by Cheryl Holt
"You asked me if your husband would expect you to disrobe."
"And you said yes."
"He will require much more than your removing your clothes."
"What more is there?" She was solemn, the jocularity having faded.
"A man and woman do things to each other, to physically titillate."
"And their deeds involve nudity?"
"Usually."
"It's enjoyable?"
"Very."
"I was skeptical before"—she flashed a naughty grin— "but your current performance has forced me to conclude that you could be correct. I never thought I'd admit that stripping myself could be ... so ... so stimulating."
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"Your reaction will be ever more vehement, as you grow more comfortable with your partner."
"How could it possibly become more intense?"
"Repetition. Familiarity. They decrease your restraint and wreak havoc on your control."
"Hmm..." She reflected. "I like the sound of that And as to the man... what does the woman give to him?"
As they talked, she was toying with his shirt, the buttons being unfastened one by one, until the front was open, and she was stroking his chest. The seductive massage, coupled with his unsated desire, made it hard to concentrate on what she was saying.
"The male is built differently from the female."
"How?"
"In his private parts." He guided her hand to his crotch, letting her investigate the bulge in his pants. "A man has a sort of rod or staff between his legs, where a woman has none."
"What's this rod called?"
"It has many names: a phallus, a cock, a penis."
"For what is it used?"
"For mating. And for pleasure." She was exploring, manipulating the fabric in an effort to estimate size and shape.
"How does one go about mating? I've always been curious."
"The man thrusts the rod inside the woman's body—"
"Inside? You're joking. Where?"
"Here." He cupped her. "Then he flexes his hips in a brisk rhythm, and the motion produces a friction that causes a white cream to erupt from the tip. The cream is his seed, and when it's spewed into the womb, they can create a babe."
She gawked at him. "That is the strangest tale I've ever heard."
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"It seems implausible—until you experience it for yourself."
"Can a man be satisfied without actually mating?"
"Oh, yes."
She was more bold in her examination. "How is it accomplished?"
"Well"—she grazed her thumb directly on the tip, and his discipline nearly snapped—"a woman can rub the man's phallus with her hands, or take it into her mourn."
"Her mouth!" She inspected his pants. "Very intriguing."
With each detail he divulged, she was more inquisitive, and she clambered up on her knees, straddling his thighs to better peruse his loins. "How do you walk about with this protrusion in the way?"
"Normally"—he chuckled—"it's flaccid."
"It's not flaccid now."
"No, it's not. I'm aroused."
"You are?"
"Very much so."
"You want me." She was amazed. Exhilarated.
"Yes."
"When a woman trifles with a man's phallus, does he feel what I did a few minutes ago?"
"It's very similar."
"Will you show me how to do it for you?"
Sweat pooled on his brow. She was loosening his trousers! He'd never been much of a gentleman, but in this instance, he'd planned to do his best, and he was determined to stop her—he really and truly was—but somewhere between his brain and his tongue, the command to desist was lost. He was struck dumb, and all he could do was observe the subtle glide of her slender, crafty fingers.
"Livvie," he ground out, "you shouldn't do this."
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"Why? You did it to me. It was magnificent."
"But you don't understand how it ends." She dipped her fingers under the placard, and bare skin impacted with bare skin. Her fist encircled him. "Oh, Jesus . .."
She paused. "I want to look at you. May I?"
No, no, no, his brain shouted, but he merely glared at her. He was frazzled, strained beyond his limit. If she journeyed a step further down this road, he couldn't be responsible for what he might do.
"Livvie," he barked, "a man can become too eager, to where he can't curb his behavior. You're playing with fire."
"But you would never hurt me."
"Not deliberately."
She smiled, not believing his admonition, and with a flick of her wrist, she had him exposed to the cool evening air. Mesmerized and enthralled, she visually analyzed every inch. Under her torrid scrutiny, his cock came alive. It was savage, throbbing, distending even more, and stretching out toward her.
"It's huge," she remarked, unperturbed. "Are they all so large?"
"I'm big. Bigger than most."
They engaged in a staring contest, and he didn't know if he was daring her to progress or daring her not to. If she touched him again, he'd explode. If she didn't, the same result would occur.
Without warning, she leaned down, gripped him and ... took him into her mouth! The deed was so unanticipated, so shocking and so outrageous, that he almost spilled himself.
Wildly, he grabbed for her and tossed her aside, then he jumped out of the bed as though it had snakes in it. His breathing labored, his pulse pounding, he stomped
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across the small room, facing away from her, a hand balanced on the wall.
His knees were weak, his composure shattered. How had he plummeted to this bizarre juncture? With hef practically begging to be compromised, and himself fighting to keep her chaste. He'd never suffered through such a ridiculous, incongruous moment in his entire life.
"Phillip," she hailed from behind him, "what is it? What did I do wrong?"
"Oh, Livvie," he groaned, calming, and stuffing his privates into his pants. "It wasn't wrong."
"But you said women put their mouths on you. Wasn't I supposed to?" She was climbing off the bed and crossing to him, and she rested her palm on his shoulder. "I only wanted to make you happy."
He wrapped an arm around her, nestling her to him, and he kept her there as he collected himself. When he could speak without sounding like a fool, he kissed the top of her head.
"You must return to the manor."
"Don't be angry."
"I'm not. I just need some time to think."
"About what?"
"About us"—he gestured between them, indicating what he couldn't put into words—"and where this Attraction is leading. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything, but I can't do this to you. Or to my father.”
"But I've decided I can't marry him. Not after being here with you."
"Don't say it." He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "Especially now, after our passions have so recently flared. You need to reflect, too."
"No I don't," she insisted. "After I've lain with you, I could never do the same with him."
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"But Livvie, even if you cried off with Edward, we could never marry. There are too many people depending on you. You can't forsake them for the likes of me."
"What if I did?" she suddenly, recklessly broached. "What if, for once, I considered myself, and what / want and need?"
Though he recognized that she was spewing nonsense, his idiotic heart leapt at the marvelous possibility, and he tamped down his asinine exuberance. "That's not who you are. You could never abandon those you love."
They'd never discussed this facet of her personality, but he knew it with an unwavering certainty. Though she might fret over the onus placed upon her, in the end, she would do her duty.
"Let's get you back to the house." He led her out to the main room. She followed and dawdled as he retrieved her cloak, as he settled it over her shoulders, and adjusted the hood. He brushed a kiss across her lips, and she crushed him in a fierc
e hug.
"I'll come to you tomorrow night."
Tell her no! his mind screamed, but what emerged was, "All right. I'll be waiting."
He peeked outside to ensure it was safe, then, without a farewell, she slid away and was swallowed up by the shadows. Loitering, he listened and watched, until he saw her sneak in the servants' entrance, and he sank against the stoop.
What was he doing? What was he hoping to achieve? How could this have a good end?
Disturbed, distraught, more sexually frustrated than he'd ever been, he went inside and shut the door.
Chapter Nine
Winnie stood in the middle of the dark garden, her hair down and blowing in the wind, her robe and night rail flattened to her torso. Lightning rent the black sky, and the crack of thunder that followed was too close and rattled through her bones.
Like a pagan goddess of old, she curled her toes into the grass and lifted her arms to the heavens, reaching out in supplication for a solace she couldn't name.
The weather was warm and sultry with the prospect of imminent rain, and the approaching storm sizzled through her, leaving her wanton and rash. Her restlessness had compelled her to escape the stifling confines of her bedchamber, but it was impossible to flee from the dissatisfaction that was slowly eating her alive.
She couldn't run far enough or fast enough.
The trip to Salisbury, her encountering the earl, had stirred the soul of a woman she'd believed buried, and for some reason, her meeting Edward Paxton had effected a resurrection.
For almost two decades, she'd convinced herself that she was content, that her serene, tedious existence in the Hopkinses' home was all she needed, all she deserved.
She'd committed many sins—chiefly against the daughter she'd abandoned to adoption—and she'd persuaded herself that she didn't merit more than the cards fate had dealt her.
As a girl, she'd been beautiful, vain, confident of
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whatever course she'd embarked upon. She'd had such a zest for life, and had seized every moment, but her arrogant enthusiasm and romantic heart had steered her to heedlessness and delinquency.
She'd paid for her transgressions by smothering the facet of her personality that had gloried in hedonic conduct. When she'd moved in with the Hopkinses, she'd sworn to Margaret that she would never shame the family, would never perpetrate any act that might raise a brow or cause a tongue to wag.
She drifted on the fringe. Always pleasant, always good-humored, never quarrelsome or cross, she spent every waking minute ensuring that she wasn't a burden, that she offended no one, bothered no one, disturbed no one.
Smiling, amenable, and tractable, she didn't want to furnish the impression that she wasn't grateful, because she was. Grateful and indebted and beholden to others for every stitch of clothing she wore, every bite of food she put in her mouth.
Years had passed in which she'd never offered an opinion, had never participated in an important discussion, or mentioned when she'd been maltreated or slighted by the people on whom she depended for her very survival. She'd masked her emotions for so long that she didn't know how to feel anymore. She was invisible, had so thoroughly concealed her passionate, animated self that she'd grown indistinct, a shapeless, vague, blurred creature that had no substance.
Another clap of thunder rumbled, and huge drops began to fall. They pummeled her, and she twirled in circles, her face upturned, letting them cool her heated skin. The rain soaked though her robe, then her nightgown, so that the material hugged her form, outlining her erect nipples, her curvaceous buttocks and thighs.
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She wished she had the temerity to strip it all off, to strut in the buff, while the gale lambasted her. The fabric was too restrictive, and she couldn't bear it. She felt trapped, weighed down, her lungs not large enough to retain the air she needed.
Perhaps it was the turbulence in the atmosphere, for she was wild and impulsive, incautious, and inclined to engage in any careless act that might soothe the demons rampaging inside her.
The tempest battered her, and she started to shiver. Goose bumps prickled as another lightning bolt struck close by, and she sprinted to the house, rushing to the verandah and sneaking in the rear door.
Disregarding the dripping tracks she left behind, she tiptoed up the stairs. Bursts of lightning cast eerie shadows on the walls. She arrived at the landing where she should have proceeded down the hall to her room, but something—a force, a compulsion—halted her, and she glanced around.
At the end of the other corridor, Edward tarried at the threshold to his suite. Clad in a pair of trousers, his chest and feet bare, he was imperiously balanced on the door-jamb. His gaze was fierce, discerning, missing no detail of her body that was delineated by her flimsy, wet apparel.
Uttering not a word, he extended his hand. An invitation. A command.
Do it! a voice in her head cajoled. You want it. You want him. Go!
Despite her pretenses, she was naught but a trollop. Before she could stop herself, she was running down the hall as though it were afire. A hazardous gauntlet, it took forever to get to him, and with each step, she was overcome by the uncanny perception that she was racing to her destiny.
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He dragged her into the room, shut and locked the door, then fell on her like a starved animal. She met his tempestuous kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.
His tongue in her mouth, his ringers on her bosom, he was not polite, he showed no deference to her womanly state. Rough, painful, his actions were the deeds of a desperate man who'd been goaded beyond his limits.
This raucous, crude handling was just what she needed, just what her untended, neglected anatomy had been coveting.
Dipping down, he nipped at her enlarged nipple, and she squirmed and moaned. "Yes, yes," she begged, "touch me all over."
Gripping her buttocks, he spun her around, the swiftness making her dizzy. He carried her to his massive bed, and laid her down, his brown eyes intent and savage, but still he didn't speak. Kneeling before her, he massaged up and down in a deliberate path, grazing her bust, her stomach, her mound, then up to repeat the torment.
He tugged off her robe, then wrestled with her nightgown, but it was too damp and plastered to her skin. Frustrated, unable to tolerate any delay, he grabbed the bodice and ripped the garment down the center, to her feet. The two pieces fluttered away, and she was naked.
Shimmering with excitement, he looked like a conquering soldier, about to ravage her against her will. There would be no stopping him, and the ravenous ferocity of his lust was thrilling. She was eager to supply any decadency he demanded.
Three of his unrelenting fingers slipped into her. It had been ages since a man had fondled her there, and the intrusion hurt, but she didn't care. Billowing with pleasure, she arched her hips, but he pressed her down, refusing to let her flex, to find any relief.
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"Don't ever say no to me again," he decreed, and he i bent down, not to her breasts as she'd expected, but to her mound. Parting her with his tongue, he thrust inside in a concise parry, then he sucked at her clitoris. His fingers remained in her sheath, stroking .. . stroking ... in a brutal rhythm.
Her orgasm commenced, the tension in her loins erupting, and the exultant bliss swept her away. She was so titillated that she couldn't hide her response, but she was unconcerned if he thought her lewd or dissolute.
The gratification was extreme, unlike anything else she'd known, and she flew across the universe, soaring to the pinnacle then back to earth, and as she reassembled, and became cognizant of her surroundings, he was unbuttoning his pants.
After loosening them, he jerked them down to his flanks, revealing his phallus, the cushion of masculine hair, the two sacs dangling below. He was huge, imposing, the tip moist and oozing his erotic juice. She spread her thighs, and he chuckled at her impatience.
"My little hellion," he said, "permit me to give you more of wha
t you so obviously crave."
He traced the blunt crown across her, then clutched her hips and plunged inside. He hadn't hesitated to ascertain whether she was a virgin, hadn't paused to wonder— praise be, he'd not asked her!—but had progressed, and she was so glad. Had he dawdled another second, she might have exploded.
The moment he entered her, another orgasm inundated her, washing over her with more severity than the first. He pushed into her hard, hard, conferring his full length and girth as desire whisked her away.
She couldn't be quiescent through the tumult, and she called out, so he silenced her with a kiss, his tongue invading her mouth and matching the tempo of his hips.
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The tang of her sex was on his lips, and the salty piquancy was an aphrodisiac that inflamed and spurred her to new heights of ecstasy.
As she spiraled down, he was braced over her, a feral, primitive aura glowing about him.
"Welcome to my bed, Miss Stewart." He affected a regal mien. "It would seem that you've ended up just where you belong."
"Aye, milord," she agreed, "it seems I have."
"With your evident partiality for licentiousness, I may never let you go."
"I'm to be your sexual slave?"
"A marvelous notion," he mused. "I'll take it under advisement."
He increased the pace, each penetration banging her into the headboard, and she had to grasp at the bedding to stabilize herself.
More of her sanity had returned, and with it, her better sense. She couldn't believe she'd done this, that she was here, nude, and with her legs secured behind him. Yet she wasn't sorry or chagrined.
The escapade felt right, as if she'd found her way home after being lost for years.
Straining toward fulfillment, his pulse hammering at his ribs, sweat pooling on his brow, he was but a few insertions from spilling himself against her womb. She couldn't let him commit such an improvident act—it was too dangerous for both of them—but she wanted to bestow a release that was as magnificent as hers had been.
Seizing control, she rolled them so that he was on the bottom, and she was perched on top. His rod was a steady, untamed presence between her legs, pounding, pounding into her.