by Cheryl Holt
There was a challenge in his solicitation. Evidently, he expected her to decline or feign offense. If he thought she'd retreat, he'd miscalculated, but then, he wasn't the first man who'd underestimated her, and he wouldn't be the last.
"Yes, I would," she rejoined, calm as you please. "I would undress, and after, I would happily do whatever you ask of me."
"That is what I want." His puzzling attitude intensified. 'That is the one thing you can do that will make me feel better."
"Then, my precious champion"—she tipped her head, evaluating him, taking his measure, letting him see that she was unafraid of his shameless proposal—"that is what you shall have."
Chapter Eleven
Michael shifted against the edge of the tub, putting space between them, wanting Sarah to have plenty of time to come to terms with her brazen decision, but she didn't seem to have the good sense to be anxious or frightened. The look she was giving him had him utterly unnerved.
Across the room, his large bed beckoned, urging him to carry her to its pliant mattress, to lay her down, to obtain some comfort. Hovering below, shielded by the soapy water, was his fierce cockstand, his phallus painfully begging to be assuaged between her heavenly thighs.
Though she didn't grasp it as yet, once he stepped out of the bath, there would be no going back. His resolution was wrong, outrageous, idiotic, but he meant to indulge. Today and tomorrow and the next day and the next after that. For as long as Pamela deigned to impart her hospitality—though in view of her pique over his latest exploit, his stay might be cut short—he would contrive to debauch and defile Sarah in every despicable way.
Starting gradually, he would initiate and enlighten, tease and tutor, until her fabulous, compliant body was attuned and burning for his type of prurient excess. He would thrill, delight, enchant, supplying all the delectation she could possibly tolerate and, in the process, he would garner some satisfaction of his own. If it killed him, if it took every ounce of his resolve and strength, if he spilled himself a thousand times in order to achieve satiation, he was determined to eventually attain contentment.
Recent events had unleashed something inside him, something voracious and feral that scared him, because it was so powerful. He couldn't quit thinking about her. Her
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... in the stairwell, accosted by Brigham. Her... in her bedchamber, admitting that she'd spied on him while he'd fornicated with other women. Her ... begging him to seduce her, to ruin her.
Pacing and cursing, he'd passed the night, unable to rest, helpless to cease his ruminating, his yearning. With morning, he'd been like a wild animal, unruly, unpredictable. Perched at his window, waiting for Brigham to emerge, he'd known the coward would strive to slip away like the dog he was.
The fracas had been welcome, vicious, malevolent, and he'd thrived on each punch thrown, on each smack of bone on bone, each spatter of blood that flew across the ground. In every muscle and pore, he ached—his ribs, his head, his hands—but he wasn't repentant. Not over any of it, and he was so savagely delighted that he'd had the chance to vent his fury so meticulously. He felt as if he was coming back to life, reawakening after a lengthy slumber. But with the conclusion of the melee, a staggering emptiness had enveloped him and, as he'd soaked in his bath, he'd progressively deduced how to allay his troubled condition: He wanted Sarah Compton. Without limitation, without constraint.
When she'd appeared—as if his hulking thoughts had summoned her—he'd recognized, then and there, that the course he'd chosen was inevitable. He was ready to fuck and defile, to sate and purge himself; to finesse, beguile, and abuse her in every conceivable fashion, and he didn't intend to be penitent for whatever he might perpetuate.
"For the remaining days that we are here," he explained, "we will have a sexual relationship."
"I've been hoping," the insane woman freely assented.
"I will demonstrate the methods of loving, and you will practice on me until you grow proficient."
"Very well."
"You will do whatever I say."
"Within reason."
"No," he interrupted, quashing her bit of bravado. There
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would be no restrictions. "I will select the path. You will follow it. I will create the games; you will play. Enthusiastically and completely. Or not at all."
She stared him down, biting against her cheek, obviously deliberating refusal. His Sarah was tough and proud; she wasn't used to having a man tell her how to act, but then, as she'd issued from a family of men like Hugh Compton, what could he expect?
Half of his enjoyment would be attained from eroding her inhibitions, from her bowing to his stipulations, from her pleas for more. She would become complacent to his demands.
"Well?"
"If I don't agree?"
"We won't begin."
Her dilemma was enormous. Just out of principle, she considered declining. She didn't like him mandating her behavior, yet she craved the opportunity to experience what he was offering. She sought an affair on her own terms but, by his very disposition, their amour could never develop in such a lame manner. He was the type of man who would set the tone and pace. Surely, she comprehended that about him?
'Tine," she ultimately said.
He had to prevent himself from shaking his fist in triumph. She would be his premium conquest. "I will require conduct of you that you've never dreamed possible."
"I realize that."
"You can't be timid or shy. You must be mentally prepared to attempt whatever I suggest, and you shouldn't be apprehensive or bothered by our conduct. Whatever transpires is allowed."
"I'm not afraid." She chuckled. "Or shy!"
"Your purpose will be to please me through the carnal acts that I teach you. In return, you will receive your own gratification. The sins of the flesh will overwhelm you; you'll wonder why you've never committed them until
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now." Shrewdly, he regarded her. "Do you still wish to proceed?"
"Aye."
"First, you must make one promise to me."
"If I'm able."
"You must promise me that you'll never be sorry. That you'll never harbor any remorse."
He didn't deem it feasible. In fact, he was quite convinced that the aftermath would be brimming with regrets, but perhaps if he instilled the concept at the outset, he might mitigate some of her later lamentation. "Swear it to me," he insisted.
"I swear it. I'll never regret what occurs between us." She smiled. "I never could."
He nodded, accepting her vow, pondering if she'd truly keep it. She was a woman of her word, but some transgressions—such as the ones he was about to perpetrate against her—were too serious to be forgiven.
"Have you ever seen a naked man?" he asked.
"When would I have?"
“Turn around."
Puzzled by his request, she didn't budge, so he clarified, "I'm going to climb out of the bath. I certainly don't mind if you watch, but I hardly suppose you're prepared for the sight."
Her eyes widened with comprehension. He'd managed to shock her, and she leapt to her feet, geared to bolt.
"Stop!" he commanded to her retreating back, and she slid to a halt as he suppressed a wave of male vanity at how promptly she'd complied. What an interesting seduction this would be!
He exited the tub, the water lapping against the rim, and she vigilantly listened to every sound. Her torso was ramrod straight, her fists clenched at her sides, her head cocked. Reaching for a towel, he approached until he was directly behind her.
"I'm drying myself," he declared. "I'll have my robe on momentarily."
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"All... all right."
Commencing at his hair, he fluffed at the dampness, then he moved down, to his neck, chest, buttocks, and legs. But for their labored breathing, and the intermittent crackling of the log in the fire, the room was deathly quiet, and she tensed as the towel sc
ratched across his bodily bumps and crevasses.
Leaning down, he intentionally let the towel brush along her hemline, and she jumped whenever he encroached. Eventually, he tired of his petty amusement, and he donned his robe, stuffing his arms in the sleeves and binding the cord at the waist.
"I am finished."
At the news, she endeavored to face him, but he prohibited the movement by wrapping himself around her and trapping her backside along his front. The sparse robe was the only garment covering him so, as he pressed his scantily clad form against her, it was as if he was wearing nothing at all.
In agony, he hardened to an obscene length.
Spreading his fingers wide across her pliable belly, he clutched at her and pulled her bottom against his groin. She had the most mesmerizing ass, perfectly forged for a man's appreciation. He flexed into her skirts, sensing her figure, her cleft. To his relief, she didn't shirk away from the intimacy, so he held her tighter and whispered in her ear.
"Do you have any idea what transpires when a man and a woman are alone?"
"No. I learned some from observing your behavior, but..."
He couldn't abide her talking about what she'd beheld of himself and the other female guests. His plans for her included nothing similar to those decadent diversions, and he didn't care to be reminded of how he'd debased himself and his partners. Impatient to brusquely silence her, he bit against her nape, and the sensation had the desired effect. With the unfamiliar impact, she sucked in a huge breath of air.
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Their liaison would have nothing in common with the previous, lewd dalliances she'd witnessed. Her sensual fate was sealed. He wanted her; he would have her. But the journey would be languid and pleasant.
"A man and a woman," he continued, "like to kiss and embrace. To fondle one another. They undress, so that their bodies can connect"—he nuzzled along her shoulder, and goose bumps prickled down her arms—"bare skin to bare skin."
"Why?"
"A woman's nudity incites a man to physical passion. He's then eager to mate."
"Do you want to..."—she swallowed, swallowed again, her head tipped to the side, exposing more for him to sample—"to mate with me now?"
"Yes, very much."
"It's the middle of the day."
"You'll have no secrets from me."
"But we're not married."
"We don't need to be."
"I don't understand."
"All in good time, my little virgin." He laughed softly, and swept his palms up her stomach to just below her breasts, not caressing them but drawing so near. She braced for the higher level of involvement, and was frustrated when it didn't arrive. "How many pieces of clothing are hidden under your gown?"
An adorable blush crept from deep inside and colored her cheeks. She seemed incapable of responding, so he asked, "Petticoats?" She nodded, and he queried, "Corset?" though he knew the reply.
The stiff contraption hemmed her in and, with her respiration elevated by the stirrings of desire, she struggled against confinement, and he couldn't wait to pull at the laces and whisk it away. Avidly, he recalled the size and shape of her breasts, and he couldn't wait to view them free and unencumbered.
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"How about drawers?" he queried, referring to the newfangled undergarment.
"Yes."
Infrequently, he discovered them on his lovers, but he never cared. The novel contraption was simply one more item meant to conceal and titillate, one more article to peel away and discard before he reached his destination.
"I'm going to remove your dress." He stroked her heated flesh, brushing her breasts in passing, bringing his hands to rest on her shoulders. "And your petticoats. I'll strip you—"
"Till I'm..."
She couldn't speak the word naked aloud, and he almost took pity on her, but he refrained. He wanted her fidgety, uneasy, off balance. "To your chemise. No further for now."
Frantically, her mind whirled. Her wishes were about to be granted, and she was terrified by the prospect, yet she didn't disappoint. "I believe"—she trembled slightly—"I would like it if you did."
With a few snaps of his wrist, her bodice was loose, and she reflexively grabbed to keep it clasped to her bosom.
"Put your arms at your sides," he ordered, and she obeyed as he pushed the gown past her waist and hips, and soon it was pooled about her feet. He lifted her out of the pile of silk and lace, setting her on the floor, once again then, quick as a wink, he undid her corset and flung it away, mollified when her lungs adequately expanded.
Her chemise was delicate, cream-colored, with a dainty floral pattern stitched on the borders. It fell to mid-thigh, and he glanced down, noting a hint of bare leg, garter, and stocking.
"Face me."
He allowed her to spin around. The fabric of the shift was thin and transparent, and he could see her breasts, navel, and woman's hair. His erection inflated further, and absently, he rubbed across it, bidding it to recede, but to no avail. The image of her, nearly nude and calmly antic-
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ipating his ensuing imprudence, was too enticing.
Already, he'd pushed her awfully far, but she courageously passed each test he meted out, though she wasn't currently looking him in the eye, and she was careful not to permit her attention to wander to his lower regions where he continued to fondle himself.
Kneeling before her, he absorbed her essence, her sweat, the musk of her sex. He tugged off her shoes, untied her garters, and rolled down her stockings. More goose bumps flourished, and he massaged up and down her calves, cuddling her, warming her.
He stole one, fleet kiss against her stomach, one deep inhale of the tang on her abdomen, of the cushion of hair surrounding her pussy, then he stood, regarding her exactingly, curious as to how she'd survived the ordeal, but he needn't have worried. She was unaffected, her shoulders squared, and she didn't recoil in the slightest as his gaze roamed across her, hot and potent as his hands might have been.
"Take down your hair."
Obediently, she set about pulling at the combs and pins. In seconds, the heavy mass swung downward, encasing her in a stream of auburn and gold. It fell to her waist, a shimmering ribbon of crimson designed to inflame and corrupt.
"Run your fingers through it." She acceded, as he decreed, "Whenever you visit me, you'll have it unbound and brushed out."
"As you wish." He advanced until his chest grazed her nipples, his thighs encircled her own, but she didn't hesitate. "What now?”
"We'll he on the bed. You'll learn to touch me." He flicked his thumb across her bottom lip. Full, moist, red as a ripe cherry, he stole a kiss then, twirling her in a circle, they sank onto the mattress, with him on his back and her stretched out on top.
She was a vision to behold. The strap of her chemise had slid off her shoulder, a succulent breast was partly bare, her hair cascading about. Beautiful, arousing, she was de-
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sire incarnate, and for the moment, she was his—and his alone—to do with as he pleased. He could barely stand the suspense, the marvelous sense of expectation, yet he deigned to go forth deliberately, to savor and relish every delicious instant of her downfall.
Adjusting her legs, he opened her thighs so that she straddled him. Her pussy was directly over his cock, instinctively recognizing the appropriate sensual route, and she spread and slumped further, dramatically increasing the explicit contact.
Tugging at the belt at his waist, he loosened it, and pushed at the lapels of his robe, exposing only his chest.
"Touch me," he said and, when she vacillated, he gripped her hand and laid it over his heart, then rasped it in a slow circle. "Like this."
He should have seized control of the assignation and tormented her until she was writhing and pleading for more, but truth be told, he was exhausted after his vigorous combat.
As a bastard son, who had been shamelessly disavowed by his rich and
noble father, he often engaged in altercations. Offensive comments—usually aimed at his mother— were regularly hurled, and he vented his wrath at any imbecile foolish enough to make an untoward remark, so his entering into a dispute was nothing new.
A skilled, seasoned opponent, he could hurl a punch as well as take one. However, the frantic display he'd delivered to Brigham had exploded with a ferocity he'd not exhibited before, and the intensity had left him thoroughly drained. He needed Sarah's sweet courtesy, was desperate to suffer through her virginal oohs and aahs, to bask in her fascination. The feel of her smooth hands, with those slender, questing fingers roving over him, was like a healing salve to his battered body and spirit.
She amused herself with his chest, rifling through the springy hair, exploring the ridges and valleys until her maneuvers felt as natural as breathing, as though she'd touched him just so a hundred times before.
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Braver, she dipped lower, across the knobs of his rib cage, but he'd secured a grueling blow to his side and, before he could warn her to be cautious, she patted across the bruising, and he flinched and winced.
She froze. "You're hurt."
"Not badly."
"Let me see." She relocated, her lush pussy easing off his phallus as she shoved more of the robe apart. The spot on his ribs was inflamed, the abrasion ghastly, and she studied and inspected, then bent over and kissed it as she had the wounds to his temple and fist
When she straightened, she flashed a stern look. "I don't like you fighting."
"It's occasionally necessary."
"But I can't bear it that you've been injured." Gently, she traced across the damage. "Promise you won't do it again," and she graced him with a tender kiss against his mouth. "Please?"
It had been a very long while since anyone had evidenced concern for his safety or welfare. In response, he could only offer a small concession. "I'll try."
"That's worth something, I guess."
The exchange concluded, the banter lagged, the quiet magnified. She focused on him with such penetrating, abiding affection that he couldn't stand to perceive it, so he said, "Touch me again."