by Cheryl Holt
She lifted her foot onto a stool, furnishing him with a wide expanse of naked thigh as she removed one shoe and the other, pitching them with an unceremonious clump. In a smooth motion, her chemise was off, and momentarily, she wore only a pair of her sheer French drawers, stockings, and garters.
A gentleman with even the smallest measure of civility would have departed, but like a perverted voyeur, he wrongly watched her stripping. Irreverent as always, he didn't care as to her opinion of his conduct. She appreciated the sort of scoundrel he was, yet she'd come to him anyway, and he wasn't about to deny himself such outlandish carnal pleasure. Morals and manners be damned!
She faced him then, and she did nothing to conceal herself. Her flawless breasts, nipples peaked, invited his crude investigation. The two mounds were ungodly in their perfection. No mortal man could gaze upon them and behave himself, and he wasn't about to. She'd disrobed in his bedchamber, so whatever transpired was no more than she deserved.
Once again, she placed her dainty foot on the stool, bending over to untie her garters and roll down her stockings, then she stood, her hand pulling at the bow that laced her drawers, and she conducted them over her hips, her legs, until she was exquisitely, sinfully naked. At ease now, with her body, with her nudity, she stretched her arms high, flexing her muscles and arching her back.
Her hair was piled on her head, so none of her charms was hidden. Observing all—the wide shoulders, the nipped waist, the flared hips—his brow creased with anxiety as he noted that she'd lost weight. He was intimately familiar with every inch of her torso, his tongue having traced over curve and valley. She was slimmer, but from what?
Shaking 44off the disturbing insight, he focused instead on
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the crimson hair shielding her pussy. Its dangerous lure impelled him to the door just as she moved to the tub.
She perceived his presence and halted in mid-stride, her foot balanced on the rim, the pink of her cleft winking at him from between her legs. He fought down the impulse to rush to her, to touch her there, to kiss her there.
"You can't expect to watch," she complained.
"Absolutely."
"I don't want you in here."
"Milady, we are far past the time when what you want matters to me at all."
Her emerald eyes sparked with ire, and she held his gaze, set to engage in verbal fisticuffs, but the warm water beckoned, and she turned away.
"Why am I never surprised when you act like an ass?" Then, she proceeded to ignore him, testing the temperature with her toe. Deeming it adequate, she slipped in, a moan of delight bubbling from her ruby lips. "Aah ... I haven't had a hot bath in an eternity."
He declined to examine the statement too closely, wouldn't ask: how come? Instead, he concentrated solely on the sensual illustration, rejecting the chance to discern more than he dared.
There was a mirror behind the tub, so he could rudely analyze her antics. He'd always relished seeing her at her bath; she lowered her guard, cherishing the occurrence like a sailor; maidenly modesty forsaken.
Relaxing, she widened her legs. Her thighs were spread, and he could conceive of her pussy below the water, wet and swollen from the heat. He neared to obtain a better view, and her breasts floated on the surface.
"Is your mistress gone?" She stared at their posed reflections in the glass.
"I have no mistress."
She scoffed. "I meant what I said."
"What was that?"
"If I catch her panting after you again, I'll kill her"—her rabid regard dropped to his crotch where his overblown
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phallus prodded blatantly against the placard of his trousers—"then I'll castrate you."
He marveled at the threat. She was so bloody enticing when she was exhibiting her true character, and he grappled with the significance of her caveat. Did she consider him worth having? Worth keeping? Worth fighting for? She seemed to be jealous of his alleged indiscretions with Pamela, which could only arise from her harboring valid emotion.
His confusion increased.
"You have a wicked tongue, madam."
"Mrs. Stevens to you," she proclaimed caustically. "Have the decency to acknowledge who I am."
At the reminder, he flushed, two bright marks of red staining his cheeks. "Dear wife" he emphasized, "you've only just arrived. Don't command me about."
"You'll seek me out"—she raised a defiant brow— "whenever you have need of a woman's services. You'll not embarrass me by cavorting with every whore- in London."
"Pamela is not a whore," he felt obliged to relate.
"I never said she was," Sarah conceded, "but you won't dally with her again. I'm afraid my mind's made up, and the subject is not debatable."
So . . . she thought to employ her corporeal wiles to keep him on a tether. An excellent ploy. In light of how attracted he was to her, how captivated he'd always been, the concept of having her regularly was acutely tempting.
Did she assume that she was imposing an untenable burden? He had no qualms about slaking his lust with her. If she was heedlessly volunteering, he'd promptly assent.
Weeks—nay months—of lewd excess stretched ahead, and he tried to calculate why he'd denied himself. She was his wife, he'd seen to that by speaking the vows, but he'd only perceived the onus brought on by allying himself with her. Not the incomparable satisfaction.
His body had never known such outrageous luxury and, at that very moment, it was pleading to be assuaged. Why
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not submit? What reason could possibly justify restraint?
He toed off one boot, then the other. Only when he drew off his jacket and dislodged his cravat did he garner any undue scrutiny from her. She came up on her knees, glaring at him over her shoulder.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
"You're removing your clothing!"
"An accurate assessment."
"To what purpose?"
"I'm joining you."
"After all your misdeeds! You're mad if you suppose you can saunter in here, snap your fingers, and require me to fornicate!" In a snit, she shook an accusing finger at him. "You thought I contrived against you with Hugh. You didn't trust me. You didn't believe in me." She paused, swallowed hard. "I'll do whatever you ask," she said, "but first, you must admit that you were wrong about me. Tell me you're sorry."
"I'm not."
Gad, those eyes! They tortured him! They delved to his core, exposing how much he'd missed her witbout his even knowing he had.
"Well, I'm sorry," she quietly professed, "for everything. For doubting you, and maligning you. For letting you chase me home to Scarborough. I should have stayed with you. There's a fine connection between us, and I'm willing to put our differences aside. To start over."
Her gracious expression of remorse felt like a noose around his neck, strangling him and, consummate villain that he was, he couldn't reply. While she was disposed to mend and heal, he was hurting too much to make concessions, not even something as simple as the apology she craved. He had to protect himself—at all costs!
She waited in vain, until she understood that he wouldn't beg her pardon, and she sagged in defeat as he plucked at the front of his pants, the top button popping free.
"Didn't you hear anything I just said?"
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"I'm aroused." Another button flipped from its enclosure. "I've tolerated a lengthy period of sexual abstinence."
"I'm to infer mat you and Pamela have merely been attending the opera?"
"Exactly."
"I discovered some of her clothes. In this very room."
"She frequently overimbibes"—he shrugged away the untoward rumors—"and has spent the night."
"You must conclude that I'm appallingly gullible."
She tried to exit the tub, but he rested a re
strictive hand on her shoulder, adding tension, impeding escape. He was being cruel, but he simply couldn't let her wheedle herself under his skin again. If he opened his heart even a minute amount, she'd barge in, and he was terrified by the prospect.
"Have you had any lovers?" he boorishly inquired, and it dawned on him that her answer had better be no. An alien torrent of jealousy coursed through him; he'd very likely have to slay any man who'd bad the audacity.
"No." She was emphatic, insulted. "How about yourself, my dear and faithful husband? Can you make the same vow?"
"Yes." He was just as definite. "Now that the issue is settled, I plan to indulge."
"Not until we hash this out."
"I've no intention of talking this to death. You're here, and you're naked in my bath. You'll do what I say, and you'll do it gladly."
"And you are a dreamer." But she continued to avidly peruse him as he shed his trousers.
Languidly, prolonging the ecstasy, he dragged them down his legs and kicked them away, then he rose beside her. Naked and hard, his cock an offensive size, he gripped it in his fist, easing some of the urgency. His phallus was mere inches from her plush, alluring mouth. He stroked himself, revealing the tip, knowing how fabulous it would feel to be inside that moist haven, to have her 0kneeling
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before him and sucking at him until he was imploring her to stop.
'Touch me," he commanded.
"No." But he wasn't about to be denied.
Before she could react, he slid into the tub and sank down behind her. They were wedged in the narrow space, her backside pressed to his front, his thighs mashed to hers, their calves and feet overlapping. Slippery and smooth, she smelled like sex, and woman, and roses, and he centered his cock on the cleft of her ass, his hands gripping her waist.
Her bounteous hair pricked his nose, and he yanked at the combs. It swung down in a cascade, the ends dangling on the water, and he shoved the heavy mass aside, then leaned forward and bit against her nape, causing her to writhe and squirm.
Insolently taunting, he held her firmly against him. "Have you been pining away for me?"
"Not for a second."
His fingers slipped down her stomach, kneading through the springy red curls, dipping into her, and she tensed at his unexpected invasion. Her pussy had only previously endured his unrefined style of penetration, and at the vain realization, his cock inflated further.
"I hate you," she charged but without conviction.
"Then why have you come?" He kissed up her neck, nuzzled her hair, and was pleased to detect goose bumps.
"So that I could tell you—to your face—what a wretch I think you are." Jostling him with her elbow, her blow glanced off, the only tangible result being that she inadvertently rubbed her shapely ass across his erection.
"Ooh ... do that again." He bit at the lobe of her ear, and raucously grasped her nipples, as he studied their joint reflection in the mirror. Her abundant breasts and lush pussy were discernible. He lurked behind her, a dark, looming menace who boded ill.
"Look at us, Mrs. Stevens."
His cajoling dragged her attention to the mirror. With a
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strained intensity, she evaluated the placement of their bodies, of his lips at her cheek, of his fingers at her nipples. As lovers, they were impeccable together; they always had been.
"Do you remember the first time I visited your bedchamber at Pamela's country house? I fondled you like this, and you watched in the mirror. You were so hot, so beautiful. Just for me."
"Your conceit knows no bounds," she mutinously maintained. "I was bored and lonely; I might have welcomed any man stupid enough to enter."
"I was the one. The only one."
"You flatter yourself."
With one hand, he manipulated her breast, while the other fell to her pussy. Palpating her vigilantly, he probed and explored, and eventually, he secured what he'd been seeking: a scant response from her hips. He pressed against her mound, eliciting a groan she didn't want him-to discern.
"You are so ready for me."
"Arrogant beast!"
Like a scientist with a new invention, he found her clit and began to play, working, toying, and teasing her. Her hips succumbed, more brazenly adopting his rhythm.
He'd forgotten how much he treasured her sexual predilection, how he was attuned to her every need, how his spirit soared at her prurient nature. Bending down, he doused his cock, wetting the erect member. "Take me inside you."
"I won't," she argued. "I haven't forgiven you."
"I don't care."
He inserted the blunt tip, gave her a tad more. Her eyes widened, as if she didn't recall how big he was, and he could barely stifle a moan of pleasure at having her, once again. "I love fucking you," he indelicately mentioned. "I always have."
As he intruded slowly, meticulously, their gazes linked in the mirror. Cautiously, she reached behind her head, tracing along his neck, his face, his lips, and he kissed her
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palm, awed by the emotion that blazed from the simple gesture.
He couldn't stand this effect she so easily managed!
The only thing he wanted from her was spicy, tempestuous sex. Nothing more. Clutching her hips, he attempted to ardently thrust, but the tub was too cramped, and he couldn't exert the pressure he longed to wield, but apparently, excessive endeavor wasn't necessary. After minimal effort, he was at the sharp edge of release.
Almost without warning, he started to come, and he frantically grabbed for her, striving to withdraw so that he could disgorge his seed across her back and keep it away from her womb, but she'd been anticipating the maneuver. She ground her buttocks into him, their awkward poses propelling him against the rim of the tub and blocking his egress. Her cleft milked him with its severe stimulation, and his body arced, his cock throbbed, his seed shooting into her body in a sizzling river.
He couldn't recollect when he'd last spilled himself inside a woman. The wrongness of it, the folly, the impropriety, produced a bizarre thrill that billowed through his loins as he primally delighted in his ultimate possession.
She was his.
With a decisive, possessive plunge, he buried his forehead in her hair, treasuring the sensation of having her so completely, a feeling of lightness flooding over him, then gradually, sanity was restored, and he pulled away as much as he could, alarmed by what he'd just accomplished.
How did she so freely overwhelm him? He'd come like an untried lad of thirteen, ejaculating inside her as though it was a normal course of events. How could he defend his negligent incursion?
Wary of what he would discover, he met her gaze in the mirror, once again. A strong emotion flickered in her green eyes, but he couldn't decipher it.
"I'm sorry for my lack of control—" he commenced falteringly, but she cut him off.
"If you've decided to apologize for something," she re-
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plied scathingly, "don't you dare let it be for coming inside me. I do believe I might strangle you before I'd listen."
She huffed out, water splashing onto the floor with her departure. In a temper, she snatched her robe and stomped away, silence left in her wake. Pondering the perplexity of females, how incomprehensible they were, how mysterious, how irksome, he sank down in the tub.
His knees weak from the potency of his orgasm, he rested his arms on the edge of the basin as he took a cloth and scrubbed himself, recovering from the vigor of their copulation. Incrementally, he calmed enough to dry himself, then don his trousers.
When she'd stormed out, he hadn't nettled over where she'd gone, postulating that she'd run downstairs, or fled to one of the other bedrooms to fume and seethe.
To his dismay, she was lying on his bed, her head on his pillow, her body curled into a ball and covered with a knitted throw. Facing away from him, she appeared pet
ite and vulnerable, and he knew with a glaring certitude that his bed would never be his own again. From that moment on, no matter when or how he looked at it, he'd always picture her there, seeming to have staked out her spot with no intent of relinquishing it.
Baffled, abashed, he huddled in the doorway, not sure what to say or how to say it. He could never find his balance with her.
"Where are my things?" Her question was so quietly voiced that he wasn't sure she'd spoken.
"What things?" he inquired.
"The furniture and possessions that belong at Scarborough."
"They're stored in a warehouse. Why?"
"I want everything sent back."
"All of it is mine," he couldn't stop himself from peevishly pointing out. "Your brother—"
"Hugh is dead," she tersely interjected. "Whatever happened between the two of you, it's not important anymore. The new earl is on his way. From America. He's a distant
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cousin whom I've never met, and I won't permit you to shame me by having the manor in a shambles when he arrives."
It was easier to relent than he'd imagined. He'd never wanted the blasted chattels in the first place. The entire cargo had been nothing but a daily, constant reminder of his mistakes. "I'll see to it."
"I have some elderly retainers who need to be pensioned off, but I've never had any money to help them."
"Done."
Trembling, she breathed deep, then exhaled, and he watched the rise and fall of her rib cage. "And I want Hugh's body shipped home so that he can have a proper burial." She gave a soft laugh that sounded very close to a sob. "His grave is here in London, and I don't even know where."
His initial inclination was to deny the modest request, but he couldn't. What did he care where Hugh Compton was buried? He acceded again, even as he marveled that he was being so accursedly cooperative. Next, she'd demand the shirt off his back, and he'd be jerking it over his head and presenting it to her on a silver platter.