Cry for Passion (26 page)

“No.” Jonathon braced himself against a fresh wave of pain. “My wife and I were not so blessed.”

Shy uncertainty flickered inside her gaze. “Would you like to feel the baby?”

Jonathon could not keep the hunger out of his eyes. “I don’t want to presume.”

“But you wouldn’t be, Mr. Clarring. You’ve been so kind to me.” Long fingers reached out; they were swollen now, as they often were. Warmth clasped Jonathon’s fingers. Brought up his hand. Curved his palm over the round expanse of an abdomen. “Babies are such a joy, I think.”

Rough wool abraded his fingers. Underneath the padding of cloth he could feel the warmth of skin. And underneath that a flutter . . . a kick.

Jonathon jerked back; his hand was held firm.

“There,” Elda Jacobson said, generously sharing the life she carried within her, and the simple joy she took in motherhood. A joy of which Jonathon had cheated Rose. “That’s a good one. Do you feel that, Mr. Clarring?”

A tiny foot—there was no mistaking the shape—sharply kicked the palm of Jonathon’s hand.

Over the whine of traffic wafted four bongs.

“Yes.” Tears scalded his eyes, feeling another man’s child. “I do feel it, Mrs. Jacobson.”

“Sometimes I can’t sleep for his kicking.” The warm, comfortable hand held him close. “There’s another one. Do you feel it?”

Warmth seeped through Jonathon’s body, a peace he had never before experienced.

He felt a kick. He felt a flutter. He felt another kick, a tiny imprint on his soul.

Jonathon pressed his hand more firmly against rough wool, feeling the future. Within Elda Jacobson’s abdomen the seed of hope grew.

Chapter 27

One moment Rose drifted on a sea of roses, spice and musk; the next instant she was aware of staring eyes.

Her eyelids snapped open.

Jack stood beside the bed. Dark hair devoid of color slashed his forehead, blanketed his chest and nestled his sex.

The pale bud of his crown peeped out of an umbrageous hood.

Slowly Rose’s gaze traveled back up his body. Greenish gray shadow pitted his cheeks.

“It’s raining,” he said.

Rose abruptly became aware of the now-familiar ache between her thighs and the steady patter of pelting water.

Jack had slept the night in her arms. Now Sunday had dawned and stolen the sunshine.

Rose flipped back the covers. “Then come back to bed.”

The mattress dipped, propelling Rose sideways in a squeal of metal coils. “Do you still ache from me?”

Rose turned into the arm that slid underneath her, body bonelessly melding with his, left arm and leg anchoring his waist and thigh. “Yes.”

Warm fingers cupped the back of her head and pressed her face into tightly curled chest hair. “Do you still ache for me?”

The heat prickling her legs and face lodged behind her eyes. “Yes.”

Warm fingers swept heavy hair off her forehead. “Go back to sleep, Rose.”

The gentleness of his touch squeezed her womb.

Over the steady drum of his heartbeat rain rhythmically slashed the window.

With a will of its own, her hand followed an arrow of prickly hair.

His sex—soft and warm—stirred in greeting.

“I think he likes me,” Rose murmured sleepily.

A warm fingertip rimmed the curve of her ear. “I think you’re right.”

Gently she cupped twin sacs: Inside the leathery pouch hard flesh—round like two jack’s balls—shied away from her fingers.

Twelve years earlier she had not understood how mumps could destroy a man’s seed. She now understood the physical properties of reproduction, but she still did not understand how a man’s sterility could destroy a marriage.

Throat tight, Rose husked, “Do they get cold?”

Jack cupped her hand. “Not when you’re holding them.”

The steady thrum of his heart and the warmth of his fingers and the patter of rain merged.

Growling motion woke her.

It took Rose a long second to identify the sound.

Slowly she released the testicles she protected—instantly the heat cupping her fingers dissipated—and pressed her hand against Jack’s stomach, muscles harder than hers, but no less mortal.

A smile tilted her lips. “You’re hungry.”

“The growl, madam”—the timbre of his voice vibrated against her ear—“arose from your stomach.”

“A hungry mouth, Jack.”

One second she lay on her side; the next she was on her back staring up into shadowed eyes.

Fingers slid into the wetness their satisfaction had created.

The pain and the pleasure of his penetration dilated her pupils.

“How many fingers?” she asked.

“Three.” Gently he explored her vagina. “I think the cap is permanently affixed to your cervix.”

The memory of his laughter contracted her vagina.

“Perhaps,” she said.

She would find out Tuesday.

The half pain, half pleasure that filled Rose was mirrored inside his eyes. “Did you like the taste of us?”

“Yes,” she said, swallowing past the tenderness that swelled her throat. “Very much.”

The three fingers filling her vagina slipped free, an audible slurp over the dull patter of rain.

Holding her gaze, Jack traced her lips, coating them with their essence.

Her nostrils flared, scenting him . . . her . . . them.

Lashes shielding his eyes, he leaned closer, breath a soft fan, and delicately licked her lips . . . in between her lips. Tasting the flavor she had earlier tasted. Simultaneously he found her underneath the sheet.

“Four fingers,” he whispered.

Gently fluted to fill her.

Rose turned her face into beard stubble and wiry whiskers and held him until a wave of pleasure so intense it was pain passed over her.

Curiously she followed his arm.

His hand disappeared inside the heat that radiated from her body, thumb tucked against the prickly wetness of her vulva.

“Shall I feed you, Jack?” she asked, throat tight, tightening her arms.

Warm lips bussed her cheek.

She could not stop the withdrawal of his fingers. Her hands that embraced his shoulders were as ineffective as her vagina.

The mattress tilted forward; Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed, springs voicing the protest she did not. “I shall feed you, Madame Clarring.”

Rose stared at the shadowy indentation of his vertebrae. “You’re going to prepare breakfast?”

Jack stood and flipped back the covers. The chill, nipping air was offset by his challenge: “You don’t think a man can feed a woman?”

Rose solemnly took the hand he offered. “I have no doubt whatsoever, sir, that you can feed me.”

The left corner of his mouth quirking—damp fingers firmly closing around her fingers—Jack effortlessly pulled her up and out of bed.

He trickled out of her.

Jack stared down at her thighs, half smile fading.

Flushing, Rose reached for a black pile of wool.

A long, narrow foot kicked her skirt and bodice under the bed. “There’s no need to dress.”

The clasp of his fingers clenched her womb and chased away the cold.

Feeling like a truant schoolgirl—a naked one, at that—Rose padded down the corridor with Jack.

“I have to”—how ridiculous to be embarrassed—“I have to wash.”

Jack saw through the partial lie. He merely said, “I’ll find the kitchen.”

Rose quickly relieved herself. Snatching up a washcloth from the second drawer, she hurriedly cleansed her inner thighs and vulva.

Her naked breasts bobbed with the descent of each stair.

Watery gray light streaked the downstairs corridor.

Jack had indeed found the kitchen.

Overhead gas globes brightly illuminated the oblong room.

Jack peered inside the icebox, testicles dangling between his legs. A spotted enamel tea kettle heated on a flaming gas burner.

Tears filled her eyes.

Never in the twelve years she had slept alone—nightly fantasizing what sharing her life with a man might be like—had she imagined this type of intimacy.

Irresistibly she crossed the chill tiled floor and cupped his right buttock.

His skin was warm; a patch of hair prickled her fingers.

Jack straightened, a wire basket of eggs and a jug of milk in his hands. Slowly his gaze roamed over her body . . . her thighs, cleansed of his ejaculate . . . her abdomen, that was still filled with his ejaculate . . . her left breast, nipple dark and swollen from his suckling. Vivid purple eyes caught her gaze. “Grab the butter and cheese, and I’ll make us an omelette.”

She had not cried when rent with pain; she would not cry with pleasure now.

Scooping up a cheese and a crock of butter, Rose closed the icebox. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“There are more lawyers running around London than chimney sweeps.” Jack opened several cabinet doors before finding what he needed. “My practice didn’t immediately take off, as I had envisioned. It was a matter of learning how to cook over a single gas burner or going hungry.”

Rose grated cheese, vision blurred. “Didn’t your father help?”

“I have three brothers and five sisters.” Jack whisked eggs and milk. “He put me through university. Even had he been so inclined, he didn’t have the finances to indefinitely support me.”

Pungent cheddar burned her nose. “You and your father aren’t on good terms?”

“My father believes that a man who is left-handed has a serious flaw in his character.” A wooden spoon banged a cast-iron skillet. “Whereas, I believe that a man who impregnates a woman in the name of God has a serious flaw in his character.”

“Yet, Jack”—Rose rinsed off the cheese grater, water thundering over slashing rain, popping gas and sizzling butter—“you sit in Parliament surrounded by men who share the beliefs of your father.”

“I never said,” Jack said evenly over the angry hiss of semiliquid eggs poured into hot butter, “my father’s estimation of my character wasn’t correct.”

Twisting off the faucet, Rose grabbed up the bowl of grated cheese.

Her nipple stabbed his arm.

Jack glanced down. There was no emotion inside his purple-blue eyes.

“Did you know your left testicle hangs down longer than your right?” Rose asked.

Bright purple light glinted down at her. “No doubt another symptom of my flawed character.”

“No doubt,” she agreed solemnly.

Between one blink and the next, Jack bent down and kissed her, clinging lips hotter than sizzling butter. The next instant he retrieved the bowl from between her fingers and dumped the grated cheese into the skillet.

Turning, opening a cabinet door—naked breasts lifting upward with the stretch of her arm—she found two white china plates with matching cups and saucers. “Cook purchased two table settings yesterday.”

The thoughtful actions of both the cook and the man who now cooked fluttered Rose’s heartbeat. Whimsically, she asked, “Shall we eat in bed and make a mess of the sheets?”

“We only need one plate.” A warm hand fleetingly cupped her left buttock . . . reached over her head and plucked white china out of her fingers. “And we’ve already made a mess of the sheets.”

Rose turned into a solid wall of hair-studded skin.

She could smell him. Taste him still on her tongue.

His heartbeat pounded against her stomach, his penis an intimate connection.

Throat cording, Rose threw back her head. “I didn’t know it could be like this, Jack.”

Lips branded her forehead. “I didn’t, either, Rose.”

Steam shrilled over the pop of grease and the drum of rain.

Grasping his naked hips—harder than hers, narrower than hers—Rose closed her eyes and leaned into his kiss.

A sheet of water slammed into the kitchen door.

They would pay for this moment of happiness, it warned.

But not today, Rose thought.

“Shall I make tea?” she asked, corded throat taut.

“Please.”

Please don’t turn away echoed over the pounding precipitation. Words she had spoken to Jack outside the courthouse. Please don’t walk away from me chased the earlier plea, words she had spoken to Jonathon.

The hurt she had felt upon the two disparate occasions melted in the heat of naked skin.

“How do you take it?” Rose asked, chest aching.

Chapter 28

Jack carried up the omelette-laded plate. Rose carried a sloshing cup of sweet, lemony tea, gray steam spiraling upward into greenish-gray light.

Rain relentlessly slashed the solitary bedroom window.

Soundlessly—afraid of disrupting their intimate companionship—she deposited the cup and saucer on the nightstand.

Rose held the plate while Jack positioned the two pillows and sat back against the iron headboard. Jack held the plate while Rose climbed onto the bed and straddled his thighs.

Hair-studded skin prickled her vulva. His dark eyes squeezed her chest.

Carefully he forked a bite of egg into her mouth. Just as carefully Rose chewed and swallowed.

His gaze—watching her chew . . . watching her swallow—clenched the muscles deep inside her abdomen.

Her vagina—stretched by her position—remained open, a hungry mouth waiting to be fed.

Unable to bear the intensity inside his eyes, Rose took the fork from between his fingers. “Have you ever purchased a French postcard?”

A distant rumble of thunder permeated the drum of rain.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realize men and women did the things they did . . .” Rose said, escaping his gaze by concentrating on slicing through egg and cheese. Silvery steam and the pungent aroma of cheddar wafted upward. “. . . until I visited the Achilles Book Shoppe.”

“Were you disgusted by what you saw?”

“No.” Rose tested the temperature of the egg with a flick of her tongue. Lashes lifting—his eyes were almost on a level with her own—she extended the fork. “Surprised.”

He opened his mouth, gaze stark, and accepted the food she fed him.

Carefully Rose maneuvered between two rows of white teeth. “Intrigued.”

His lips closed around the tines.

Slowly Rose tugged free the utensil. “Aroused.”

His pupils dilated, the darkness of desire blending into the darkness of the day.

“But I wasn’t disgusted,” she reiterated.