Cheryl Holt (15 page)

He peered over his shoulder. She was bathed in shadows, a lovely, sheltered, exquisite gem inexplicably dropped into his sordid world, and he wanted her with an unrelenting, reckless abandon.

“Good day, milady.” He bowed stiffly. “Don’t wait for me in the gardens or anywhere else. I shan’t stop by.”

With that, he departed, leaving her to her own devices, returning to the manor and the privacy of his rooms where he could contemplate the long, depressing hours till evening and the depraved night yet to come.

Sarah paced furiously from one end of her room to the other. She couldn’t quit thinking about Michael Stevens, about their rendezvous in the yard, or their furtive trip to the gardener’s shed. The kiss they’d shared had been the most thrilling, intriguing event in what she deemed to be her extremely eventless life.

He’d done nothing but lightly touch his mouth to hers, so how was it possible that such a simple gesture could be so riveting? All these hours later, long after he’d departed in a huff, and she’d returned to the house alone and more frustrated than ever, her body was completely disconcerted by the sensations the tender interlude had invoked.

She’d become uncomfortably conscious of her condition as a woman, a spinster, a virgin who was quite sure she didn’t want to be one much longer. Yearning for his company, she was now eager to while away her time in wanton pursuits that she’d have previously considered patently ridiculous.

From the moment she’d first laid eyes upon him, she’d been drawn into his sordid realm, until she couldn’t imagine an occurrence more lovely than the opportunity to revel in his sweet version of erotic excess.

How and why did he fascinate her so? What was it about him that overwhelmed her common sense, that had her mooning about the mansion, hoping to catch a glimpse of him? It was as though she’d reverted in age to a love-struck adolescent who was teeming with youthful, unrequited reveries which, given the state of their acquaintance, was absurd.

Three days prior, she’d met him in a shocking fashion,
but since then, she hadn’t learned any detail of consequence about him. He was purportedly a cad and a bounder, a man of horrendous reputation. But what else?

He had a mother and brother about whom he cared deeply, he was marvelous at kissing, and he would commit any foul escapade with a woman. That was the extent of her knowledge.

Craving an in-depth interview, she’d spent her entire daylight hours wandering about in search of him. In the breakfast room. At the card tables. Out by the stables. She’d walked the grounds, peeking through hedges and selecting provident viewing locations where she might spy on the entrances to the manor. Yet she’d had no luck at chancing upon him, which had only induced her to stew about where he was, what he was doing, and with whom.

When he’d finally surfaced, it seemed as if she’d conjured him up, but once she’d had him within her purview, she hadn’t discovered any useful tidbits. In his magnificent presence, she could concentrate on nothing but the physical: how he carried himself, the husky timbre of his voice, the dangerous glitter in his eye. The fact that he was fully clothed and looked superb.

Like a thunderstruck dolt, she’d pondered his corporeal attributes and conduct, while privately wishing that he might visit her clandestinely, once again, and reveal more of his sensual secrets. In too short an interval, she’d developed a strange and unexplainable attachment to him, and she didn’t appreciate the notion of him bestowing his favors on his various paramours. If he was going to dabble in carnal indiscretion, she was prepared to insist that he seek out her and no other.

The impetuous decision had been so strong and pervasive that she’d even deigned to knock on the door that separated their suites, urging him to open, so that she could declare herself, but annoyingly, he’d not been there. Or, if he had been, he’d refused to answer her summons.

His absence had driven her crazy with anxiety as to his whereabouts. She’d impatiently prowled, hunting for him,
so she could tell him not to visit the hidden room that evening, that he should allow her to be the one to bring him comfort and relief. He could teach her, then let her practice her new techniques on his fabulous anatomy.

Despite how he’d scoffed at her assertion that they were kindred spirits, she felt linked to him as she’d never been with another, and her impression of closeness caused her to worry and fret. About him. About his family situation. About his dissatisfaction with life and his place in it.

Her peculiar enlightenment as to his personal problems plagued her with an extraordinary level of concern for his welfare. She was convinced that he shouldn’t be cavorting with the female guests. The lewd behavior was out of character for him, and she intended that he desist. At once. That he regroup and renounce his reckless conduct. Their kiss had been phenomenal, splendid, and she simply couldn’t abide to learn that he didn’t possess a similar sentiment about the whole affair. After their heated, bonding embrace, he absolutely couldn’t go around making love with others!

The hour was late, the manor settled and quiet, and she contemplated whether she should endeavor to locate the stairway that led to the hidden room so she could stop him before he entered. For a good part of the day, she’d tried to ferret out the mode of access, but she’d been unsuccessful at deciphering its position, so she doubted if she could stumble upon it in the dark.

Baffled and apprehensive, she went to her dressing room, sneaked to the peephole, and stealthily climbed onto the footstool. To her dismay, Michael Stevens had magically appeared and was sequestered inside. He lounged, negligent as ever. Bored and delectable, he waited for another anonymous lover to join him.

Though she longed to pound on the wall and call his name, she restrained herself. She watched—as she always did. She couldn’t tear herself away from his beautiful face, his furred chest, his tight trousers. As usual, the top buttons were unfastened, and her gaze was held captive by the male mysteries buried below.

How she craved to see him in the altogether! To run her hands across that marvelous torso! To massage and caress as he permitted his other paramours to indulge themselves on a regular basis!

From off to the side, the door opened. A woman stepped into sight, cloaked and concealed, and Michael straightened.

“Don’t do this,” Sarah implored, but silently. “Michael, please . . .”

Hating to observe, but unable to discontinue, she kept her eyes glued to the pair, bracing for what was coming, aware of the sick amusement in which they would engage, but she couldn’t stop herself.

The titillation was extreme, the arousal disturbing and impossible to resist. Disgusted with herself and her motives, disgusted with Michael and his, she pressed her eye to the hole just as Michael rose to his feet.

“What’s your name?” he inquired, and at the woman’s casual response, he chuckled. Whoever was under the cape was a person Michael knew well, an associate whose company he relished. He stared at her with a bemused expression, and he chided her lightly, a hint of familiarity and admiration in his question. “Why are you here? You don’t like showing off.”

“You’ve been neglecting me, darling,” the woman pouted. “You declined to oblige me this afternoon.”

Sarah’s mind swirled in panic. He’d been with this woman during the afternoon? When? Before or after her own assignation with him? Could he have kissed her so amorously, so passionately, then casually moved on to another? The concept didn’t bear contemplating.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” Michael said somewhat petulantly, which caused his companion to laugh aloud.

“Well, you’d best be now,” she scolded, though impishly. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me a bit of a frolic.”

Michael was clearly intrigued that the woman had visited, and he was ready to humor her whim with a friendliness and sincerity that Sarah had not noted in him before.
To her consternation, this novel attitude of his was more disconcerting than ever. It had been painful enough to scrutinize him as he’d manhandled his partners with a calculated, unshakable disregard, but it was so much worse to see him dallying with someone for whom he sustained an evident fondness.

A powerful, unaccustomed jealousy roared through her, and she cursed him and his lover. The affectionate tone and genuine regard were excruciating to endure. She abhorred witnessing the couples’ amiable connection, but she’d already enmeshed herself so far in Michael’s activities that she couldn’t withdraw.

They were conversing, and Sarah struggled to hear.

Mockingly, Michael queried, “What’s your pleasure, milady?”

“You shouldn’t have to ask.”

“And you know the rules,” he advised. “You have to state your preference.”

“Blast the rules!” she asserted, but she was laughing again.

Their bodies were melded, her hands massaging through the luscious matting of hair on his chest, then lower. Sarah couldn’t distinguish the exact maneuver, but the woman seemed to be stroking his abdomen, rubbing across the protrusion in his pants. She huddled near and whispered her predilection in his ear.

“A pleasure to service you, milady,” he intoned.

“You scoundrel! I’m perfectly willing to beg—if that’s the only way I can garner your attention.”

“Are you naked under your cloak?”

“Yes! How indelicate of you to mention it!”

“Let me see.”

With a flourish, she whipped the cape off her shoulders and preened before him, nude and insolent. Her hair was wrapped in a white turban, supplying no clue as to its color, and her face was discreetly covered with an intricate purple mask, rimmed with feathers and golden sparkles, so her identity remained disguised.

“What do you think, darling?” She squared her shoulders and thrust her bust forward.

“Very nice . . . as always.”

He reverently stroked a plump, rounded breast, and Sarah wanted to die! How could he worship at another woman’s bosom when he’d so recently showered
her
with tenderness? She loathed the patent admiration that he showered on his lover, because she remembered all too well how it had felt when he’d gazed similarly at her.

Leaning down, he suckled at a nipple, gently and obligingly tasting the rosy nub. Enthralled, the woman smiled down on him, then shivered with delight as she ran her fingers through his glorious black hair.

Sarah’s heart pounded, her womb stirred. As usual, it seemed as if he was manipulating her own breast. Her nipples throbbed and ached, and she squeezed one of them, hoping only to alleviate the furious pang of agitation, but pinching the distressed tip proved dangerously exciting.

She forced her hand away and focused her concentration on the duo, determined that she wouldn’t miss a single second of their sortie, despite how difficult or stimulating it might become.

Michael fell to his knees and, whatever he was accomplishing, his companion’s eyes glittered, her back stiffened. She bit against her lip, her breath coming in fast respirations, and her fingers gripping his shoulders.

“God, you are so good at that,” she muttered.

“We aim to please.”

“I’ll be sure to recommend you to all my friends.”

“I’m humbled.”

Sarcasm dripped from his words, and Sarah strained against the peephole, desperate to discern precisely what had his visitor so preoccupied, but she couldn’t identify the procedure.

The episode resumed, the woman increasingly distraught, her body exhibiting more tension. Then, for some inexplicable reason, she stepped away from him.

“Not just yet.”

From his position on the floor, he glared up at her. “I’m not finished.”

“Neither am I.”

Winking playfully, she scooted to the bed and giggled when he grabbed for her. He climbed behind her, centering himself, and it looked as if he was unbuttoning his pants. The woman wiggled against his groin, and she was merrily preventing him from achieving whatever he intended.

“Behave!” the woman scolded as Michael bit against her neck, and she shrugged him off. “I advised you of my choice. And it’s not this! You must honor my request.”

They tumbled about, kissing and cuddling, until Michael was lying on his back, the woman on top. Down toward the bodily regions Sarah couldn’t perceive, the woman’s hands were busy stroking him in a fashion he greatly treasured, but Sarah couldn’t begin to speculate as to their task.

“You are so hard for me,” she asserted.

Apparently, she was proud of what her efforts had attained, and she brushed a chaste kiss across his lips. “Close your eyes, darling, and I can be anyone you want me to be.” Mischievously, she added, “You can even pretend I have green eyes and auburn hair; I won’t mind.”

“Witch,” he grumbled as the woman committed an exploit that caused them both to gasp with a sort of reciprocal anguish. Then . . . they were moving conjointly, much as one would when riding a horse. The motion went on and on; the lovers more involved, more intense in their enterprise. The woman adjusted herself so that her breasts dangled over Michael’s zealous mouth. He pressured, milked, and suckled.

Sarah watched to the end, repelled, captivated, discomfited, wanting them to cease immediately, while at the same juncture, never wanting the torrid exhibition to conclude. They reached a mutual goal, a pinnacle, both crying out with a strangled elation, and she felt ashamed and sickened to have witnessed the intense emotion that flared between them, yet she was glad she had.

Their pace slackened, the tension abated, the pair relaxed,
and Michael rubbed the woman’s back.

Arrogant and satisfied with himself, he murmured, “Feeling better?”

“Oh, Lord . . . but you utterly kill me when you do that.”

Balanced on her haunches, she studied him with a possessive smugness, and they shared a charged moment awash with cryptic meaning, and Sarah’s heart twisted at having to acknowledge how closely acquainted they were.

Was she his mistress? His true love? She couldn’t stand the thought that he might belong to another before she’d ever had the occasion to win him for herself.