Further Than Passion

by Cheryl Holt

"You didn't ask. You commanded, and I told you I wouldn't obey."

  "So I decided to stop by your room, instead." He gestured around. "Isn't this cozy? Just the two of us? Together?" He deposited the wine and glasses on the dresser.

  "How did you slither in?'

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  "The door was unlocked"—he retrieved the key and jangled it—"and if it hadn't been, I was prepared."

  "Get out! At once!"

  "No."

  "You can't barge in."

  "I already have."

  "I'll complain to Lady Pamela."

  An idle threat. She couldn't risk others being apprised of his visit. "It's my house. Pamela resides in it at my discretion. I'm the king of this drafty castle, and I can do whatever I choose inside the walls."

  "You are the most spoiled man I've ever met."

  He laughed and went to the bed, sat on the edge, and bounced, testing the firmness of the mattress. "Are your accommodations acceptable?"

  "Very. Thank you for inquiring. Now go!"

  "Because I can have you moved, if you'd like."

  "Don't you dare! The last thing I need is your taking an interest in me."

  "That would create all sorts of trouble for you, wouldn't it?"

  "Yes, and you've done enough."

  "And I'm afraid I plan to do even more."

  He assessed the furnishings. It was a small chamber, snug yet plain, and too ordinary for how unique he deemed her to be. With a nod to the housekeeper, he could have Kate transferred, but she was correct: A directive from him would be deadly for her.

  Besides, there was an advantage to her current location. It was a simple jaunt from his room to hers, so trysting would be easy, the chance of detection nil.

  She glared at him with no effect, so she stomped to the wardrobe. Desperate to cover herself, she grabbed

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  a luxurious robe that matched her negligee. He wasn't about to have her donning more apparel, and he rushed over to prevent her before she could draw it on. The fabric was as exquisite as it looked, and he stroked it, the cool material gliding along his skin.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking."

  "It never crossed my mind that you might have."

  Mutinously, she claimed, "It was my mother's."

  Which meant she must have previously had a family of some affluence. What had happened to lay her low? It was a fascinating detail to probe later, but for the moment, he had more captivating aspects to unravel.

  "She must have been very beautiful."

  "She was."

  He tossed the robe on the floor, and she didn't fight him. Scowling, she watched him as one might a dangerous predator, and she was wise to be wary. Where she was concerned, he felt capable of any nefarious conduct.

  He leaned down to kiss her ruby lips. For the briefest second, she allowed the contact; then she turned away, and he grazed her cheek, her ear.

  "Stop tormenting me," she whispered. "Please."

  "You're so damned sweet. How can I resist?"

  Shrugging, he was unable to further justify his mischief. Any coquette in London would gladly entertain him, so he couldn't explain why he persisted. A female of lesser morals would be so much more amenable to seduction.

  At his refusal to go, she was so forlorn, and he couldn't bear that she was unhappy. She brought him an odd joy, and he was eager for her to experience the

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  same contentment. They shared a special connection, which they needed to explore, and he intended to pursue her until he could comprehend it.

  "What do you want from me?" she implored.

  "Aside from terrific sexual relations?"

  "Yes. Aside from that."

  She blushed so furiously that he was certain she was a virgin. What if she was? Could he ruin her? Should he?

  Though he had many faults, he wasn't that much of a cad. Yet he was convinced that being intimate with her would be a life-altering event. When something so marvelous could occur, what point was served by passing it up?

  He yearned to have her smiling, but he wasn't sure how to cheer her. Her pot of tea was on the dresser, and he went to it.

  "Is this tea?"

  "Yes."

  He lifted the lid and sniffed. "It smells peculiar. What have you put in it?"

  "If you must know, I added a restorative. I've been under the weather."

  "Since when?"

  "Since I met you."

  He picked up the envelope of powder, and she sprinted to him, determined to snatch it away, when he made an exaggerated fumbling motion and dropped it. The granules spilled and filtered into the weave of the rug.

  "Oh no!" she keened. "Now see what you've done."

  Falling to her knees, she tried to scoop it up, but the particles were impossible to salvage. She peered up at

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  him, so distressed that he almost felt sorry for behaving like such an ass. Almost. He was too charmed by how each and every expression flitted across her pretty face.

  "And what's this?" He grabbed the vial and held it toward the candle. The liquid appeared to be red wine, and he wondered if it was.

  "It's for... for treating women's ailments."

  "Really? Are you suffering?" He studied her bewitching figure, his gaze taking a leisurely journey across her breasts. "From feminine ailments, that is? You look fine to me."

  She blushed another delicious shade of red, and he wedged out the cork, which panicked her. "Give it to me, Marcus! Don't joke about this."

  He hoisted the bottle out of her reach, and she stretched and struggled, attempting to seize it. Their wrestling forced her to press herself to him, and he could discern every delectable inch of her torso. She was rounded yet slender, curved in all the right spots, and they fit together perfectly.

  Sparks were flying, the air electrified by their proximity. He hugged her close, his naughty fingers creeping to her bottom, the gesture flattening her loins to his. His phallus reacted, growing rigid as stone, and he flexed into her.

  She might be an innocent, but when his body moved with hers, she froze and gasped with surprise.

  "You feel it, too, don't you?" he queried.

  "No," she lied.

  "It's meant to be, Kate." He was echoing the words of the apothecary, and she blanched. Had the man said the same to her?

  He tipped the vial and swallowed down the contents,

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  and it wasn't wine as he'd supposed, but something more earthy, more sugary.

  "Marcus, no!" She lunged, but he'd finished it off.

  "I love it when you call me Marcus."

  Immediately, his arms were heavy. They slumped to his sides, and she yanked the vial away.

  "I can't believe you drank it!" she wailed. "Why would you? Are you insane?"

  "Let's have some wine, shall we? There's nothing happening between us that a bit of intoxication can't solve."

  "I don't need inebriation! I need privacy, and solitude, and ... and ... and ..."

  To his mortification, tears swarmed into her eyes. He couldn't stand to witness her dolor, so he walked over and poured the wine. His legs were sluggish, but his senses were more acute. Colors were brighter, odors stronger, sounds louder and more apparent. He actually thought he could hear a clock ticking on the floor below.

  Perhaps the elixir was a narcotic, after all. He was no stranger to opiates and other soporifics. They were often distributed at the wild parties he was wont to attend, but while they induced pleasant stupors, none of them had ever so severely tuned his perception.

  He turned toward her, and she was staring out the window. She was glowing, encompassed in a golden halo, her scarlet tresses radiating with a warm fire, and he experienced such a profound wave of joy that his chest ached. He felt as if his heart were enlarging, as if it no longer fit under his ribs. The ice in which it had been encased for so many years was melting, the droplets sweeping away in a refreshin
g flood.

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  Here she is! a voice blissfully proclaimed, and he was overwhelmed by a certainty that he'd been waiting for her forever, without his realizing he had been, and that his destiny had finally arrived. A rapid display of visions flashed, scenes from eras gone by, of the two of them together throughout many previous lifetimes.

  Perturbed by the drug's powerful effects, he shook his head, trying to clear it. He had to keep his wits about him, for in his confused condition, there was no telling what he might say or do.

  Needing to be with her, to touch her, he came up behind her, but she continued to gaze outside. He was so attuned to her that he could read her mind, and so many details were obvious.

  She had always been solitary, isolated. She was pining to love and be loved, to find someone who cherished her. She was so lonely, so starved for companionship and affection.

  As to himself, she was titillated by his interest in her, but afraid, too, worried that he would harm her, that her tender heart would never mend. Smiling, he gripped her waist and spun her so that she was facing him. She was silent, morose, and he snuggled her to him and kissed her forehead. "I won't hurt you. I swear it."

  "I can't imagine you'll do anything else."

  "I won't," he contended, desperate to reassure her. "I... I..."

  Bewildered and unsettled, he stopped. He'd almost declared that he loved her, which couldn't be. He didn't love anyone. He never would. He knew better.

  It was the potion talking, and he was amazed by its ability to muddle. No wonder Kate was disturbed enough to seek an antidote.

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  "Come," he coaxed. He linked their fingers and led her to the bed.

  Resigned, she followed, and he reposed, then tugged her down on top of him. They'd traveled beyond the point where she could dissuade him. He jerked the ribbon from her hair, freeing it, and the auburn locks flowed over her shoulder like a crimson waterfall.

  He eased her down, her breasts in contact with his chest, her nipples poking into him like shards of glass. The fabric of her negligee was so thin that it seemed as if she were naked. His phallus hardened further, pulsating with a renewed urgency.

  "You're so intent on your pursuit of me," she ventured.

  "Yes."

  "To what end?"

  "I don't know."

  He rolled them so mat she was beneath him, and he paused, recognizing that he'd dreamed this very moment. He could visualize everything that would transpire, how the encounter would progress, how it would conclude.

  At least, he assumed he could. The fiendish concoction had him so befuddled that he couldn't attest to what was real and what wasn't.

  "Have you lain with a man before, Kate?"

  She snorted. "Dozens and dozens of them. Gentlemen beat a path to my door. I can't chase them away with a stick."

  "Have you any idea what I desire from you?"

  "No."

  Except that she'd been in his room, had seen him with Pamela. So she had some notion.

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  Feeling like a virgin, learning his way, he kissed her. She was so unique, so fine, and he was so enamored. He was terrified that he'd proceed too fast, that he'd demand too much, that he would scare her with his burgeoning passion. He'd planned for every second to be extraordinary, and he had to show her how much he treasured her. But how?

  His paramours never mattered to him. He wasn't concerned with their happiness, yet with her, he was like a lad with his first girl.

  He deepened the embrace, his tongue flicking at her bottom lip. Asking. Asking again. She opened and welcomed him inside, and he toyed and played, teased and tormented. He caressed her everywhere, and tentatively her arms folded around him. She was eager to caress him in return, but hesitant as to whether she should.

  "It's all right to touch me, Kate. I like it."

  "You make me want to be so wicked."

  "I've never considered a tad of wickedness to be a bad trait in a female."

  "You wouldn't."

  She joined in, her fervor exhilarating and enchanting. She dallied with the wantonness of a courtesan, but the naturalness and curiosity of a sheltered maid. The incongruity drove him wild.

  Exploring, she sifted her fingers through his hair, ran them across his shoulders and back, but she wasn't brave enough to dip any further. The expectation, the yearning for what she might do, was careening him to a fevered ledge.

  In no time at all, he was too aroused to be prudent, and he worried that he'd instigate something reckless,

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  something irreversible. Was he bent on deflowering her? Could he steal her chastity, here and now, with scarcely an instant of deliberation or preparation? Was she ready? Was he?

  He clasped the strap of her negligee and slid it down, baring the creamy swell of her bosom. Her breast was exposed, her erect nipple jutting out, and he pinched it, squeezing lightly.

  "Oh, Marcus ... we shouldn't... we can't... you don't..."

  "We can do whatever we please, Kate. There's no one to tell us no."

  "But it's wrong."

  "It's not wrong."

  "It's the tincture you drank."

  "I thought you said it's used for treating womanly ailments."

  Caught in a lie, she stammered, "Well... well... it is, but it's obviously causing you to behave irrationally."

  "You regard making love to be irrational?”

  "It is when you're so fixated on me as your partner!"

  "Are you trying to persuade yourself that I need to imbibe of a potion before you'd captivate me?" He grinned. "You're so perfect, Kate. And all mine."

  "I don't understand what you want from me," she protested miserably.

  "Yes, you do."

  Abandoning her mouth, he blazed a trail down her neck, her chest, to her nipple. He licked and laved it, then he suckled her, and he couldn't believe how the action calmed him, how it pacified and comforted.

  "Oh, oh yes ..." She sighed, and she seemed to add, "I dreamed of this...."

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  He wasn't certain he'd heard her correctly. Had they experienced the same erotic reverie? Was it possible? Or was it merely another baffling consequence of the drug?

  She drew him closer, urging him to feast. He bit and nibbled, until the extended tip was moist and inflamed; then he shifted to her other breast and gave it the same fierce attention.

  Down below, he was pressing into her, letting her discern how hard he was, how desperately he desired her, and she adopted his tempo, her hips working with his in a furious rhythm. Her ardor was spiraling, and he was anxious to push her to the edge, to shove her over.

  He started inching up her nightgown, and she was so overwhelmed that she didn't notice what he was about until he arrived at the vee of her thighs.

  "Marcus, no!" She attempted to scoot away, but he locked his leg over hers and held her tight.

  "Relax, Kate. Let me do this for you." He cupped her, shpping two fingers far inside. She was wet, primed for what was coming, and weeping into his hand.

  She arched up and moaned. "Don't. It's too... too..."

  "Naughty? Delicious?"

  "Yes. I can't bear it."

  With his thumb, he jabbed at her sexual center, and she yelped with surprise, her anatomy struggling toward the end, even as her mind wrenched her away.

  "What's happening to me?" she managed to gasp.

  "It's pleasure, darling."

  "I don't want this from you."

  "You may not, but your body is begging for it."

  "I can't," she wailed. "I won't."

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  "For me, Kate. Do it for me."

  He touched her once, again, as he sucked at her nipple, and she cried out and leapt over the precipice with a ferocity he hadn't encountered with any of his prior paramours. He was convinced it was her first orgasm, and he was ecstatic to have spurred her to such riotous turmoil.

  The agitation went on and on, and finally, it peaked and waned. He moved ove
r her, and kissed her, softly, tenderly, thrilled that she trusted him enough to spin out of control, to grasp that she could when she was with him.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and he wasn't positive what he expected—perhaps a maidenly sigh, or one of her pithy remarks—but instead, she studied him, then burst into tears.

  "What's this?" he inquired, his heart reeling, and he grabbed the quilt and swiped them away.

  "Was that feminine passion?"

  "A very dramatic example."

  "I'm loose, aren't I?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Do you suppose it's in my blood?"

  "I'm sure it is."

  He was joking, but she was devastated, and a protracted bout of weeping ensued. Throughout the deluge, he cuddled with her, whispering soothing words, and he was amazed that he would.

  He'd never before comforted a distraught woman, because he wouldn't have been inclined to remain through a display of histrionics. A female's emotional situation had no impact on his relationship with her,

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  and thus, she wouldn't be welcome, in his presence, to vent her anger or hurt

  As he was special to no one, no one would dare impose on him, and it occurred to him that it was a sorry statement on the condition of his life. He was so isolated, and previously, his separateness hadn't bothered him. He'd liked his independent existence, but he was lonely, and there was a contentment in consoling Kate that he hadn't known he'd missed.

  They were scarcely acquainted, yet she was rendering striking changes in how he carried on, in how he viewed himself. A flicker of excitement sparked within. Maybe he wasn't the cold, callous man others presumed him to be.

  Eventually, her outburst diminished, her breathing slowed, and she dozed, which was another high spot for him. When he was philandering, he never dawdled after lusts were sated.

  He lay very still, cataloging every detail of the precious moment. Her negligee was askew, and he tugged it down and covered her with the blankets. She was so exhausted that she didn't stir, and he brushed a kiss across her lips.

  "Good night, my dear Kate," he murmured. "I'll see you on the morrow."

  As if she'd heard and understood the comment, she smiled in her sleep.