Forbidden Pleasures (12 page)

“Umm, I have a faint recollection,” he admitted. “Pull the panties down, Emily.” They were on his cell, and he felt safe speaking with her this way.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Because I want you to play with that naughty little clit of yours, and tell me exactly what you are doing and how it feels,” he said in a husky voice.

“I’ve got them off, Devlin,” she murmured low. “I’m brushing my right hand over my pubic curls. It’s almost, but not quite, as if you were here.”

“Touch yourself,” he told her. “Tell me which finger you’re using.”

“The middle finger. Ohh, I’m getting wet already, Devlin. I wish it were your tongue there. Ohh. Ohhh, that is so nice. Are you getting a hard-on?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“And I’m not there to soothe it away,” she murmured. “Will you teach me to suck your cock next time, Devlin? Ohhhhh. Ummmm. That feels soooo good. Not quite as good as your tongue, but it will do for now.”

He groaned. “When I get my hands on you, Emily, you will regret teasing me like this,” he threatened.

“I’ve taken my bra off, Devlin. I’m totally naked up here in my office. I’m cupping my tits in my hands, and the nipples are all puckered because I’m imagining you sucking on them.”

“Put your hands back on your cunt,” he said. “Play with yourself again, Emily. I want you to come. I want you to think about my cock inside of you, thrusting and thrusting, hitting that little spot that sets you afire, making you scream. I’m going to bring you a present from England to help you relax when I’m away from you. There’s a shop in London that carries some very wicked sex toys, and I’m going to find a special one just for you, Emily.”

“Ummmmmm.” She sighed into the telephone as she gave herself a delicious little clitoral orgasm. “Nice, Devlin, but not as nice as you,” she told him. “Yes, bring me a toy. I’ve never had one.”

“Good-bye, angel face,” he said, and the line went dead.

Irritation had raced through her. She had wanted more dirty talk from him. She hoped his hard-on lasted for half an hour, Emily thought, piqued. And now it was two a.m. Sunday morning, and she missed Devlin. And she missed the unbridled sex that they had enjoyed last weekend. Getting up, she went downstairs to her bedroom and, finding the channel changer, picked it up. She had ordered the Channel for the entire weekend earlier in the day. Because she was a single woman she could get it like that. There was no danger of some young girl flicking it on and finding her fantasy in her face before she was ready for it. Emily hit the correct numbers and clicked enter. She was immediately within the candlelit bedroom.

Yes, it was perfect, she thought, but shouldn’t the velvet curtains be green, and not red? And with the thought the curtains and bed hangings were a perfect forest green, with heavy tasseled gold ropes holding them back. She was wearing pants and riding boots, and her cape was wet with the rain outside the windows.

“Oh, m’lady!” The duchess’s maid ran into the room. She was a young girl, as opposed to an older, more seasoned woman. “The duke arrived an hour ago. I told him I didn’t know if you would be down to dinner, as you weren’t feeling well.”

“Well-done, Mary!” the duchess replied. “Help me out of these wet garments.”

“Was the trip to France successful, m’lady?” Mary asked. She was in on the secret of what her mistress did to aid others, and admired her tremendously for it. Indeed, she helped her mistress with the refugees when they arrived in England, dealing with any servants who might have been rescued with them, comforting the children.

“Indeed it was,” her mistress replied. “We rescued the Duchesse d’Almay, her sister, and their children right from under the nose of Madame la Guillotine. Monsieur Robespierre will have some explaining to do to his citizens committee.” She laughed as she pulled off her boots and wet stockings.

“I have a hot bath ready for you, m’lady,” Mary said. “You’re always punctual, even when the roads are bad.”

The duchess removed her garments and climbed into the tub that her maid had set up before the fire in her bedchamber. She was no sooner ensconced than the door to the room opened and the duke walked in, lifting his quizzing glass to gaze at her curiously.

“Mary said you were not feeling up to par, madam, yet I find you in your bath,” Justin Trahern remarked, his green eyes flicking over her lazily.

“I have been quite fatigued most of the week, milord,” the duchess answered him. “But it does not prevent me from keeping myself clean. Actually, I shall feel better for a bath, and may even join you for dinner. How are things in London?”

“Dull,” he replied, and then he feigned a yawn. “We might have dinner here in your chambers, madam. I should not like to tax your strength. Is there a chance you might be breeding? Malincourt could use an heir, as I have none.”

“That is not entirely so,” the duchess replied. “There is your sister’s son.”

“He will not do,” the duke told her. “Mary! That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, milord,” Mary said, bobbing a curtsy.

“Go and tell Cook her ladyship and I shall dine here. But not for an hour. No one is to disturb us until then. Do you understand, Mary?”

“Yes, milord,” Mary said, blushing to the roots of her yellow hair. Then she turned and ran out of the room.

“Really, Trahern, that was not particularly subtle,” the duchess said.

“I am not of a mind to be subtle, madam. The most delicious women in London have been importuning me, yet I want no woman but my wife. I am forced to return home to Malincourt. A shocking state of affairs, madam, wouldn’t you agree?” He removed his bottle-green linen tailcoat and laid it aside. He undid his wide white cravat and laid it atop the coat. Then he slowly undid his frilled shirt and set it with the coat and cravat. Sitting down, he pulled off his beautifully polished riding boots, then stood again.

“Trahern, what are you about?” the duchess demanded of her husband.

“I mean to fuck you, my dear,” he answered pleasantly, undoing his tight riding breeches, pulling them down and off along with his drawers. “I am not ready to keep a mistress yet, and you have not given me an heir. Once you have produced two sons, Caro, I shall leave you to your own devices, if that is what you wish. Until then I will curtail my own social life, devoting myself to you and the production of our nursery.

“I know why your father married you to my late uncle. It was to protect you and your fortune from his own impecunious brother. And it was my uncle’s wish that I take you for my own wife when he died and I inherited. As there was no other woman in my life I felt suited to be my duchess, I agreed. I waited through a year of mourning, Caro, and we wed. Your first marriage was a celibate one. But this union is not, nor is it meant to be such a marriage. In an effort to consider your sensibilities I have been patient. I do not mean to be patient any longer. Now, get out of that tub, madam!”

“I have not denied you your rights, milord,” the duchess said coolly.

“But neither have you joined into our bed sport with any enthusiasm,” he complained to her. “You lie beneath me like a board. Do you feel nothing of passion? Is your heart a stone? Do you even have a heart?”

The duchess arose from her porcelain tub. The water sluiced down her lush body. “I have a heart, milord,” she told him. “I am just not ready to fill a nursery. The three years I was married to your uncle I spent nursing him. Then I spent another year mourning him. I was married to you but a month after my mourning ended. We have been wed but six months. You spend much of your time in London. I prefer the country. Am I not entitled to a few months of peace for myself, milord, before I must take on the great responsibility of our family?
And how,
she wondered silently,
can I allow myself to become enceinte when I spend my time traveling back and forth between England and France in order to rescue the innocent?

“Damn it, Caro, I am in love with you,” the duke said. “I always have been, since the day my uncle introduced you to me as his new wife. The old duke knew how I felt. And he also knew that neither of us would ever betray him. We never did. He realized that you would be safe with me after he was gone. That was why he gained our promise to wed then. He wanted you to have a normal life. The kind of life a woman should have. And he wanted me to have you.” The duke lifted a large towel from the rack by the fire and, coming close to the duchess, wrapped her in it, lifting her from the water. “It has been almost two years since my uncle died. I want children, and I want them now!” He dried her roughly and then, picking her up, carried her to her bed.

“Trahern!” she protested. “You are behaving like a barbarian.”

“I am behaving like a husband who desires his wife,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you dare to refuse me, madam?”

Do I want to write the scene like that?
Emily wondered to herself, and then she awakened to find herself in her bed. Should he admit to being in love with her? She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was just four a.m. Well, so much for the Channel. She would have to clock in earlier tonight. Yes, the duke should admit to loving his wife. It had to be her passion to revenge herself that kept her from admitting that she was in love with him. Yes, that felt right. Turning over, she punched her pillow and attempted to sleep.

She had slipped out of the Channel just as Trahern was about to make love to his duchess. But for the first time she had not simply been an observer. She had been in the duchess’s skin. She had been Caroline Trahern. It had been an interesting experience. It had been exciting, and yet she had not been ready to make love with the duke. It was ridiculous to think as she was, but she felt as if it would have been cheating on Devlin. But the duke looked just like Devlin. And the Channel was a fantasy, not reality, wasn’t it? Or was it that she was just a little shy about making love within the confines of the Channel, and then transcribing the experience onto the pages of her book? Yet she certainly could write what she and Devlin had been doing.

He wasn’t due back in New York until Tuesday. He wouldn’t be in Egret Pointe until Friday night. She had plenty of time to write her first explicit love scene before he wanted to see what she was doing. But no! The story line wouldn’t be to that point by Friday night. But perhaps she could show some of the early sexual tension between Caro and Trahern by then. Give Devlin an idea of where she was going with it. And make love with him. Emily hadn’t realized that, once she had savored sex with a man she liked, how much more she would want to keep repeating that same experience. But she did.

She missed the feel of his bulk against her in the night. She missed his weight on her, the incredible sensation of his penis inside of her, his mouth exploring her sensitive flesh. Emily shivered. She needed to sleep. She needed to escape her thoughts of their naked bodies against each other. Did all women feel like this with their first affair? She climbed out of her bed and, going into the bathroom, opened the narrow floor-to-ceiling medicine closet to pull out the aspirin bottle. Dumping two of the extra-strength tablets into her hand, she gulped them down with some water. She was obviously too keyed up to sleep. The aspirin would soothe her jangled nerves. Taking two antacid tablets to buffer her stomach against the aspirin, Emily went back to bed, lying on her back, her palms open and flat so the tension in her would drain out.

When she awoke it was almost noon, and the rain was coming down in sheets outside of her bedroom window. It was obviously a day to hole up in bed. But first she needed sustenance. Climbing out of bed she went down to her kitchen. She opened a can of meat ravioli in sauce, dumped it into a grab-it, and nuked it. Essie kept the ravioli for when her grandchildren stopped by. However, comfort food was comfort food. If Emily couldn’t have wild sex with Devlin, then ravioli and marshmallow cookies would have to suffice. Putting the bowl on a tray, she rifled through her pantry closet and found the greatest sin of all—something she always hid away for an emergency. She set the double box of Mallomars on the tray, and pulled two small bottles of Pellegrino from her fridge. Napkins. Fork. A little shaker of Parmesan. She carried the tray upstairs.

As she sat in bed consuming the contents of the tray, she wondered if Devlin liked eating in bed. She would serve them an outrageous meal to be eaten here in her bedroom when he came out next weekend. Raw oysters on the half shell, all briney with hot sauce. Lamb chops with asparagus vinaigrette. Fresh local strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, and a bowl of whipped cream for dipping. And they would drink a bottle of Pindar Long Island Spring Splendor, and then make love.
Oh, God!
She was off on that tangent again. How long until the Channel opened up again? Almost eight hours—worse luck. She’d sleep, and when she woke up again she’d consume the other box of Mallomars for supper, along with her other bottle of Pellegrino. It was a plan.

It was still raining hard when Emily awoke again. The light outside of her bedroom windows was gray. Rolling over, she looked at her clock. Just after seven. Less than an hour until the Channel kicked in. Was she brave enough to let the story flow tonight? She would set her mind to the month before Trahern and Caro married. No. That wouldn’t do. She could write a scene like that with her eyes closed. She would set the scene for their wedding night. Caro’s first sexual encounter with the sophisticated Trahern.
Yes!
That would allow her a sexual experience to take the edge off of her own lust for Michael Devlin. But would it? Well, she would soon find out, Emily decided.

Trahern looked like her editor. Emily’s subconscious had made him so. But there was just the faintest sense of roughness about the duke that wasn’t at all like the smooth and elegant Michael Devlin. The duke was very much a man of his own time period, which was as it should be. There was a hint of danger in the green eyes. He was a man who was very comfortable with who and what he was. And he was a man who would have his own way. Emily shivered. But that was as it should be too. She had made all of her previous heroes far more civilized and urbane than Trahern was. Trahern was almost a throwback to another century. But she liked him, and she knew her readers would fall in love with him to a woman. Bad boys were always far more interesting than good men. Michael Devlin certainly was, she thought with a little grin as she finished consuming the second narrow container of Mallomars. They were half the size Mallomars used to be, she thought, annoyed. But then, she had to suffer only half the guilt because of it.