by Cheryl Holt
Lovf Lessons 197
myself. Hopefully, the release I just enjoyed will keep me from behaving like an ogre."
"You are grumpy when you're in a carnal situation."
She was so quick to notice the smallest tidbits! " 'Tis a manly problem. Unrelieved sexual tension can be... distressing."
"Well, it leaves you downright cantankerous." She appeared luscious, ripe, and ready for whatever was next. "And I have to tell you that I don't care for your bad humors at all, so you must allow me to ease your distress whenever it arises."
"You didn't find my ... discharge . . . upsetting?"
"Not in the least. Why? Do some women?"
"On occasion. Those with less experience can be.. . shall we say . . . overwhelmed?"
"Not me, apparently." She licked her lips like a contented cat. "I particularly liked having you in my mouth."
He groaned and rubbed at his promptly inflating erection. He'd created a monster! "My lady," he offered gallantly, "my body is at your disposal."
"Does that mean I'm to be treated to an encore performance?" She was eager as a young child who'd just spied her favorite candy.
He chuckled. "As many times as I am able."
The libidinous look she flashed was worth all the uncertainty. He reached for her hand and conscientiously swabbed all traces of his seed. Then he cleaned himself. Through it all, she watched attentively, and as he grasped his cock and started to wash, she scooted to the edge of the bed.
"Let me do that." She took the cloth and sponged him, which of course caused him to swell further, filling her hand completely. "You are so beautiful," she said, smiling up at him, the devotion clear in those enchanting green eyes. "I love seeing you like this."
She finished, then dropped the cloth to the floor and nuzzled her face in the rough pile of hair around his cock and balls. He stood still, staring down at her, and he
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couldn't help but wander back to her admission that she fancied making a babe with him.
Always in the past, he'd coupled for the sake of physical alleviation, never fretting overly much about his partners. In light of the type of women with whom he consorted, he had no illusions: His obvious ennui was part of his allure. They were fascinated by his lack of regard, and they welcomed him to their beds for many reasons: to be able to brag that they had, to determine what it was like, or to gossip with others about what they'd done. He consented merely for the relief it brought, but also because it as an interesting way to pass his leisure hours.
Never had he contemplated having children with any of them! None had ever stirred paternal impulses. Even during his most aggressive, intense encounters, he'd never fornicated out of some deep-rooted aspiration for a child. He was always prudent, refusing to procreate or to wind up joined to one of his lovers through such sloppy attention to detail.
But when Abby had mentioned a babe ... her declaration had instigated a whirl of dangerous ideas.
A babe! With her! Some ancient, primal element cried out that impregnation was exactly what he should be striving to achieve. No longer could he initiate bed play just for sport; there was a definite goal attached to the feat of mating. She had to carry his babe!
With an insane craving, he wished to hold her down, and fuck her until she was so saturated with his seed that there could be no other result. The concept was feral, savage, insurgent, and he couldn't risk shedding any more apparel, because he would definitely make love to her, and for once he didn't know if he'd be able to pull away at the conclusion.
For the first time in his life, he wanted with a desperation that was as amazing as it was disconcerting. He daren't close his eyes, because when he did, he saw visions of small children. Of adorable little girls, with Abby's blond hair and sweet disposition. Of rough-and-tumble boys, with
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his lanky build and overbearing attitude. He could picture them as clearly as if they were playing alongside the bed.
This yearning was terrible and menacing, but even as he thought so, and even as he understood that he had to fight against it and whatever outrageous exploits it might cause him to commit, she was removing the remainder of his attire and he was helping her. His boots, stockings, trousers. With the loss of each item, he allowed her to pet and fondle, while suffering through her virginal oohs and aahs. But there was nothing innocent about her behavior; she was a female bent on seduction, and she knew precisely how to go about it.
As the last piece of clothing was shucked away, she fell back onto the bed, and he went with her, his body enthusiastic, his mind resistant. Yet, as he stretched out and folded his arms around her, he couldn't muster the reserve or the detachment he always used during his erotic liaisons. He simply longed for the moment too badly, and surprisingly, not just the act itself. If they did nothing else but lie together, kissing and talking, he would travel home in the morning a perfectly happy man.
"I must ask you a question," she said. "Promise me that you won't be angry."
"You can ask me anything, Abby," he attested. "Surely you realize that."
"Yes, but this is personal, and you told me not to inquire. ..."
Had he really?
Yes, at the outset, when he'd been so disturbed by his indescribable emotions where she was concerned that he hadn't known how else to respond. Distance had always been the method he'd used with his paramours, but with Abby he couldn't pretend disinterest. Pathetically, he was regularly trolling for news about her, and his conduct had gotten so pitiable that, at his club, he frequently caroused the gaming rooms, hanging on the fringe of Jerald Weston and his acquaintances whenever Jerald was out bingeing and whoring.
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While he rarely heard Abby's name, at the slightest reference he felt like a starving dog who'd been tossed a bone. Even though he insisted they not share individual information, in all actuality, it was imperative that he ascertain everything about her, down to the smallest particulars.
But to what end? came the constant question, and for a change, he chased it away. On this one, special occasion, he wouldn't let irrelevant concerns infringe on how he should deal with her. What Abby preferred to learn, he would disclose.
"I'm sorry I said that," he murmured. "Ask away."
"I was wondering about your half-brother, Charles. Have you ever met him?"
"No." He hid his surprise well. He'd expected something about his father. Perhaps his mother or Michael. The club. Their home. "I was never allowed to," he added with more bitterness than he intended.
Charles Stevens, the other son who had received all—a life with their father and all the respect and acclaim that went with it—had been a constant thorn over the years, irritatingly jabbing during those inopportune instances when James had been foolish enough to lament over the unfair state of the world.
He bore the boy no ill will; he simply never reflected upon him, because his existence was proof of the kind of man Edward Stevens was and all the ways he had failed James's tiny family.
"I was so hoping," Abby was commenting, "that you had some opinion of him."
"Why?" He was unable to prevent a flare of curiosity.
"He's been courting my sister, Caroline, and she's quite taken with him."
"They might marry?"
" 'Tis certainly possible, and I'd like to discover more about his character before it progresses."
James shifted to his back, his arm around her shoulder, and the move enabled him to keep her close while staring at the ceiling, rather than into her eyes.
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The report was extremely disconcerting, and he remembered a street urchin he'd seen once. The lad had been standing in front of a bakery and gazing inside at the displays of treats, though he recognized that he could never have any of them.
James now comprehended exactly how the boy had felt.
With a fierce surge of resentment, he unexpectedly hated Charles Stevens, this half-brother o
f wealth and privilege to whom he'd never been introduced. Why should Charles have so much, when James and Michael had never had anything at all? Charles could woo and wed one of Jerald Weston's sisters, but James had to clandestinely meet with the other. If they were detected, her life would be over, simply because of the accidents of birth. They couldn't even utter hello to one another if they passed on the street.
For a long while, he perused a crack in the plasterwork as he forced his rancorous musings to diminish. His skewed relationship with Edward and Charles had never bothered him overly much, but since he'd launched his affair with Abby, he couldn't abide these societal strictures that declared him not good enough for her. The knowledge dredged up other old hurts that usually remained buried, namely the loss and abandonment he continued to suffer since that night, ages ago, when his mother had awakened him so they could flee to Paris.
He was thirty years old, a grown man with a thriving business, a fine residence, and a substantial, steady income, yet the deeply hidden wounds still occasionally oozed as though they had just been inflicted.
Intuiting his anguish, Abby massaged over his heart as though she perceived precisely where it ached. "Why does it upset you so much to talk about Charles? About your father?"
"Old history, Abby," he prevaricated, but she refused to be put off.
She shifted until she was lying on top of him, covering him with her body, but he had the sense that she was also
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shielding him with her strength and love. "Can you tell me about it?"
He persisted in searching the ceiling as he explained, "When I was young, I worshiped Edward. He was the grandest, most wonderful father any boy could possibly have. He was so dashing ... bigger than life...." He narrowed his eyes, recalling that distant time. "When we were living in Paris, I was so sure he'd come for us. For years... for years! ... I sneaked to my mother's bedroom first thing every morning and peeked inside, thinking it would be the day that he'd arrived to take us home......"
Pausing, he chuckled at his sudden nostalgic accounting. He couldn't believe he'd admitted so much, and he shook his head. "Lord, I'd completely forgotten I used to do that I looked for him until I was twelve or thirteen years old...."
"What made you quit?" she urged wistfully.
"I started looking at girls instead." She nudged him in the ribs, and he hugged her closer. " 'Twas more fun than pining away."
"Your father harbors a great degree of remorse about all that transpired."
" 'Tis easy for him to claim as much now." He sounded petty and resentful but was unable to stop himself. "Did he say so?"
"Yes." She nodded. "Numerous times. He terribly regrets that he hasn't become reacquainted with Michael."
"He has plenty of other children. Why would Michael be so important?"
"All his children are special to him." Kindly, she maintained, "Even the ones he left behind."
"He's always had a funny way of showing it, then." Sitting up, he strolled across the room to the food and wine she'd brought. He was naked, and she shrewdly observed him as he walked about, and he appreciated the feel of her eyes, her avid curiosity, her dearth of virginal inhibitions.
"Have you ever talked to your mother about their split?"
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"On many occasions. Why?" He nibbled on some cheese and poured himself a glass of wine.
"I'm just interested. I know you don't like your father, but—"
"I never said that," he interrupted. " Tis difficult between us. There are too many unresolved issues."
"My mistake." She patted the empty space beside her, with her gesture encouraging him to return, and he came willingly, even though she insisted on airing all these difficult topics. " 'Tis just that I've socialized extensively with Edward of late, and he doesn't seem the type who would do something nefarious to your mother or you boys." She took the wine and held it while he settled next to her.
Like old married folks, he thought. We've adjusted to sharing the same bed.
"I was just speculating," she stated, "as to your mother's opinion of him."
"She's always remained fond. And loyal. I've never heard a bad word out of her mouth." He shifted about, searching for a comfortable spot, but with all this candid discussion, there wasn't one to be had. "Actually, we rarely speak of him. It always hurt her, so early on, Michael and I decided to never mention his name."
"What did your mother think of that?"
"I don't know . . ." he claimed pensively, striving to recollect. "In the beginning, she was so distressed herself that she didn't notice. Later, I believe she convinced herself that his absence had simply made us quit missing him."
"How very sad. For all of you."
She sighed so sentimentally that a lump formed in his throat, the emotion of it all abruptly choking him. It had been sad, indeed tragic, but he'd spent so many years being angry that he hadn't grasped how much sorrow they'd all endured, as well. The comprehension was a heavy weight, and it filled the room, pressing down on him and inundating him in a landslide of old reminiscence and acrid retrospection.
He didn't want to waste one second of their precious
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rendezvous being deluged by prior events. It was over. Done. The past couldn't be changed or amended, but the familiar torments and longings were near the surface, and he couldn't stand to endure them alone. He yearned to have Abby tend them for a brief while so that, he hoped by daybreak, they'd be less excruciating, less able to still inflict damage.
He held the goblet of wine to her lips, helping her to take a sip, then he set it on the table next to die bed, As he turned back, she opened her arms and held him tight. Almost gratefully, he latched on to her, embedding his face in her hair, inhaling and letting the heat and fragrance of her skin soothe him.
"I've upset you again," she murmured, kissing against his neck and chest.
"No, I'm not upset. Not with you anyway. 'Tis just difficult, sometimes, to ponder my childhood."
"I hate that you're suffering," she said softly. "Let me comfort you."
Previously, he'd never lain with a woman in order to achieve contentment. Assuredly, he couldn't recollect a single assignation when he'd desired more than the temporary relief he'd find through orgasm. He was about to have sex with a woman he loved, and the insight frightened him. This unique, singular event had to be unequaled by any other she might have later on in her life.
To fuck and love at the same moment! How odd mat he'd never imagined it possible before.
He began by kissing her, simply because she treasured it so much. In the past, he'd never been overly keen on kissing, always more intent on getting down to business, and his jaded, sophisticated lovers hadn't minded. They, too, were eager for die more straightforward aspects of coupling. Time had often been a factor. Location, as well. Considering the sorts of places he'd engaged in carnal relations—coaches, closets, stairwells—kissing hadn't normally been at the forefront of what he'd been trying to accomplish.
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With Abby, he was discovering an entirely different method of making love. There was pleasure to be gained in seeing her happy, in reveling in her company, in experiencing the leisurely, progressive changes that warmed and relaxed her as he readied her for what was to come.
This was new territory, this exposing of all these layers of passion, of the miniature delights available with the right woman, and he almost felt like a virgin himself. Why had he never sought out the minor joys, instead of pursuing only the end result? The route, he was finding, was just as delectable as the final destination.
"You have the most kissable mouth," he said as he eventually pulled away.
"Do you think so?" She blushed prettily and smiled.
"Yes, I do." For good measure, he kissed her nose, her cheek, her forehead, too.
"I feel the same about yours," she acceded, "but since you're the only man I've ever kissed, I'm hardly much of
a judge, so don't let it go to your head."
"I'll try not to," he said wryly, "and don't you dare hie off, searching for comparisons." The statement was light and teasing, as he'd meant it to be, but he amazed himself with the possessive remark. He'd never cared what one of his lovers did or didn't do with others. Their extraneous conduct simply hadn't mattered. "I don't want your lips touching anyone's but mine."
"I'm not sure I can control myself." She batted her lashes in mock play.
"You'd better," he responded, swatting her on the rear. It was so easy, being with her. When she wasn't working to shape him into a better man, she was funny and carefree, and though she was blatantly aware of his worst traits, she was willing to accept him—flaws and all.
A major concession on her part!
"I've never been much of a one for kissing," he admitted, nuzzling under her neck and across her bosom.
"You're joking! With all the women you've had?"
"I didn't know it could be so pleasant."
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Dubiously, she studied him. "Until you met me?"
"Yes."
Disbelieving, she grumbled low in her throat. "I can't tell when you're serious and when you're not."
" Tis true, love." To prove his point, he kissed her long and thoroughly, not easing up until she was panting and writhing beneath him. "I enjoy kissing you very, very much."
"I'm finding that I like it very much, as well, so I insist that you kiss me whenever the mood strikes you."
"That, my lady, shall never be a difficult task."
The light banter trailed away, and he lay there, half on top of her, half off, connected from shoulders to toes. His palm massaged her breast, his thigh lazed on her mound, his foot tickled her knee and calf. She was caressing him, and already he was wondering how he'd ever survived without her hot hands on his fevered skin. He needed her touch as he needed the very air he breathed!