Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

  She stiffened for a moment with shock and embarrassment. Part of herself couldn’t believe she was allowing this. But she had repressed her emotions for so long, stifled her desires so rigidly, that now, once loosed, they surged through her in an unstoppable flood.

  She knew this was wrong, she should stop him. She told herself she would stop him in just a minute. But right now, before she bottled everything up inside her again, she wanted to explore as many of these new sensations as she possibly could.

  The hardness of his stomach and thighs pressed against her through the material of her dress. How strange and alien he felt, yet somehow, so right. His lips travelled across her neck, seeking out every sensitive spot, and his fingers on her breasts began a slow caress, circling closer, ever closer....

  Her knees buckled when he touched the aching nipples. His hands tightened for a moment, then he moved to a chair and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. He undid the ribbon on her chemise, tugged the material aside, and lowered his lips to her already aching breasts.

  “Margaret, Margaret,” he whispered. “Do you know how the memory of your breasts has tormented me? How I’ve longed to do this...and this...and this?”

  His lips closed over a nipple, suckling gently at first, then more fiercely, driving her beyond caution, beyond sanity. She arched her back, wanting him to get closer, wanting to entwine her fingers in his hair and hold him there so the slow pulsing spreading throughout her body would never stop....

  “Phillip. Phillip!” She shifted in his lap, desperate to get his attention.

  “Yes, my sweet love?” His voice was indistinct, almost unintelligible. “God, you are so beautiful. Don’t be embarrassed, sweeting, don’t.”

  “I...I’m not. I just...that is, I can’t move my arms.”

  He lifted his head from her breast and stared at her. His eyes lit with laughter and he lifted her up from his lap. “How inconsiderate of me. Impatience seems to have addled my brain. Forgive me, my sweet, and allow me to assist you.” He stood her by the bed and stripped off the dress. The chemise followed. He looked down at her lace-edged drawers and his eyes widened. “Margaret, that is the most indecent garment I’ve ever seen.”

  “Indecent?” She looked down at her demure pantalettes. “What do you mean? There’s nothing the least bit indecent about them.”

  Phillip could not seem to tear his eyes away. “You mean all women wear these?”

  “Of course!”

  “Ah. In my day, the ladies wore nothing.”

  “Nothing? That’s much more indecent!”

  “No.” His eyes inspected the way the fine lawn revealed even as it concealed the flare of her hips, the hint of a dark shadow that could barely be seen through the material at the juncture of her thighs. “No,” he murmured huskily. “More convenient, but definitely not more indecent.” He knelt before her. “You weren’t wearing these before.”

  Remembering the time she had taken off her nightgown, she blushed. “I don’t usually wear them to bed,” she murmured as he slowly pulled the pantalettes down, and stared at what he uncovered. His breathing grew labored. Her blush deepened. Quickly he stripped off his shirt, then fumbled with the flap of his breeches.

  “How the devil...? Ah, I see.” Unbuttoning the breeches, he shucked them off, then stopped, staring downwards in amazement.

  Following his gaze, Margaret noticed the huge bulge under his drawers. She didn’t know too much about the act of procreation, but she was fairly certain that bulge was supposed to be there. “Isn’t that...normal?” she asked.

  “Normal? It’s disgusting!”

  Startled, she looked up, but he was still frowning down at himself. “Pink silk, by God!”

  Pink...? Oh. He was talking about the drawers.

  “Do all men wear this abomination?”

  “I think so.” She wasn’t an expert on men’s underclothing, but she had seen similar items advertised in men’s journals. Why was he so upset? She rather liked them. There was something about pink silk against the hard planes of his body. She liked watching his hands undo the four small buttons to reveal....

  Margaret’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand. She stared at that part of him that stood out proudly, lusty, potent, threatening.

  “Margaret--“

  Her eyes flew to his face. His eyes were so dark, they appeared black. There was a tight, almost pained look to the line of his mouth.

  Dear heaven, what was she doing? Had she disgusted him with her brazen stare? Hastily, she averted her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He laughed huskily. “Don’t be, sweeting. It’s only...oh, the devil, I’ll explain to you later. Later, you can look all you like when I’m not so ready.”

  She was frowning, trying to make sense of this strange statement, when he pushed her gently against the edge of the bed and she fell back, her knees splaying wide. Blushing furiously, she sat up, straightening her spine, pulled her knees tightly together and folded her hands in her lap.

  Phillip paused. “Who taught you to sit like that?” His voice was choked with laughter.

  “Er, my mother.” She suddenly realized how ridiculous her pose must look considering she was completely naked except for a pair of silk stockings. She blushed again, the madness beginning to recede.

  What was she doing? Her nakedness, his nakedness seemed so pagan, so uncivilized. Young ladies simply didn’t do things like this. Was she insane?

  “Phillip...I don’t think...” Inhibition struggled to gain control over the passion he had unleashed. She groped for the sheet, but he gently caught her hand, raising it to his lips.

  “Margaret, Margaret. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that I’m a little nervous too.”

  “You?” She relaxed a little, barely noticing his fingers stroking the tops of her thighs soothingly as she considered this novel idea.

  “Don’t look so surprised. Naturally I’m nervous.” He began rolling down one of her stockings. “It’s been over seventy-eight years since I’ve done this. What if I’ve forgotten how?” He started on the other stocking, kissing every inch of flesh he exposed.

  Suspiciously, she looked down at his bent head. “Phillip...”

  He looked up and grinned wickedly, before returning his attention to her calf.

  “Phillip...”

  “Ssh.” His lips on her ankle made her gasp a little. Electric fire ran up her legs and every muscle in her body began to melt. He looked up again, but now all humor was gone from his face. Staring into her dazed eyes, his voice husky, he said, “Margaret, please don’t tell me to stop. Forget everything your mother told you. Don’t think. Don’t think at all. Just feel.”

  Just feel? If she felt anymore, she would surely explode.

  His hands were insinuating themselves between her knees. She resisted, even though her will to do so was barely an absurd flicker. He gently pushed her back down against the bed again, his lips going to her breasts once more, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of her hips and upper thighs until she finally relaxed and let him have his way.

  His fingers found her. He began to stroke her soft flesh. Margaret felt swollen, pulsing, as if something was about to happen. She gasped a little, surprised by this new sensation, but it felt so good, so right, she knew she didn’t want it to stop. She would have this moment forever and ever, no matter what Society would think, no matter what Bernard would think....

  Bernard. Dear God, what would Bernard think?

  Phillip was moving over her. Panic-stricken, she pushed him away and scooted out of reach to the far side of the bed. Confused, Phillip looked at her.

  “Margaret?”

  I came to your house every day...I didn’t know...What do you want, Margaret?

  “I...I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t betray Bernard like this.”

  “Margaret, Margaret.” He reached out and grasped her hand. He held it against his arm. His skin felt hot under her splayed fingers; her
hand was small against his muscled flesh. “Whose arm is this, Margaret?”

  He slid her hand up his shoulder and down to his chest, where a light sprinkling of hair teased her fingertips. “Bernard’s chest, Margaret.”

  His hand pulled hers downwards. She tried to resist, but he was too strong. Her breath began to come in short pants. He closed her hand over the most intimate part of himself. “Bernard, Margaret,” he whispered.

  Her heart was pounding. She thought she would die of shock. He felt so smooth and hard and hot. “I...I...”

  She was so confused. This wasn’t Bernard. It looked like him, yes, but Bernard wouldn’t do these things, he couldn’t--could he?

  “I love you, Margaret.” He released her hand and moved over her, his knee working to nudge her legs apart. His lips caressed her neck. “I’ve loved you since you were fifteen and told my father he could use the services of a good gelder.”

  Margaret stiffened. She had told Bernard’s father that. “Who...who are you?” she whispered, looking into dark grey eyes--Phillip’s eyes...no, Bernard’s eyes....

  “Bernard?”

  His gaze flickered, then he kissed her, and went on kissing her until the sun and the moon and the stars twirled, and a gladness filled her, so deep, so wide, she didn’t know why she had ever been confused.

  Bernard.

  She wanted him to never stop....

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Her knees parted and he slid into her, smooth, huge, tight.

  “Dear God, Margaret.” His voice sounded strained. “You feel so good, so perfect.” He prodded against her maidenhead and she felt a small bit of pain and then he was so deep inside her she gasped. He began moving in long strokes and all the wild sensations in her concentrated down to that point where his body reached inside to touch her. Then everything really did explode and she could feel him erupting inside her as she cried out against his mouth.

  *****

  He shouldn’t have done this, he thought as the mad thumping of his heart slowed to a more regular pace. He should have stopped. But he hadn’t. After waiting so long, he hadn’t wanted to wait any more. He had wanted her so badly, he was willing to accept her confusion and even the knowledge that perhaps she wasn’t completely certain who he was.

  He raised his weight to his arms, gazing down at her face. Her eyelashes were fanned against her cheeks, but a smile still lingered on her sweet lips.

  “Margaret,” he sighed, lowering his mouth to hers.

  Margaret sighed, too. Her name sounded like a benediction, she thought hazily, aware their bodies still joined. His body had a musky smell, sharp, but surprisingly sweet. “Yes, darling?”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, not really.” She ought to be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. She ought to be asking some questions, only right now she didn’t want to spoil the delicious languor that was stealing over her. Dreamy-eyed, she gazed up at the underside of the pagoda-roof. The cloud with the lovers was hidden in the shadows, but she could see the sleeping Chinese man. Now she knew why he was smiling.

  She felt languid, replete, in spite of the slight ache between her thighs. That ache meant she was no longer a virgin, she realized. She didn’t care. She felt terribly sophisticated, mature in her new-found knowledge.

  “Why are you smiling, Margaret?”

  “I was merely thinking I’m glad I know all about lovemaking now.” A thought occurred to her. “Does it bother you that I’m no longer innocent?” she asked hesitantly.

  A strange look appeared on his face. Did he think she regretted what they had done? She hastened to reassure him. “I’m not sorry for what we did. I mean, I’m glad we did it. Innocence is actually a nuisance. I mean....”

  His shoulders began to shake.

  Startled, her eyes flew to his face, just as he burst into laughter. She smiled uncertainly, not understanding the source of his humor.

  His laughter died away, replaced by a dark gleam. “If you feel that way, then perhaps it’s time to rid you of some more of your bothersome innocence.”

  His words made no sense. She tensed a little when he moved, but he only pulled himself out of her and, rising from the bed, moved over to the wash basin. He came back with a wet cloth.

  “Margaret,” he said, smoothing away the perspiration from her neck and brow. “You have brought me such joy.”

  The cool cloth felt amazingly good on her hot skin. “I have?” she asked, not really paying attention to his words.

  “Yes, ever since I met you.” He brought the cloth to her breasts, paying particular attention to the nipples. Her heart began to beat faster as he rubbed the cloth back and forth.

  She wished he would stop talking. She couldn’t concentrate.

  “You must know how I feel about you.” His lips replaced the cloth and Margaret moaned.

  Abruptly, he tore his mouth away, leaving her aching. His hands moved to her thighs, wiping away the traces of their lovemaking. She stiffened, embarrassed to have him performing such an intimate task, but he was so gentle, after a moment, she relaxed again.

  Finished, he rinsed out the cloth and handed it to her, his eyes black. “Your turn, Margaret,” he whispered.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Rising to her knees behind him, she hesitantly rubbed his back. His skin felt smooth, his muscles taut. She began to enjoy her task, seeking out each rib, his shoulder blades, his neck. She leaned forward, reaching over his shoulder to lave his chest, her breasts pressing against his back. He seemed to stop breathing.

  She leaned forward farther, then back down, forward and back. She forgot she was supposed to be washing him, all her concentration focused on the pleasurable friction at her breast.

  He bore it for as long as he could, before he turned and pinned her back against the bed. “You know you are driving me insane.” It wasn’t a question and Margaret didn’t answer. She pulled his head down to her breast, wanting to feel again the ecstasy of him.

  His mouth barely brushed her breast. She tried not to feel disappointed when his lips did not linger there before moving lower. They moved down her side, then across her stomach and hip and lower still....

  Margaret stiffened when she realized his intention. “No! Oh no, please, you can’t--“

  His mouth had almost reached its goal. He paused, his lips on the inside of her thigh. Waves of shock coursed through her. His hand reached up to caress her breast, quieting her, building her passion to an overwhelming need, leaving her without protection against the unthinkable thing that he surely would not do....

  His mouth closed over her and her body bucked. She heard him laugh softly and he brought both hands to her legs, holding them apart as he delved into her, until she was a mindless, writhing creature.

  Soft cries broke from her throat as she climaxed. Satisfaction glinting in his eyes, he moved over her, quickly finding his own release, before collapsing on top of her.

  *****

  During the course of the night, he took her again and again. She no longer thought of anything but him. He was the focus of her entire universe. She forgot all shame, all inhibition as the night wore on, letting him do what he would to her, doing things to him that she had never imagined. It seemed as though she, like him, was cocooned in a place between time, where nothing mattered, nothing existed, but the two of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A hand caressed her breast, filling her with languid warmth. It slipped down between her thighs, seeking out the wetness that immediately appeared there.

  Margaret moaned.

  The hand stilled. She wriggled a little and the hand withdrew with appalling suddenness.

  “Dear heaven above!”

  The unnaturally high voice barely penetrated the heavy fog in her brain. She opened one eye barely enough for the sunlight to pierce her throbbing head. Groaning, she shut her eye and tried to go back to sleep.

  “Margaret. Dear God, what has happened?”

 
Bernard? Her eyes snapping open, she sat straight up. Her gaze flew to Bernard.

  He was staring at her bare breasts. Dear Lord, she had forgotten she was totally naked. With shaking hands, she pulled the sheet up, lowering her gaze from his face. But as she did so, her attention was caught by his muscular chest and all she could think was she never would have believed Bernard could look like that.

  “Miss Westbourne!” Now he pulled the sheet up to cover himself, blushing fiercely.

  Margaret blushed too. She blushed so hard her face felt hot and she was sure there wasn’t any blood left in any other part of her body. She began to babble.

  “I didn’t mean to...I’m so sorry...what...?”

  He was equally incoherent. “Please don’t...I can’t imagine...forgive me!” He yanked at the sheet, tearing it from her grasp, and wrapped it around himself, trying not to reveal any more of his anatomy. He kept his eyes averted from her, so perhaps he didn’t realize he had divested her of her only cover, she thought a trifle hysterically. Frantically, she searched for something to replace the sheet, but the blankets had been kicked off the bed. In desperation, she grabbed the pillow and held it in front of herself.

  Bernard, paying no attention to her plight, grabbed up his clothes, mumbled something, made an awkward bow and fled, the sheet flapping.

  A deathly silence settled over the room as Margaret sat frozen, staring after Bernard, her brain struggling to comprehend. She had thought....

  What had she thought?

  She didn’t know. She only knew she’d never felt such disappointment in her entire life. Last night everything had seemed so wonderful, so right. Now everything was so confused, so wrong, and only one thing was clear.