by Cheryl Holt
She removed her robe, easing it off so that it slid down and pooled in a pile of green silk at her ankles. Then the negligee followed. Almost as if she knew he was watching, as if she’d planned to torment and tease his male sensibilities, she worked the narrow straps down, over her breast, her hips, then she slithered this way and that. The garment undulated, then whooshed past her buttocks, her legs.
He blinked. Blinked again. He gulped. She was completely naked! His heart pounded in his chest, his cock vibrated against the placket of his pants.
Chivalry required that he look away, that he sneak out and pretend he’d never seen her, or that he make some noise to announce himself, yet he couldn’t force himself to action. He was frozen, rooted to his spot, and indiscreetly spying like the lowest cad.
She grabbed her hair and wound it into a knot, balancing the exquisite mass on the top of her head while she secured it with combs. With her hair up, her backside was fully visible and, in silence, he exulted in the spectacle, careful not to give himself away.
Rubbing his phallus, he sought to reduce some of the torment she was inflicting unaware. Every time she fussed with a comb, she twisted to the side, providing him with a profile of her body, and he could study her all the way down. Chest, ribs, hipbone, thigh. Her breasts were ample and inviting, the nipples taut and jutting out.
Seductively, she spun toward the tub, which gave him an entire frontal glimpse of her torso. She was flawless, perfectly created for a man such as himself to corrupt. He allowed his torrid scrutiny to travel downward, from her breast to her belly to her mound. Her cushion of womanly hair was as golden as the hair on her head, and he could imagine bending before her, delving into her with his finger, with his tongue.
If he but dared, he could be her first. He could invade her pilfered boudoir and demand his husbandly due. She wouldn’t be able to refuse him, nor would she try. Despite their dubious agreement, she was well raised and recognized her duties as a wife.
How sweet it would be to tantalize and explore! To sample and relish! Her virginal sheath would be a tight, lush haven. He would coax and cajole, persuade and beguile, until he had her writhing and crying out his name.
She would submit, but her surrender would be languid and luxurious.
As he was an accomplished lover, he’d had a succession of refined, worldly paramours join him in his bed. He knew how to introduce her to pleasure, could tutor and inveigle her to heights of passion that she, in her chaste state, could never have envisioned. It would take weeks—nay, months—to thoroughly indoctrinate her into carnality and vice.
The notion was so tempting, so provoking. All he need do was brave that initial step, and she would be his. Forever.
He’d always eschewed the idea of permanence with a woman, but as he tarried, peering at his enchanting, desirable wife, nude and preparing to slip into her bath, the concept of perpetuity didn’t seem so bad.
What would he be giving up? A cadre of friends who weren’t close? A string of blue-blooded women who were little more than whores? So far, he’d only viewed the onus presented by her arrival. He’d failed to reflect upon the benefits, and there abruptly appeared to be many.
She lifted her foot to clamber into the tub, and he tensed, zealously observing, when she halted. He’d thought himself to be hidden in the shadows but, apparently, he’d been detected.
Their gazes linked and held. For a split second, he considered running from the room, escaping to loll in his old life, but something had him locked in place. He couldn’t have left if wild horses had been dragging him away.
With a drive that bordered on madness, he had to know what it would be like to take her in his arms.
He walked to the door, pushed it wide, and entered.
* * * *
Brazen as an ancient, conquering Viking, Stephen marched over the threshold. He snuggled himself to her, so their bodies aligned, so close that she could smell the starch in his shirt and the soap with which he’d bathed. His shoe was wedged between her feet. The lapels of his coat brushed her stomach.
He was fully clothed, fitted out to the nines, while she was naked as the day she’d been born. It took every ounce of fortitude she possessed to keep from crossing her hands over her breasts and her lower womanly regions.
She met his sweltering glare with one of her own, refusing to have him assume she was timid or disturbed because, in reality, she wasn’t alarmed in the slightest. Thrilled, yes. Discomfited by his height and audacity, yes. Uneasy at having him behold her nudity, yes.
But she wasn’t scared.
He looked like a predator that had swooped upon its prey, and his gaze rudely meandered down her anatomy, lingering on her breasts and her mound. Then he traveled up, languidly, indecently appraising every aspect of what she’d willingly displayed for his enjoyment and enticement.
“This is my dressing room,” he caustically pointed out. “What are you doing in here?”
“I’m about to take a bath.”
“Your bedchamber is down the hall.”
“I know.”
“Why aren’t you in it?”
“I’m having the suite remodeled, so I had the housekeeper move my things. Just until the work is completed.” Valiantly, she strove to seem free of devious intent, but she needed to regain her equilibrium, so she sauntered away—from his stern scowl, his domineering presence—and casually strolled to the dressing table.
“How long will that be?” he asked.
“A few months, I’d guess.”
“A few months!”
“Yes.”
She bent over, peering into the mirror and examining her face, when it dawned on her that she was furnishing him with an exceptionally naughty sight. Her bare bottom was sticking out, her thighs spread, the muscles taut and tight down the backs of her legs. His reflection was visible in the glass, though she doubted he’d noted it, and she paused, scrutinizing him, curious as to what he’d do next.
He was directly behind her, by the tub but transfixed, his attention riveted on her. The wanton position had impelled him to a higher vigilance, and he missed no detail. Furtively, she clutched the dressing table, buttressing herself so she wouldn’t nervously jump up and end the prurient spectacle before he was finished.
Stalking toward her, he traversed the floor in three quick strides. He reached out to seize her hips, but she straightened before his hands descended. She was too modest to have him touch her there so soon. Acting as if being naked was an ordinary occurrence was arduous enough. She wasn’t about to allow him to manhandle her before she’d been kissed.
She needed more time to adapt.
He had her jammed against the dressing table, so she couldn’t ward him off or escape. Her thigh and hip were crammed between his legs, and she could feel the protrusion in his pants that attested to how much he lusted after her.
The discovery should have been a victory, but she couldn’t celebrate. She was panicked, her virginal naïveté rearing up and causing her to tremble.
Oh, how she hoped he hadn’t perceived her quavering! She couldn’t let him detect how apprehensive she was. Lest she lose this first round in their battle of wills, she had to maintain her cool façade of sophistication and shamelessness.
“I don’t want you sharing this room with me,” he said.
“I promise I won’t be a bother.” Smiling, she endeavored to be flirtatious, even though she wasn’t very adept at coquetry. “You’ll scarcely notice I’m about.”
“Not bloody likely,” he muttered, and he flexed his hips, further trapping her against the furniture, his titillation increasingly manifest.
Astoundingly, he commenced fondling her breast, massaging the mound and the elongated tip so that it peaked into a painful bud. She inhaled sharply, and her stomach clenched, but other than those minor recoils, she stood tall, imperious, comporting herself as though strange men caressed her breasts as a matter of course.
“What game are you playing?” he barked
.
“I play no game with you,” she haughtily alleged. “I’m merely seeing to my nocturnal ablutions. You’ve interrupted me, sir.”
“I’m not a buffoon, Ellen. Don’t toy with me.” His hand slithered to her other breast, and he gripped the nipple between finger and thumb, pressing it so that she could feel a jerking motion in her womb.
“I’m not trifling with you, and you need not tarry. You may be off to your evening of women and frolic.”
His fingers weaved through her hair, yanking out the combs that had secured it to her head, and it swished down. He wrapped much of the lengthy mane around his fist and used it as leverage to tilt her back. Obviously, he was trying to intimidate her—with his size, with his proximity—and he was succeeding. He was balanced over her, his mouth inches away, his angry brown eyes searching hers for secrets he couldn’t decipher.
As he contemplated her, he kept on with the manipulation of her nipple, squeezing it severely, though never enough to hurt.
“Perhaps I won’t go out.” He thrust his loins against her. “Perhaps I’d rather stay here.”
Her heart did a flip-flop, and she yearned to throw her arms around him, to close the space between them and impertinently put her lips on his, but she managed circumspection. She wouldn’t relent until she was positive he was far past the juncture where he could stop himself.
“I’m perfectly capable of washing myself,” she said. “I require no assistance.”
“I believe you’ll have to forego your bath.”
He rotated her so she was facing him, so her rear was braced on the dressing table, the wood digging into her buttocks. Deftly, he’d pushed her legs apart and finagled himself between her thighs. The nap of his trousers scratched her tender skin, and the friction began to stimulate the feminine areas of her body. At her center, she was growing damp.
His grip on her hair hadn’t slackened, and he leaned even nearer. “Do you have any idea what happens between a man and a woman when they’re alone?”
“Yes,” she cheekily declared.
He tensed, overtly stunned by her response. “Are you a virgin, madam?”
“What an uncouth boor you are to pose such an indelicate question.”
“I would hear your answer.” Incensed by the prospect that she might not be, he clasped her shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “Tell me!”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“Really? Do you have a fervent wish to be ravished? Or have you already been?”
She was determined to remain aloof and detached which, under the circumstances, was extremely difficult.
“I’m twenty-five years old,” she stated with a shrug. She was treading on a perilous ledge, but despite what she might say or do, he’d never abuse her physically. “Are you vain enough to suppose that you’re the only man who’s ever captured my fancy?”
When his brows quirked up, she knew that was precisely what he’d surmised. Most likely, he inferred that he’d been doing her a colossal favor by lowering himself to wed her. Arrogant, presumptuous Englishman! They’d all postulated that she was some shrewish, homely harridan who’d only been able to snag a spouse because of her father’s fortune.
Pride and ire renewed her resolve and restored her lagging courage.
“I had better be,” he warned.
“Or what?”
He bristled but didn’t reply, so she persisted. “How could my chastity—or lack of it—possibly signify? You’re not interested in a sexual relationship with me anyway. You made your feelings explicitly clear from the outset.”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind, and I’ve decided to impose a few wifely obligations upon you.”
They would be no great burden, she longed to shout, but she bit her tongue.
She wanted him to embrace her, to take them to the next level—their asinine agreement be damned. He was holding her in his arms, but it was with an odd, confused sort of exasperation, as though he wasn’t sure whether to kiss her or spank her.
Tugging on her hair, he dragged her backward so he could survey her bosom and privates. Then he dipped down, and she was certain he was finally going to kiss her. Instead, he nuzzled under her chin and licked her neck, right where her pulse beat so furiously, and she couldn’t stifle a yelp of astonishment.
His lips were soft and warm, and he used them to marvelous effect, nibbling and biting her skin.
As he dabbled at her nape, his fingers crept down her chest, her stomach, until they arrived at the curly hair shielding her core. With no finesse or preparation, he slipped them inside her, and a cry of amazement and shock whizzed out of her lungs.
On discerning it, the cad chuckled, and she felt her cheeks flush bright red. Her foremost, unavoidable reaction was to scoot away, to press her legs together, so she might halt the exotic incursion, but he had her splayed wide and crowded between himself and the dressing table. She couldn’t evade the onslaught.
He stroked back and forth, exploring, delving in, then sliding out. Quivering, she was awhirl with dozens of peculiar sensations she’d never formerly endured. She wanted him to desist; she wanted him to continue on forever.
“You’re wet for me, my darling bride.” Abandoning his perch at her neck, he nipped upward to her cheek, which sent shivers down her arms, but just when he would have reached her lips, he pulled away, resting his hands on her thighs, and his fingertips were moist from where he’d touched her.
“Should I take you here? Against the dressing table?” He steadied her hips and thrust against her in a slow, repetitive rhythm. “Is that how you like it? Is that what you’re angling for? Something rough and wild? Or should I take you to my bed and fuck you there?”
Though she was a virgin, she was hardly an innocent. She’d heard the crude word before, and she was repulsed that he would utter it in her presence. His disrespect was an indicator of how she’d misread the situation. She’d thought to attract him—with her nudity, with her budding ardor that had been developing since she’d first seen him—but he’d regarded her overture as a sign of base character.
“I wouldn’t lie down with you now. Not when you’re being such a horse’s ass.”
“You will if I command it.”
He sounded stern, and he looked like a vicious adversary, but she was derisive. “You don’t scare me, so don’t try.”
“I don’t scare you?” he needled. “I should.”
He took her hand and brazenly deposited it on his distended phallus. It was prodding at his trousers as though it might burst the seams. The appendage was enormous, much larger than she’d imagined, and though Alice had insisted it would easily fit into her sheath, she couldn’t comprehend how.
Alice had told her what to do with it, how to handle it, and what he would like, but this encounter was too unusual, and she was at a loss as to how to proceed. Her hand lay there, limp and unequipped for any endeavor, so he grabbed it and applied pressure, rubbing himself with the heel and using it to assuage the aroused tip.
“I’m a lusty man. I’ll ride you like a stallion.” She cringed with trepidation, and he smirked. “Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that why you’re prancing around naked in my private quarters?”
“I was minding my own business until you barged in.”
“Come now,” he cajoled, “let’s be honest with one another.” He hovered over her, forcing her back until her head was flattened to the mirror. He evaluated her, his gaze deceptively beguiling, his smile oozing false charm. “You’re eager for an indiscreet romp with the viscount you purchased with all your lovely money.”
“You flatter yourself. I’d never submit to a libertine such as yourself. I’d rather have a nice, quiet bath.”
“Liar.”
Narrowing the distance between them, he took her mouth in a stormy kiss. She parted her lips to register a protest, and he invaded with his tongue, plunging in as though it was his due, his lordly privilege. He crushed her loins to his so he could dazzle her
with the tempo of his phallus.
Her primary response was of awe and surprise, and she stiffened, but only for a moment. Before their wedding, she’d incessantly pondered what it would be like to be kissed by him, and she was ecstatic to report that the reality was much more extraordinary than any fantasy she’d been able to concoct.
As she was twenty-five, she’d been kissed occasionally, but the handful of tepid gropings, instigated by vapid, indecisive swains, were nothing compared to this. Now that she’d been kissed by Stephen St. John, she wouldn’t describe what she’d previously done as kissing.
This was zeal and tumult, fire and fury. His heart and soul were laid bare. He was a tempest, a gale of agitation and frustration, and she folded her arms around him and hugged him, needing to hold on to something solid as the turbulence raged.
His mouth molded to hers, and his hands were everywhere, seeking and investigating her shoulders, arms, back, and chest. He dallied with her breasts, adeptly massaging the tender nubs until they were raw and inflamed and her womanly core began to weep with building desire. His fingers glided down, stretching and entering her once again, and his thumb toyed with her, bringing her exultant pleasure.
Shamed as she was to admit it, she was no stranger to the pinnacle that was approaching. In the dark of night, when she was horridly lonely, she knew how to slake herself, but the exhilaration she inflicted was paltry when weighed against such rapture. He was magic, his divine fingers wielding a wicked spell.
Ablaze, she was about to be swept away, and she frantically tamped down on her burgeoning need for release. Fighting it, she struggled to hide her dynamic escalation. He was too experienced with women. He’d know instantly if she’d found gratification, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Not when his worst traits were being exhibited.
Just when she could tolerate no more, when she was sure she was about to embarrass herself, he jerked away and stepped back, disengaging from her, and she nearly cried out at the deprivation. She was at the brink, teeming with the need for satiation, and it was all she could do to keep from begging him to let her finish. He was taut as a bow string, his muscles straining and about to snap. His phallus had swelled to a gigantic length so his trousers were tented and full. He poked at the front, trying to allay the confinement.