amanda commiserated. “If I’d had any idea your situation was so vile, I’d have visited.” There was a chest tucked under the seat, and she opened it to retrieve a glass and a decanter of brandy. She poured a hefty amount and offered it to Pamela. “Try this, darling. It will calm your nerves.”

Pamela gulped at the liquor, delighted to have it so effortlessly dispensed. She emptied the contents and, without her having to plead for more, Amanda poured a second serving. Pamela swilled it, too, downing it so rapidly that her eyes watered and her throat burned.

Instantly, the brandy soothed her, and she felt smarter and more in control. “Amanda,” she ventured, “Michael is so fond of you. Could you talk to him for me? Could you make him listen?”

“Of course, my sweet. What is it you need me to say?”

“I have to know about my finances, but he won’t confide in me.”

“Well, I don’t have to consult with Michael to ascertain the facts. Your father was my dearest friend, so I’m fully cognizant of your dire straits.”

“What do you mean?”

Amanda assessed her, then sighed. “Oh, I hate to burden you with such tedious issues.”

“Tell me!” Pamela insisted.

Amanda oozed sympathy. “I suppose you must be apprised sooner or later.”

“Concerning?”

“When your father died, he was beggared. He left you nothing, because there was nothing to leave.”

Pamela gasped. “Why hasn’t Michael notified me?”

“He realized that you’d be devastated, and he hasn’t known how to break it to you.”

“But what will become of me? What about my debut? What about my dowry?”

“All beyond you, I’m afraid.”

Amanda refilled Pamela’s glass and, anxious to ease her panic, Pamela guzzled the liquid. Her mind whirled with the prospects for disaster.

She’d met a girl once whose father had gambled away their fortune, and Pamela had publicly commiserated but had privately snickered, being flagrantly sure of her own stable circumstance. How humiliating to be in the same degrading state!

She had big dreams—of marrying a rich husband, who would furnish her with all the money she could ever spend. She would lead an exotic life like her father’s, would be the most regaled hostess in London, but she needed cash to pay for her entertainments.