Cheryl Holt (32 page)

“Are you ready for your bath, milady?” he teased.

“The water is too hot, so it needs to cool” She batted her lashes. “How will we pass the time?”

“You minx! You’ll be the death of me yet.”

“I hope not. I have too many licentious plans for you.” She chortled merrily, then abruptly halted as she discerned a hint of his underlying distress that should have been prudently hidden. “You’re upset.”

“Not really.”

“Don’t lie to me.” She possessed an innate insight where he was concerned. “I can tell when you are.”

“Maybe a tad,” he averred.

“Is your mother all right?”

“As far as I know.”

She shuddered with relief, as though his mother was an old friend about whom she habitually fretted as the older woman flaunted herself across the Continent on her honeymoon.

During the cloistered supper they’d enjoyed in his bedchamber, he’d opened these doors to his personal history, and she’d gladly stepped through, then wheedled him to divulge some of his reflections about Angela and Edward, about James and his new bride, too, though why he’d discussed such delicate, private topics was a mystery. She’d just been so determined to drag his family’s misery into the open, convinced that airing their dirty laundry was the best method for coming to grips with what had transpired.

Between bouts of frantic loving, they’d chatted incessantly until she was well versed in his foibles and squabbles. He had always been a detached, solitary man, and he
couldn’t believe how extraordinary it had been to confide in someone for a change, and he was disturbed by how much he’d miss their verbal intimacy once he moved on.

“Sit” He patted the mattress, and she stretched out as if she’d done just that on a thousand prior occasions. Her body perfectly conformed to his, and he situated her so that he could peer into her green eyes. He intended to always recall how brightly they shimmered, how scrupulously they assessed.

“What is it?” she queried.

“I’m leaving in the morning.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d anticipated from her. Weeping? Pleading? Assorted female histrionics? Assuredly not this dreadful calm.

“I see,” she finally stated. “Why?”

“Lady Carrington asked me to.”

“Why?” she repeated.

Many answers would satisfy, but so far, he’d deftly skirted the issue of his association with her brother, and he didn’t contrive to address it at this late date. Apparently, she’d never guessed that he and Hugh might be acquainted, and he’d like her to remain ignorant of their sordid alliance.

He grinned, trying to make light of the circumstances. “She claims I’ve abused her hospitality.”

“I thought you two were friends.”

“We are”—he shifted uncomfortably—“but even Pamela has her limits.”

“Brigham?”

“Yes.”

“Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided. I’ve a dozen invitations to other parties, but I might journey to my brother’s country house. It’s remote and secluded, and I could benefit from the solitude.”

“Will you continue on to town?”

“Eventually.” His job at the club was the only decent method he’d ever detected for keeping himself out of trouble.

“You should head for home,” she scolded. “The sooner the better.”

They’d rigorously debated his plight, and he knew she was correct, but he couldn’t seem to turn toward London. Not yet, anyway.

“If you went to your brother’s rural residence . . .” She paused, contemplating. “Would you like me to join you there? I could probably find a way.”

His heart pounded, then generated an odd rumble, and he was quite certain it might be breaking. More than anything, he wished she could follow him to James’s house. The discreet staff would provide an exclusive haven in which to romp and build permanent memories, but it simply couldn’t be.

“No,” he ultimately declared, even as he marveled as to how he’d located the fortitude to refuse her. “We must say
adieu
tonight”

Unblinking, not breathing, she casually absorbed the news. “Are you positive?”

“Aye.” She didn’t argue or disagree, but still, he felt inclined to add, “It’s for the best.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

He sustained a vicious impulse to shake her out of her acquiescence. Why didn’t she react? Why didn’t she quibble? Would it be so easy, then, for her to walk away?

When he’d instigated this insane business, he’d never projected ahead to the wretched finale. If he had, he’d definitely have fantasized that
she
would be the one dissembling, not himself. He was too confident, too in control. He could fuck a woman forever without growing attached to her.

Couldn’t he?

“I want to make love till dawn,” he said.

“So do I.”

Yet, he couldn’t seem to begin. Instead, he exhaustively regarded her, chronicling every particular. Dozens of words were poised on the tip of his tongue, and oh, how anxious he was to expound! If he’d been brave enough, he’d have
confessed how much he’d treasured meeting her, how he’d valued their brief interlude, and how he hoped she would find happiness and serenity in the future, but he said nothing.

What good would it do to babble a pile of fatuous sentimentality? If he professed how much he cared, she’d likely do the same, and there they’d be, ensnared in an impossible circle of yearning and affection from which there could be no retreat.

Better to keep silent.

“It will be hard to say farewell,” was all he could manage.

“I know.”

“I’ll miss you.”
Always
, he was avid to append.

“And I, you.”

They stared, neither willing to volunteer more, and he was so relieved. He couldn’t bear to hear her actual ruminations, so he pretended that her internal musings adequately matched his own, though he didn’t fathom how they could. His fondness for her had completely consumed him, and the concept of carrying on without this chance for sharing at the close of the day was beyond imagining.

The stirring, pensive moment ended when their lips touched in a quiet embrace filled with all that couldn’t be uttered aloud. She riffled her fingers through his hair, stroked his neck and shoulder, until her hand settled on the center of his chest, resting over his heart, massaging and affording solace. Her tongue united with his in a peaceful dance that was familiar and delectable.

He’d never been much of a one for kissing, but with her, he couldn’t withstand the slow provocation. Their breath mingled, their pulses beat in a constant rhythm. The sheer rapture of having her so simply and sweetly overwhelmed him, and he could have lain there in perpetuity, doing nothing more than pressing his mouth to hers.

The languid exchange couldn’t help but grow more heated. Before long, her robe was off, and he was tugging
her nightgown up her legs. He cupped and caressed her, relishing how her hips set the tempo.

His unskilled virgin had blossomed! She knew how to tantalize and arouse, how to originate and seduce, but also how to receive what she craved.

He toyed until she was wet with desire, her nether lips swollen and stimulated, and he succumbed to the lure of implanting her scent on his tongue. Her sexual essence was a potent aphrodisiac; it inflamed him and chased away his common sense.

Licking and tasting, he drove her toward her peak, but the wench was so proficient at restraint, so attuned to her body and his, that she was a veritable master at prolonging her pleasure. Tracing a path up her body, he lingered at her navel, at the valley between her breasts. He pushed her nightgown higher, revealing the undersides of those two spectacular globes, then higher still so that the nipples were bared and screaming for attention. Like a hungry babe, he nursed, indulging his carnal whims while her smell and warmth furnished unremitting succor.

Unable to delay, he yanked the sleepwear over her head so that she was naked, and his greedy eyes feasted on her comeliness, on her trim waist and flared hips. The sight caused his manly blood to flow until his cock was demanding surcease.

He jerked at his shirt, then tore at the buttons of his trousers, barely sliding them off his hips. Needing to be free of confines, in her hand, in her mouth, he was so hard for her, and he manipulated his turgid length as she watched then enthusiastically took over the task. She scooted down, bringing him to those chaste, pristine lips, that he loved to defile.

As adept as any courtesan, her tongue flicked out, again and again at the sensitive tip, then she sucked him in. He gave her all she could handle and more, probing deep, his titillation increasing because she couldn’t seem to get enough.

Quickly, he’d arrived at an irrepressible zenith, and he
extricated himself, his heartbeat ragged, sweat pooling on his brow, his cock beseeching.

“Come in my mouth,” she implored.

During all their rough antics, he hadn’t yet, for despite how often she entreated, he didn’t think she was prepared for the extreme experience.

“No.”

“Michael . . .”

She protested as he skimmed down her body, removing his querulous phallus from temptation. He stroked the crown along the soft skin of her abdomen.

Powerless to avoid torment, he delved into her pussy, just the slightest inch, letting her erotic juices dampen the flaring tip. That he could plunge inside! Just this once! That he could have her in the only way that truly counted!

When he balanced on his haunches, she raised her legs and draped them over his thighs, offering herself. He could see her pink center, see the hairs that were slick and glossy. Her core was a slippery, menacing refuge, and he couldn’t understand why he perpetually denied himself such unrelenting gratification.

As though reading his mind—a tactic at which she excelled—she chided, “It’s our last time. Take me.”

“Oh, Sarah . . .” He moaned in misery, poised at the apex, wondering where his willpower to desist would come from. “I’m not a saint. Don’t give me permission.”

“How can it matter?” She was panting, strained, eager.

“We’ve been over this and over this.” He rubbed along her cleft. “If I destroy your maidenhead, you can’t ever erase the damage.”

“I won’t ever want to. I’ll never marry.” She clenched her leg muscles. “Do it!”

Glaring at the ceiling, he was vacillating, ambivalent, unable to tolerate how she was pleading with her eyes. His buttocks tensed, and he flexed. He was playing with fire, at the point where he couldn’t stop.

“I want to be your first,” he inevitably affirmed, dropping
his gaze to hers. “I want it to be me, so that you’ll always remember.”

“As if I could ever forget!”

She widened further, the move bringing him nearer, and he abandoned the fight. No going back. He steadied her, establishing himself to take her in a single, smooth thrust.

“This will hurt.”

“Badly?”

“Just a little.”

Tremulously, she smiled and arched up, lifting her breasts. He fondled a nipple, then trailed a hand down her front, to her waist and lower. Guiding himself, he rubbed across her, extensively moistening the blunt crest until he was sufficiently lubricated.

“No regrets,” he reminded her.

“Never.”

With a deft lunge, he was sheathed to her womb. As he sensed the tear, she cried out, and he leaned forward, looming over her, craving the chance to shelter and protect.

“The pain will pass,” he whispered.

“It already is.”

“Hold me tight.”

She made a sound, and it could have been a laugh or a sob. “I never believed you’d actually fit.”

“Told you,” he murmured, kissing her again, struggling for composure while she acclimated to his abnormal invasion. Her pussy convulsed, permeated as it was with her virgin’s blood, and his cock floated in a scalding, writhing sea of ecstasy.

At the first sign of her body’s capitulation, he fervidly commenced. He’d desired her too badly for too long—all his life it seemed now, though he hadn’t known it—and they simply couldn’t have a tame copulation. Her tight cleft milked him, spurred him on, and he was able to allow himself free rein to vent his building lust.

Her admiration was visibly manifest, her veneration shining, and for once, he didn’t shield his own feelings. He let the masks fall away, and he showered her with his adoration,
mutely imparting that this interval with her had been a boon he had never foreseen, a gift he would infinitely cherish.

She responded to his every ministration, her desire transporting her beyond the initial discomfort. At the edge, he tossed her over with a well-aimed swipe of his thumb, then he accompanied her, though his trajectory was a bit altered from its natural course.

At the very last, he withdrew, the blistering spew of his semen shooting across her belly, and he snuggled into the crook of her neck, resting there while the tremors shook him, then waned. Gradually, he relaxed, but he didn’t raise up because, in reality, he was a coward, afraid to look her in the eye and see what truths were lurking.

With the light kiss on his forehead, he couldn’t thwart the inevitable. He peeked at her, only to discover that she was engulfed by such a profound sadness that he couldn’t figure out what to say or how to react. Of all the emotions he might have named as to how she’d survive her deflowering, he’d have never picked despondency. His heart lurched and missed several beats.

“What is it, love?”

“I didn’t realize you would pull out.”

“I had to,” he explained. “We daren’t make a babe.”

“Could we have from just one time?”

“It’s possible.”

She stared at him a long while, then proclaimed, “I wish we had.”

He was shocked and awestruck, his senses reeled. A babe! With her! How he yearned to plant his seed so deep that it took root and flourished.

Biting back a groan, he clamped his eyes shut, but unwelcome, beguiling images of young children waltzed across his field of vision: little auburn-haired cherubs with their mother’s alluring ways and soothing countenance; rowdy blue-eyed boys, with his sass and attitude.

Desperately, he craved the excuse to sire a babe on Sarah; he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.
Frantic to inject reality into his fantasizing, he struggled to speak but what emerged was, “Would a babe make you happy, Sarah?”