Cheryl Holt (22 page)

At viewing the male accessory on small boys, she’d never postulated that it would enlarge, that it could mature to being so bold and manifest. Looking angry and alive, the attachment was red and distended, with a bulbous head and purple, ropy veins. It protruded from a nest of his dark hair, two sacs dangling beneath, and her visual assessment made it extend out toward her in entreaty.

She hazarded a glance at him, and he lay silent and still,
studying her with an impersonal, glacial intensity.

Had he planned to shock her? To have her tearful and swooning? To send her stumbling from the room in offense and alarm?

He was motivated by deep, unfathomable issues that she couldn’t hope to understand. The chances were great that he’d merely instigated this as a bizarre diversion in order to gain a response from her, but if the man thought she was some prim, squeamish miss, he obviously didn’t know her very well. She was fascinated, enthralled, and ardent to explore.

“It’s larger than I supposed.”

“I’m aroused.”

“It changes size?” Her eyes widened with astonishment, and he chuckled at her naivete.

“Usually, it’s flaccid and harmless.” Tensing his stomach muscles, the extraordinary appendage inflated even more. “But not when I’m here with you like this. I’m so hard for you. I ache with my desire.”

There was a husky tone in his voice, a desperation that plucked at her common sense, leaving her reckless and rash, and just then, she’d have performed any impulsive feat he requested.

“What do you call it?”

“My cock.”

She struggled for terminology, but her innocent background hindered descriptive dialogue, so she gestured over his erect body part. “Are all of these . . . these cocks so large?”

“Mine is bigger than most.” He directed, “Touch me.”

Tentatively, she reached out and traced a line from the base to the apex. The sheltering layer of skin was hot and smooth, pliant and malleable, but the timid contact didn’t satisfy him, and he clasped her hand in his, and wrapped them together around his heated staff, so that she could adjust to handling him so privately. Then, he commenced moving them conjointly, showing her the most effective maneuvers.

“The tip is the most sensitive,” he pointed out. “Try to run over it with each stroke.”

“Like this?” she asked, drawing back the yielding skin, unveiling the crown.

“Yes,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I’ll obtain the most gratification that way.”

As she was an avid, enthusiastic pupil, he readily left her to her own devices. Fastidiously, she investigated, learning his shape, awed by the variations of velvet over steel. She pampered and played, altering the pressure, the speed, the length of her caress. Amazingly, with the slightest modification, he reacted accordingly.

What power she held over him! What marvelous authority! If she wielded this much dominance when she was unskilled, she’d be a holy terror after a few hours of practice, after a few days.

Her nerves galloped at the realization.

“What are these?” She cupped the sacs between his legs.

“My balls.”

“What are they for?”

“They shelter my seed, and they’re very tender.” But she’d already surmised as much, and she’d decided to withdraw when, sounding afflicted, he interrupted her. “Don’t stop. Just be gentle.”

Cradling the precious pile, she scooted down his thighs so that she had more space to observe and manipulate. The new position brought her over his stomach, and her sudden comprehension startled her.

She remembered the lover she’d witnessed, the woman who had been bent over him, but Sarah hadn’t been able to discern her activity, and she’d been so blasted curious.

Could it be?

A inexplicable tingle rushed through her fingers, up her arms, and she was jolted by her keen insight. She gazed up his broad expanse of abdomen and chest. The pillows were braced behind his head, and he regarded her dispassionately, his sapphire eyes glittering.

“They put their mouths on you, don’t they?”

“Who?”

“Your . . . your women. That’s what you require of them, isn’t it?” She rose onto her haunches. “They take you into their mouths.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“
Why
do I prefer it? Or
why
do they go down on me?”

“Both.”

“I fancy it because it’s erotic and naughty, and they do it so that they can brag to their friends that they’ve sucked me off.”

Her brow furled. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a crude phrase.” He shrugged, but didn’t appear repentant for having recited it. “It refers to when a man thrusts his cock into a woman’s mouth. He continues until the friction is unbearable, then he discharges his seed into his lover’s throat.”

“You really do this?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say
often
.” He seemed amused. “Whenever a woman volunteers.”

“Your partners swallow it?”

“Aye.”

“What is its taste?”

“It doesn’t actually have one. It’s heat and salt.”

“Your very essence,” she murmured.

He shrugged again.

“This deed . . . does it have a name?”

“A French kiss.”

“It’s enjoyable for you?”

“Beyond measure. I relish the opportunity to spill myself between a woman’s legs, but I never do, because I might create a child. So I’m obliged to any female who renders such a stunning delectation.”

“You always agree?”

“I’m not in the habit of denying myself. I have a strong
sexual drive, and I accept what is freely offered.”

He could baldly analyze his scandalous conduct. Most likely, he’d reveled in so much lewdness in his life that discussion of his untoward behaviors was extremely easy. How could she break through that unruffled façade?

Her heart was racing, her body afire, her womanly places pleading for his intricate manual attention. She was anxious to bring him to the same drastic condition, to where he was out of control, his guise of ennui shattered.

“Open yourself to me.” He nodded toward his groin. “Take me into your mouth.”

“I’m not certain that I—”

“You are.”

“You’re demanding too much, too soon.”

“No I’m not.”

Once again, he arranged her hand on his pulsating member, leading her in a languid motion, and she stared into those mesmerizing eyes. They were sublime, reassuring, and they made her crazy to blindly effect his every command. As though enchanted, she found herself leaning forward, leaning down.

“Will you finish inside me?”

“Not today.”

“Why not?”

“You’re geared for some. Not all.”

“When, then?”

“After you’ve had more indoctrination.”

Still, she vacillated. What had she gotten herself into? She professed, “I guess I’m apprehensive.”

“About what?”

“About what I don’t know.”

“I won’t hurt you; I never could.”

The strength of his avowal was encouraging. “I grasp that. I just . . .”

Just what?

Their rendezvous was so devoid of care or concern, and he was so indifferent. It seemed wrong to proceed in such a disjointed fashion. The somber, aloof stranger lying before
her wasn’t the man of passion to whom she was devoted. The
real
Michael was in hiding, but she wasn’t positive how to draw him out. Perhaps if she complied with his proposition, she could melt the barriers he’d erected. She was eager to please him, yet she was skeptical of his motives and fretting over her own.

“I want you, Sarah. I need you now.”

His declaration soothed her turmoil, urging her on, and she couldn’t deny him. Starting at the bottom, she flicked with her tongue, by degrees working up his length until she was licking at the oozing crown. When she arrived at the blunt apex, she eased him betwixt her lips.

The sensation was indescribable, his nature and spirit embedded in the turgid, obstinate extremity. Inhaling slowly, she was surrounded by his masculinity, his virility, his potency.

His hand went to the back of her head, holding her, guiding her. He shifted to his side, rotating her, as well. With his leg, he steadied her, pinning her close, and she opened further, procuring more of him than she’d previously believed possible.

As he scrupulously thrust, the physicality was amazing. The indiscretion, the impropriety, titillated her, leaving her wild and hungry for more. She basked in the lengthy, ribald interlude while he overindulged and, as she adjusted to his movements, she became cognizant of his rising ardor. Then, with very little warning, he pulled away, and she instantly regretted the loss.

Her lips were sore, chapped and stretched as they’d never been, yet she wished he’d kept on. She sensed that the procedure could have grown particularly raucous, and that he was restraining himself on her account.

“Are we finished?”

“No, love, we’re not.”

The endearment rolled off his tongue to slither into her confused mind, raising innumerable questions: Did he appreciate what he’d said? Was it unintentional? Intentional?
If he was aware of what he’d uttered, what had been his true purpose?

Thrown off balance, she hardly regrouped before he was hauling her up into his arms. He was smiling at her, the blaze of it so stupendous that she was glad she was lying down when it fell upon her.

He covered her with his body, his weight pressing her into the mattress, and having him on top of her was a thoroughly primal experience. He was so welcome, and he fit so perfectly—flat where she was rounded, rough where she was soft—and she couldn’t prevent herself from enveloping him, her limbs spreading so that she could lovingly cuddle him. Cautiously, almost gratefully, he settled himself between her thighs, his cock heavy and wedged against her leg.

He hovered over her, his fingers at the hem of her chemise, and with no hesitation, he tugged it up her hips, disposed to remove it.

At seeing her rapid panic, he explained, “I’m terribly aroused; I’m going to come against your stomach.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only me”—he chortled over matters she didn’t comprehend—“and only in a good way.”

“My breasts will be bared to you.”

“Again.”

“Yes, and I’m nervous that—”

“They’re so magnificent.”

Through the fabric, he caressed her erect nipple and, like a puppet on a string, she immediately acquiesced, hoisting her lower torso, then her shoulders, so he could yank her chemise up and over her head.

How was it that he so easily routed her ingrained propriety? He but complimented her, and she jumped to do his bidding. Was she so starved for affection? So greedy for flattery and adulation? Apparently, the answer was yes.

By spewing a few laudatory words, he could prevail upon her to commit any depraved act—even those that were completely foreign to her character. Yet, she yearned
to make him happy, to prompt that rare smile.

She was an unmitigated fool!

Her body was now shielded only by a skimpy pair of bright-red pantalets.

The most recent whimsy from Paris
, Rebecca had noted when she’d brought them home from London.

The gift—six pairs of silky, frivolous underdrawers—had enchanted Sarah. She had so few nice garments, and no money for new. The wardrobe her father had purchased years prior for her debut was either too small or threadbare, so she’d cheerfully embraced the scanty unmentionables. They made her feel pretty and feminine, and she liked how they brushed against her beneath her clothes.

But when she’d donned them that morning, it had never occurred to her that Michael Stevens would be evaluating them that afternoon. She blushed furiously.

“Why, Sarah”—he was amused and surprised, as though womanly attire was the last thing he’d expected from her—“you’re wearing French underwear.”

The knave was so familiar with women that he was well versed in the modern style of intimate apparel!

The assignation had become too oppressive. What was she striving to attain? Why was she allowing him to tease her? She never tolerated men’s jesting, having learned the hard way how an uncouth comment could wound, and, needing to flee, she wrenched away, trying to scoot off the bed, but he held her down.

“Let me go,” she decreed, focusing on the ceiling.

“No.”

Odious cad!

His hand slithered under the crimson waistband and tangled in her secret hair, then traveled on to where she was wet and swollen, and she was embarrassed that he’d detected the unusual moisture—especially when he felt compelled to preen over his discovery.

“God . . . you are so ready for me,” he asserted, as two questing fingers slipped inside her.

He’d touched her in the same manner once before but,
at the time, she’d been too astonished to pay attention. Now, she moaned, clutching and weeping into his palm as he stroked deliberately, entering then retreating. The abominable machination stirred an acute appetite for more than the simple massage. She wanted things she couldn’t begin to enumerate.

“Michael . . . please . . .”

“Yes, beg me. I love it when you do.”

With a tap of his thumb, he sent a wave of stimulation up her abdomen to her breasts, and she whimpered.

How mortifying! She wasn’t a
whimperer
. Yet, how was she to comport herself rationally and routinely when she was splayed wide and being fondled by such an arrogant rogue?

He was in pure agony, as well, as if palpating her was painful and, as he hung his head over her chest, she couldn’t get past the impression that he hadn’t been so unmoved, after all. Throughout, he’d seemed to be a sort of unaffected bystander, and his calm detachment had been so frustrating. She’d longed for him to endure some of the same jubilation and upheaval she was suffering.

Evidently, he hadn’t been so apathetic. He was seething with unreleased turmoil.

“I have to come,” he said, and he bent down and licked at her nipple. “I can’t wait.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Just hold me tight. Don’t let go.”

She snuggled him against her bosom, and his cock dilated to an enormous proportion. Insistent and relentless, he impatiently thrust it against her.