Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  It was her last coherent thought. Her vision blurred, and feeling blind and dizzy, she groped her way to the nearest shelter—the wardrobe—and climbed inside, parting the dresses hung on the rod and secreting herself among them. The door banged shut, and Abigail was safe inside in the dark.

  This particular wardrobe had a secret. She tried to remember who had told her that. She had a feeling it was someone very important. She pushed hard against the back of the wardrobe and the wall slid away. Abigail tumbled out into a different place.

  “Ups-a-daisy,” said a familiar voice, as two strong arms seemed to pluck her out of thin air and set her on her feet. The wardrobe door banged shut, and she was suddenly standing in a room the exact mirror of her own. Two hands turned her around, and she found herself face to face with a flesh-and-blood Caravaggio.

  Cary’s skin gleamed like copper in the firelight. He was completely naked. His skin was the same warm bronze all over and his male part was badly in need of a few fig leaves. Cary himself seemed completely unaware of his uncovered state, and Abigail felt decidedly guilty for imagining him like that. All the same, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him.

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he murmured, folding her in his arms. The warmth of his naked body seemed to pass right through her skin, and all at once, he was kissing her and she was kissing him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t shock her at all to realize that she was naked, too. They might have been Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. After all, it was a dream. In the dream her body fitted his exactly.

  “Angel!” she murmured breathlessly, as his mouth wandered hungrily down her neck.

  “Don’t worry about the dog. The dog is fine. You might worry about me, however,” he went on petulantly. “After all, I nearly died. Saving you, you ungrateful little baggage.”

  “But I meant you,” she said fervently, clinging to him. “I meant you. It was always you. Cary, I was so afraid you were dead. You’re not, are you? You’re not a ghost?”

  “Do I feel like a ghost?” he asked, taking her hand and guiding it to the center of his chest, where his heart beat reassuringly.

  “No,” she admitted. “You feel alive.”

  “If I were mere fallacy of vision, could I do this?”

  Abigail had never thought of herself as a person endowed with a powerful imagination, but now she could imagine anything and everything. She could taste him as he kissed her. Honey and whisky. She could feel the muscles of his arms hardening around her like bands of iron. She could even imagine the way he smelled, like shavings of cedarwood left on a warm grate. She could hear every sweet word he murmured. He was invested to the hilt in each and every one of her senses. She could see, hear, smell, taste, and touch nothing else. It was as if she were possessed by him. Not content to melt her from without, he had moved in, under her skin, melting even her bones. The barest whisper, the tiniest flick of his tongue, had the power to permeate her entire body. There was nothing to do but cling to him, offer herself to him.

  “If I were a ghost, could I do this?” Cary scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Abigail closed her eyes and fell into a cloud of feathers, landing softly in the warm nest, but when she opened her eyes he was still there. Grinning devilishly, he climbed onto the bed after her, his legs tangling with hers. “Look at me,” he said, slapping his hard, flat belly. “Did you ever see a more corporeal being in your life? Feel that. That’s all muscle, my girl.”

  Abigail had never seen a naked man before, only statues, and the cold white marble sculptures of Canova had not prepared her for the splendor of this living man. As if compelled by a higher power, her small hands reached for him. Against his golden brown skin, they looked a travesty, small, pale, freckled. His torso was like carved marble covered in warm, brown velvet. He moved as unself-consciously as a satyr in the woodlands, and smiled at her indulgently as she stroked him tentatively.

  “You do seem real,” she whispered. Yet, she knew, he could not be. She was imagining this magical creature, as she had imagined the whispering wind on the other side of the wardrobe. Except that this was so much better than any dream she had ever before experienced.

  Real or not, it was impossible not to touch him. Indeed she could not get enough of him. His muscles, finer than any carved in marble by human hands, leaped as she trailed her fingers over the contours of his torso. Surely, not even Cary, the man she adored, could be so perfect.

  As if reading her thoughts, the hallucination said proudly, “Madam, you will search in vain for a soft spot on this body. Not an ounce of fat or weakness will you find anywhere. Hard riding and hard wenching have been the making of me,” he added, winking at her.

  Obviously, her dream had modeled his fine body on those of the figures she had seen in sculpture gardens and museums, inventing for her the perfect man, a lover who could only live in her imagination. As she imagined, so he was. But why had she endowed him with that odd, truncheon-like object between his finely muscled legs? She’d never seen one of those on a statue. And why, oh, why did he have to talk like a conceited braggart? The real Cary, of course, probably did live a life of idle dissipation, wenching and drinking and gambling, but such realism had no place in her dream. The real Cary made her nervous. So nervous that, despite her intense attraction for him, she always felt an irresistible desire to run away from him.

  “It’s not fair, you know,” she said wistfully. “You’re so beautiful. It turns me into a complete idiot. I wish I were beautiful like you. I wish I could make someone feel about me the way I feel about you. Not fair, Cary.”

  He chuckled softly, and gently pushed the curls out of her eyes. “And I wish you could see what I see, my beautiful Smith. Dearest, loveliest Smith. If you were slathered in slippery honey, I vow I could swallow you whole. Where did you get such pretty peaches?”

  “Don’t,” she begged. “Don’t make a joke of it. It makes me sad.”

  Instantly, he became what she wanted, intense and serious. His eyes were warm. “What do you need from me?” he asked gently.

  “Just love me,” she said helplessly, tears standing in her eyes.

  Because this was a dream, he understood her perfectly, while the real Cary would have tormented her into hysterics. Instead, they communicated like two angels, by thought, by a touch that was scarcely physical it ran so deep. Because this was wholly imaginary, Abigail was neither shy nor awkward. The feelings that he aroused in her did not frighten her. They seemed natural, as if she had been making love to him a thousand years. Because he had made her body with his hands, she could not be ashamed of it. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful, desirable, worthy. His dark, magical hands melted all barriers between them, caressing the soft peaks of her breasts, cupping her soft bottom as he drank the sweetness flowing from her like a river of honey. Her body melted slowly, like wax in the sun, while he supped like a cloud of lazy bees. At first everything was drowsy and golden. He drew her in, trapping her senses in a charm of easy pleasure, before together they began the slow, maddening ascent to a joy so cruel, so fleeting, and so intense that it sears as much as it pleases.

  He was masterful, this man she had created. She imagined that he kissed and caressed her for hours, neglecting no part of her. The faintest touch, a kiss whispered behind her knee, the flick of his tongue, a chuckle, could magnify the pleasure she felt as his hand quietly and firmly caressed her between the legs. As though swimming through a tide, her body strained to meet his, and like wild water broken up by immortal rock, she moaned softly as she broke in his arms. He knew exactly how to give her the most pleasure. Time and again, he brought her up the scale, then back down, releasing her too soon, until she was writhing like a wounded thing. Each time, she thought she had reached the end of the world, but each time he would take her a little further, into some new, intoxicating realm, higher and higher, until finally, her body could bear the strain no longer. The last scrap of Abigail mel
ted away and the scent of honey filled all the world. She drowned in it, weeping hysterically, exhausted. She could imagine nothing more. “Perfection,” she breathed, sinking almost into unconsciousness.

  Cary chuckled softly, proud of himself. In the darkness, he crouched over her, his mouth swollen and red. Curiously, she touched it with her fingertips, feeling the words as they emerged from his lips. “That, my sweet, is only the beginning.”

  His teeth flashed like a wolf’s. The hard gleam in his eye startled her. Suddenly, she was Abigail again. Frightened, shy, awkward, stupid Abigail. In that moment she truly despised herself. She could not even dream properly. Even in dreams, the lusty smile of a lover threw her into a blind panic. She sat up and tried to cover herself, but he was lying on the sheets, displaying himself quite shamelessly. She began to babble, hoping he would show mercy and let her go before she embarrassed herself further by bursting into tears.

  “Look here, Cary,” she said quickly. “I know this is going to sound a tiny bit odd, but there’s something in my room. It whispered at me. It–it frightened me. If it finds us here…I’m afraid of what it might do.” She jumped out of bed and, unable to get the sheets away from him, ran naked to the door. Somehow, he got there before she did. “It’s locked,” he informed her, leaning against it, the picture of insouciance.

  “How do you know?” she demanded, panting. “You haven’t tried.”

  “I know,” he said, blocking the way with his body.

  “Cary, you have to let me go,” she pleaded.

  He grinned incorrigibly. “If you like knobs, I’ve a nice one here for you.”

  Outraged, Abigail momentarily forgot her anxiety. “It’s not a knob,” she rebuked him. “It’s a lovely branch with a lovely plum on the end.”

  “And do you like plums?” he asked solicitously.

  He was standing in front of her now, so close that his sex knocked gently on her belly. He took her shoulders in his hands, which was a good thing since Abigail no longer trusted her legs to support her. He whipped her around and suddenly her back was against the door, the length of his body pressing her against it.

  “I tell you there’s something nasty in my room,” she repeated, trembling. “You don’t understand. I only came to tell you—No, that’s not right. I didn’t even know you were here.”

  “Didn’t know I was here,” he scoffed. “That’s rich. I know exactly what you came for, Smith, and you’re going to get it if it takes me all night. Look what you’ve done to me.” He took her hand and drew it slowly down his body. Abigail moaned as she felt what she had not dared to touch before. It was hotter and harder than any other part of him. “Feel what you do to me. Obviously, I’m in no condition to be teased. Give me an answer now. Yes or no?”

  “But what if it comes through the wardrobe?” she asked anxiously, even as, driven by instincts she did not know she had, her hand closed over the hot, solid shaft of flesh.

  “I understand your apprehension,” he replied, “but, really, it’s not that big.” He tried to encourage her hand to stroke him rather than hold him so passively, but Abigail missed the signal. Thinking he was pushing her away, she slowly withdrew her hand.

  “I meant the thing in my room,” she said unhappily, believing he no longer wanted her.

  “What about it?” he said, frowning at her. “Look, if you want to go, go. Try the knob.”

  Abigail looked at him, not moving. “It’s locked,” she whispered.

  He groaned as she took hold of him again. “Abigail, you are driving me insane,” he said in a strangled voice. “I beg of you, make up your mind, put me out of my misery. For God’s sake, let me have you.” He cursed as he again tried to teach her to stroke him and she again withdrew her hand. “This is absolutely the worst dream I have ever had!” he exclaimed.

  “Y-your dream?” she stammered. “There must be some mistake. This is my dream.”

  He looked at her so fiercely that she trembled. “No, monkey,” he said firmly. “This is my dream. My dream. I make the rules. I say we stop talking and go to bed at once.” Looking quite determined, he drove her ahead of him to the bed, Abigail stumbling back nervously.

  “Surely this is my dream,” she protested, even as her legs gave way and she fell backwards into bed. Hurriedly, she crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Mine,” he replied shortly, leaning over her to uncross her arms.

  “But how do you know it’s your dream? How do you know it’s not mine?”

  “If this were your dream, Smith, I strongly suspect we’d be wearing clothes and doing something sadly respectable,” he whispered, bringing his mouth swiftly down on her breast like a hawk seizing a dove. She gasped as his teeth grazed her tender nipple.

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” she said, struggling to breathe. “But, Cary, something very odd has happened to me. I seem to have developed an unquenchable physical desire for you. I’m sorry, but there it is. I keep wanting to touch you, wanting you to touch me.”

  “Very odd,” he agreed. “Considering you keep pulling away from me, you little tease!”

  “You keep pushing me away,” she accused angrily, sitting up.

  “Bollocks. You—” He caught his breath as her hand closed over him a little too tightly for comfort. “Gently, if you please. I am not pushing you away,” he explained. “I want you to move your hand.” This time, he caught her hand before it flew away. “Move it,” he clarified, “not remove it.” Covering her hand, he taught her the caressing motion. As she caught on, he closed his eyes and groaned softly. “There now. If this were your dream, would we be doing this? Would your little hand be moving up and down in this charming way?”

  Abigail bit her lip. “But we often do things in dreams we might not otherwise,” she pointed out. “If you knew what I was thinking right now—feeling right now—you’d run.”

  “Would I indeed? You interest me strangely.”

  “I want to do such things to you, things I could never ever do in real life. But here, in this place, there doesn’t seem to be anything to stop me,” she said, stroking him lovingly.

  He grunted, rocking back and forth on his heels as he stood before her. “I have changed my mind about the talking. You may speak at will, my dear Smith.”

  “You see?” she said, fascinated. “I can’t stop touching you. It’s as if I have lost all trace of my moral upbringing. I seem to have no inhibitions left at all. I want to rub myself all over you like a cat.” To her own amazement, her body did just that.

  Cary could bear no more. He fell on her, growling, “Definitely my dream.”

  Abigail swallowed hard as his weight pushed her deep into the feather mattress. “Are you sure? Because—”

  “I am thinking of a number, Smith,” he announced abruptly, raising himself up on his elbows. “One to ten.”

  “Why?” she asked, puzzled, and a little hurt. “It seems like an odd time for arithmetic.”

  “I am thinking of a number,” he repeated severely. “If this is your dream, you will know what that number is. Wrong!” he cried triumphantly when she guessed seven.

  “Just a moment,” Abigail said, scrabbling farther into the bed as he made a wild grab for her. She stopped when she reached the headboard of carved black oak. “I am thinking of a number, too. If this is your dream, sir, tell me: what is that number?”

  He laughed softly, crawling after her. “My dear girl, you are not thinking of a number. You are thinking about rubbing yourself all over me like a cat.”

  Abigail gasped. “How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?”

  “You told me,” he pointed out. “Besides, women don’t think about numbers when they are in bed with me.”

  “No,” she sighed.

  “Therefore it is my dream.”

  “Yes.”

  It was bad enough to be naked in one’s own dream. But to be naked in someone else’s was absolutely scandalous. Abigail could feel her whole body blushing. Even
by the warm glow of the firelight, her freckles stood out atrociously. She jumped for the bed curtains and hid behind them. “Cary,” she said fretfully. “Can you see me right now? As I am, I mean?”

  “Every delightful freckle,” he said, pursuing her to the bedpost and catching her in his arms, getting an armful of crewel-work for his trouble. “You’ve even got them on your bottom.” As he spoke, he was trying unsuccessfully to extricate her from the red and white curtains. Abigail refused to let go, bunching the material tightly in her hands. “You’re acting very strangely tonight, Smith,” he complained. “In fact, you’re letting me down. Is this the same woman who, only moments ago, gave in to my most secret and depraved desires? Good God, if I’ve had you once, I’ve had you twenty times. Now you suddenly turn up shy. Not fair, really.”

  Abigail’s heart sank. “Who is this woman?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you ask me to give in to your most secret and depraved desires?”

  He scowled. “Look here! I can still put you over my knee and paddle your behind! I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. Remember?”

  “No. You’re obviously thinking of someone else,” she said angrily. “Which is actually a bit rude, if you stop and think! How would you like it if I started thinking of another man right here in the middle of your dream?”

  “I am not thinking of anybody else,” he snapped. “I am thinking of you, Smith, whoever you are. I dream of you every night. It’s always been you, and you bloody well know it.”