by Lisa Torquay
The memory of her unconditional participation in said nights heated and angered her at the same time.
“I cannot claim to be perfect.” She breathed a derisive smirk.
“Indeed. But we want to make an heir, don’t we?” Why did it seem he was nearer? And why did the room temperature escalate? Scorching heat bloomed in her!
“We?” She managed to sound ironic.
He took the book from her hand, lowering his head to read the title, unhurriedly. He stood so close; she smelled his clean male scent.
He lifted his eyes again and locked with hers. “A child will strengthen your position as the Viscountess.” Now she registered the evening stubble darkening his manly face.
She squinted her eyes with suspicion. “Oh, I see. You want to get it done with it.”
Fire jetted from his dark eyes. “More like I want to do it.” He said suggestively.
Scalding humidness pooled in her, the mere connotation of the answer priming her. “So you can go your disgraceful way.” She attempted to ignore the urges her body signalised.
His intensity transmuted into fury. “Have you seen me ‘going my disgraceful way’ lately?”
She glared at him, unable even to breath. “No, but it won’t take long.” She filled her lungs in one quick breath. “This is who you are!”
He crossed his arm. “Are you so blind you cannot admit people change?”
Her arms tracked the table edge and held it for her life. “You? Change? You’re laughable!” She succeeded a dismissive smile.
His brow pleated irritably. “It is time you become open minded about it. I have no intention of repeating past mistakes!”
She lifted her chin to him. “Oh, so you do think it a mistake… progress to be sure.”
“Undoubtedly.” His muscled body cornered her. “Now let’s make more progress here.”
Something skimmed her stomach. Fervent blush flooded her at the perception it was his… Oh!
He laced her by the waist, their bodies glued, her breath caught. “Say you don’t want me.” He commanded hoarse.
She lifted her defiant eyes to his. “How can I want a degenerate?”
“You shrew!” He murmured like a caress. His hand covered her breast under the shawl. “Delectable shrew!”
Unable to prevent a sigh of pleasure, she sagged against the table. In no time, his hand sneaked up her legs and found her ready core under her camisole. A smug smile designed on his thin sensuous lips at the proof of her desire for him.
His arm elevated her to the table, their eyes meshed ensnaring, and her lungs lacked air. Those big hands bunched her nightgown up, in a light, tantalizing caress on her sensitive thighs. The pressure he exerted for her to lie down did not even need to be firm, she lay melting. How he did it, she would not know, but his stubble mouth found her core and…and… Dashing pleasure, so intense, it rendered her mute, converted in a mass of defeat and flames. She arched her back, mashing against his ravenous mouth, gripping the table edge, lest she fell in an abyss. He grazed, suckled, savoured, lapped. Ate!
Her thighs opened more, giving him more access, moaning indecently, as her temperature raised several degrees. She craved him inside her; envisioned the explosion it would deflagrate in her in ragged breaths. She contorted, hungered. Almost… almost… He did not let up, insistent in his torture as she perceived the tide nearing. She would–god!–she would... Right on the library’s table, what an indecent outcome!
He stopped.
Her pleasure-filled lashes lifted and directed a stare at him. She saw his hair-peppered strong chest through the opening on his shirt neck. He stood up, covering her legs, and stared at her as if making a point. Her body not a secret for him by now, he knew she got close, so close! Close to enjoying a degenerate, his eyes accused. Close to begging, demanding. Exploding!
He turned around, walking away, his breeches revealing his tight back and strong legs.
Furious frustration washed her as iced water. She leaned motionless against the table, primed. Hungry. Long minutes elapsed until rage got the best of her.
Conrad lay on his bed counterpane, hard and restless. He had been an inch from losing control and taking her. Surrendering to her after what she had issued. There had been nothing he craved more; pride be damned. If she had begged him, he would have given in to her allure. Her whimpers, her response, her readiness would have had him undone in a trice.
Still, he lay here ready and eager. What use did he have for pride then? She would not have denied him. Not in the heat of passion. If he made her frustrated, he was twice as much. The low fire on the fireplace cracked, the flames giving a slow glow to his chamber. He should have brought her here; he would take her and revel in her receptiveness. You fool! He admonished.
Suddenly, the connecting door opened. He watched as she entered, an intent expression in her eyes. She halted a few feet from his bed, eyeing him, glorious hair loose now. Without breaking eye contact, she paced to the bed, serious, pervaded. In one movement, she took out her austere camisole, revealing her goddess shape to him. Blasted hell! But she would unman him in a second.
Not a single word, she bent over his middle, loose hair falling around her, tempting fingers unbuttoning his breeches. Fire darted to his already famished groins. His extreme erection revealed, her fingers took it; his breath caught, he closed his eyes. He would not last. This she-wolf of his would not let him get away with his provoking her, thank heavens!
She strode him; his rock-hard member sliding in her tight, burning sheath. He lost it. And she rode him. Thoroughly. His hands covered her breasts, she arched with the pleasure and the movement reflected directly on their coupling, maddening him even further. She moved, hell-bent on what she wanted.
He could help it no more. His big hands grabbed her waist, his hips pressed up, her movements hastened, and they turned delirious. She cried her earthquake. He followed, grunting, in what must be the most gut-wrenching convulsion he had ever had. She took everything from him and more.
After a brief moment, she moved from him and he thought she would lie on the mattress. Big mistake. She stood, picked her camisole up, striding proud back to her room—avenged—leaving him alone and in need of her.
From this night on, she came to him. Every night. And used him. Any way she liked. Either on top or not, she remained in command. She transformed him in a sort of boy-toy, he acceded. It was better this than nothing. She never stayed the night, leaving when satisfied, mercilessly. He craved her company, her warmth. She would deny him them. Everything happened on her terms as she wanted it.
It gave him a taste of his own poison. Made him know how it felt, all those times he did the same to other women. For now, he would have to leave the situation at it. After having messed up with his display of jealousy, this came as a strategic backing. He would take time to gain ground. He would not lose any though.
“I’d rather be doing more...interesting things than attending Mrs Coleman’s tea party.”
Aurelia and Conrad sat on a buggy he drove along a curvy country road. A warm spring sun filtered through the green foliage tinting the woods in vivid colours.
“Serves you right for judging me by the appearances.” Aurelia responded irreducible.
She talked to him looking in front as the fear that, if her eyes looked at him, she would change her mind and head back to the manor, more precisely, his chambers. She had told Mr Coleman that both would be glad to consent to the invitation and dragged him here after having explained the scene he so hastily interpreted.
“Talk about judging by appearances.” He brought up, reminding her the night he spent searching Bess.
“I have apologised, as you remember.” She defended herself.
Abruptly, Conrad pulled the horse’s reigns, halting the buggy, with a jerk, in the middle of the deserted muddy road. He turned serious to her. She had no other option than turn to him too. He dressed a dark brown riding coat, over his white shirt, cravat and vest, lon
g legs clad in dark brown breeches. A topper let loose strands of his midnight hair. In other words, gorgeous!
“I apologise, Aurelia.” He said gravely.
“Accepted.” She said simply
He shook his head, closing his dark eyes briefly and rubbing his hand over his neck. “No, I mean, I apologise. For everything.” He re-opened his eyes and bore them into hers.
She fixed him with unwavering eyes, at a loss for words. His uttering so unexpected, she would not have seen it coming in a thousand years. She forced her gape to close. Reply would not come.
“I made you go through unthinkable circumstances and I regret the whole of it.”
“I…” She gaped again, moved. Her heart washed with a kind of warmth she did not identify. It clogged her throat, causing her difficulty to talk or breath.
“I understand it is going to be hard for you to forgive me, but I am asking for forgiveness, anyway.” His humble expression told of his sincerity.
Tears burned behind her eyes and she tried laboriously to keep them there. Capable only of a curt nod of acknowledgement, she turned her face to the road, her spine stiff.
Conrad scrutinised her for long moments before he moved the reigns and urged the horse forward.
The words forgiveness and her husband never figured together in her mind. During those years of struggles and then precious peace, she adapted to her situation, too busy to care for thoughts of sorrow or comeback. Her total energies concentrated on surviving physical and emotionally, she had no time for blaming, herself or him. All the same, the hurt and the bitterness had installed themselves in her heart, hardening it, shredding it of love or trust. His apology threw her in a pot of confusion and ambiguity. Again, her emotions torn her to pieces.
Tea at the Colemans proved to be a pleasant occasion, even though her mind stood apart, absent from there. She went through the motions, the courtesy and the small talk, but she was present only in body. The rest of her, in shambles, she kept locked and separated.
She did not come to him at night. Or the subsequent ones, for that matter. Conrad sat in his chamber’s sitting room with an unread book in his hands. He had lain in his bed for several evenings, in hot expectation. Nothing happened though. It was as if asking for her forgiveness had made her retreat inside herself completely.
Her anger towards him showed how difficult it would be for her to forgive him if she ever did. He realised it. And accepted it. Five years of marriage, of which, three he disappointed her; and the other two, he abandoned her. He would not win ‘gentleman of the year’ prize any soon.
No doubt, his duty lay with apologising. It came late, by the way. He must have done it ages ago. His mistakes took time to hit him. He had not had opportunity to say it properly to her until that day. She kept shunning him whenever the opportunity arose. They got embroiled in this… advance and retreat since he arrived. His attempts of closing the distance between them met with either little success or sheer failure. He did not want to give up though. He would not! Give her time, breathing room, and he would see.
Aurelia had become addicted to him. That must be the only explanation for her craving him, she thought one night. She lay in bed itching to cross the connecting door and enjoy what would offer her. She resisted bravely, sour frustration being the price.
She did not understand this… need for him. His asking for forgiveness had rattled her to her very essence. She did not find it in her to forgive him, or not, laying in that grey jelly-like zone, as if she swam in a muddy lake, without being able to see anything clearly. Still, being far from him physically gnawed at her deepest yearnings. She wished she could find a way to conciliate these opposite pieces, but had no idea of how.
Chapter Ten
Viscount and Viscountess of Strafford sat at the dining room, waiting for the footmen to serve them. Dinners had been taking place in an awkward mode, with stiff small talk and tense stretched silences.
Today, Conrad could not seem to take his eyes from her. She dressed in one of her prim austere apparels. This one not high-necked as the others. Part of her neck uncovered, making him envision his lips grazing it to the lace neckline. His eyes strolled slowly up. To her delicate chin, her elegant mouth, her perfect nose, arriving at her eyes, which observed him, wide. She flushed as their gazes clashed. His groins stirred and made him instantly uncomfortable on his chair. How did a man stop wanting this woman? He wished he knew. Or rather, he wished he would get his fill of her.
“You need new dresses. I’ll call the modiste from the village tomorrow.” He decreed, unable to stop his attention to fall to her full bosom, imagining all kinds of appetizing things he wanted to do to it. His “discomfort” became positively painful.
“I have the clothing I need for my daily routine.” She said a little too huskily, intensifying his want of her.
“You are a Viscountess and you should attire yourself accordingly when we are in a social occasion.” He would order very… inappropriate outfits, especially for the night, he thought with not a shred of shame.
She eyed him from under her lashes. His insistent measuring made her utterly hot. The way he detained in her breasts caused them to pluck and her body to crave he caressed them. Thoroughly.
“I do have dresses for every occasion.” Her breath not entirely even.
“I remember many of them from the time we were engaged.” He addressed her lips, and they tingled, eager for his kiss.
“I admit a few are old-fashioned, but I’ve been refitting many.” She persisted in her economical way. The memory of their engagement made her nostalgic about her youth dreams and fantasies. What a waste of time they had been!
“Skilful of you, naturally.” He drank his water as if he drank… parts of her. “I believe you have worked hard enough and got our finances in a good balance to be able to afford it.” His drinking brought to mind that night in the library, incandescing every wrong spot.
His husky tone caressed her, warming her insides. Restless, she turned to her food, but eating figured as the last thing she wanted at the moment. She wanted… oh… sod it!
“As you wish.” She said mostly to stop the conversation and the drool over him. Tense as a harp cord, she finished her dinner in record time and retired to her room with her ledgers. The fire he ignited, though, would not abate.
Hours later, Conrad paced his room as a caged Indian tiger. He stood on edge. The nearness of his wife was definitely not conductive of calm and serene thoughts. His pyjamas stretched with his pacing, his mind spinning the most carnal images of her. He could take it no more.
At the front of the connecting door, he impulsively pulled it, as his nostrils registered her verbena scent in the room. His body primed, he walked forward, almost pouncing.
He found her sitting in her bed, leaning on her pillow, the covers to her waist. The candle on the bedside table painted her in soft warm luminosity. Her hands braided her rosewood hair over her demure nightgown-clad shoulder. She lifted her eyes to him, both serious and molten. Her lips parted, an intake of breath through them.
He approached the foot of the bed, his dark eyes boring in hers. “Send me away if you can.” He dared in a husky murmur. He took out his pyjamas tunic intending provocation.
It worked.
She moistened her lips, her eyes strolling over him, her lower lip between her teeth as her gaze stopped in his mid-section. Her ogle made him even harder, his member tenting in his pyjamas trousers. She licked her lips in a show of hunger no man should ever be exposed to, for danger of incinerating.
He knelt on the fluffy mattress. “Come, Aurelia, take what you want.” He coaxed, the mere idea boiling his blood.
Braid forgotten, Aurelia, removed her covers and came to him on her knees. Conrad filled his lungs with desperate air. Never looking at him, she pulled the sash at his waist; the trousers fell to his mid thighs, uncovering his furious need of her. She parted her lips, and he nearly went mad when he saw them close over his shiny glans, rave
nous. He must hold the bedpost, his eyelids dropped; his head fell back in a groan.
She took more of him in her moist hot mouth, the pleasure so unbearable he placed his other hand on her neck to keep her at it. She forwarded and back-warded her head as if she knew what she was doing. Hell! He became hard as a rock, her mouth hell and paradise at the same time. Her hand held his stem, caressing it with instinctive knowledge.
Next, she distanced her mouth from him. He opened his eyes and searched her. She darted her tongue out, rolling it around his glans. Sparks of insanity wrenched his insides. She savoured him more and took him in again. The demise neared, he leaked, on the brink of losing control. She continued her ministrations heedless of his agony.
He could take it no more! He pulled her up and placed her arms on the bedpost. In urgent clumsiness, he bunched her nightgown up, locked her waist in his arms and drove in her like a barbaric invader, grunting in the process. She groaned, her head falling back on his chest, as he took her from behind heatedly.
One of his hands roamed to her breast, caressing, palming, pinching whilst the other found her ready moist middle. He panted and thrust as disaster threatened closer and closer. She opened more for him. The flood approached. He would shame himself.
He stopped. Against all his atrocious need, he froze. Perspiration beaded his forehead.
His mouth, breathing heavily, nibbled the curve of her neck, her shoulders, exposed by her wry gown. His hand palmed her other breast, his fingers down there, uncovering her secrets.
“Conrad,” her respiration also fast. “Move.” She commanded breathy.
“I’ll dissipate in a second.” His nose in her now loose glorious hair.
Insensitive to his plight she gyrated her hip, driving him to the last circle of hell.
“Move or I swear I’ll… chastise you!” She murmured, sounding as desperate as he did.
He breathed a tight laugh. As if that was not chastisement enough! “Yes, my she-wolf.”