by Anne Gracie
That was it. All intentions of making this slow vanished as his control shattered, and he started to move then, thrusting into her, feeling her rise to meet him, again and again, their bodies moving as one in a frenzied rhythmic dance as old as time.
She moaned beneath him, thrashing against him, locking her legs around him, pulling him tighter, harder, embracing him, as he pumped and pumped and the tension rose and rose.
He heard himself shout, and at the same time she gave a thin high scream, as together, they shattered into oblivion.
And slept.
• • •
Bright morning sunshine streamed into the cottage. Damaris woke to find herself tucked firmly against a naked sleeping Freddy. She lay there a few moments, warm and sleepy and utterly contented, and watched him softly breathing. In sleep he seemed younger, softer, more vulnerable. The previous night he’d felt like a god. When she’d first met him he’d seemed wholly frivolous. So many masks. Not that it mattered. She loved the man behind them all.
She looked at his beautiful mouth and thought of what it had done and how it had made her feel. Even as she recalled it, tiny shivers passed through her, a faint echo of what had been.
Three times he’d taken her the night before. Each time different. She hadn’t known coupling could be like that, so . . . she didn’t know what. Extraordinary. Earthy. Sublime.
Languorous and sated, with a bubble of happiness lodged in her chest, she lay curled against him, her cheek resting on his chest, his arms around her, savoring the relaxed feel of his body against hers, feeling warm and safe and right, as she reflected on what had passed between them.
It bore no relation to anything she’d felt with the captain. Thank God.
Did other women feel like this, when they lay with their husbands?
Had Mama felt like this when she lay with Papa? Had she screamed and thrashed and shuddered? Had she shattered into oblivion, experiencing the little death? And later woken in languorous, sleepy bliss?
Had she been woken in the night and taken so slowly, so tenderly that feelings welled up in her till she could contain them no more? And tears spilled down, and were kissed quietly away? Had Papa ever held Mama the way Freddy held her close, possessive and protective, even in sleep?
Damaris couldn’t imagine it. She had no recollection of Mama even sleeping in the same room as Papa. She must have lain with him at least once; otherwise Damaris would never have been born. But she’d never seen them kiss or even touch.
She lay sleepily pondering the past, luxuriating in the feel of Freddy’s sleeping embrace, the weight of his arms around her, the scent of his skin, the steady sound of his breathing.
Mama must have felt something similar, she was suddenly sure of it. This was what Mama had missed when she’d lain in bed silently weeping all those nights; this was what she’d meant when she’d told Damaris, Sometimes a woman just needs to be held.
So what had gone wrong?
It was so difficult. All she had were a child’s memories, but now she examined them with a woman’s perspective. A woman who now understood what could pass between a man and a woman.
Her bladder made its needs known, so reluctantly and carefully she untangled herself from Freddy’s embrace and slipped quietly out of the bed, trying not to disturb him.
The wintry chill hit her warm body and she shivered as she threw on her chemise, dress and stockings and grabbed the old woman’s shawl for extra warmth. She looked down at her sleeping lover—lover; she savored the word—and smoothed his hair gently back from his face. Then she slipped into the wooden clogs at the back door and braced herself to go out into the cold air to visit the privy.
Afterward, she stopped briefly to look out at the floodwaters. They were definitely retreating. She hurried back inside, shivering.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about leaving—there had been something magical about their time in this little cottage, a few days out of their normal world, away from the everyday pressures and expectations. She was reluctant to leave and half dreaded facing the world again.
She hoped there wouldn’t be any gossip about them, though since she had told him her story, and they had lain together, she felt much more sanguine about his insistence they marry. She would make him a good wife, she was determined on it. She loved him with all her heart.
She’d tried not to fall in love with him, but she’d known almost from the beginning it was a battle she would lose. She’d stop fighting it now.
She loved him.
He might not love her, but they were friends at least, and the bed-loving had been good. More than good. She still felt the effects.
Three times he’d taken her yesterday. Perhaps they could do it again this morning. With that thought in mind she hurried back to the cottage.
She entered as quietly as she could. Peeling off her hastily thrown-on clothing, she tiptoed to the bed. And froze.
He’d turned over in her absence and the upper part of his bare back was visible.
Horribly visible.
There were scratches on his back and shoulders, fresh scratches.
She glanced down at her hands, at her fingernails, buffed and innocent looking. Shame washed over her. She had scratched him like an animal.
Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, she stood by the bed, naked and shivering, staring at his mutilated back, and remembered how she’d screamed in ecstasy. And thrashed her legs and head. And wrapped her legs around his body, trapping him, holding him, squeezing him so tightly.
Horribly unladylike. Completely out of control. Like a vixen.
What would Freddy think when he realized she’d clawed and bitten him like a wild creature?
Shivering with cold and dread, she pulled her clothes back on, lacing her stays tightly, as if she could somehow lace in her rampant desires, cover them up, hide them from the world.
She understood now what had gone wrong between Mama and Papa. Papa had made no secret of the fact that Mama’s lustful nature disgusted him.
And Damaris had inherited Mama’s lustful nature.
Papa had suspected it. The captain had too, which was why he’d told her, You were born for it, as they carried her off to the brothel.
And soon, Freddy Monkton-Coombes would know it. He had the scratches to prove it.
She wanted to run, to flee from the look in his eyes when he woke, but there was no place to go, nowhere to hide.
She busied herself by building up the fire, which had fallen to embers while they’d slept. She looked in the pantry for the last of the vegetables. More soup, heavy on the barley, and maybe some pancakes or fritters, if the hens had laid. It was a good thing they’d be leaving soon, and not just because they were running out of food.
She wanted to get away as fast as she could.
Behind her she could hear him stirring. She wished she could just vanish.
“You’re up?” he said sleepily. “Cooking? And I see you’ve stoked the fire. What an industrious little thing you are.”
Slowly she turned around, bracing herself against the look she feared to see.
He sat up, bare chested, rumpled his hair and gave her a sleepy smile. “I don’t suppose you want to come back to bed, do you?”
And, oh, God, there was a bite mark just below his shoulder.
She felt sick, just looking at it. Further proof she’d behaved like an animal. She dragged her gaze off the livid mark and turned away. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.
“I need to make this soup, or else we’ll be going hungry,” she said, trying to sound brisk and matter-of-fact, but it came out a little shaky. She turned back to the bench and started chopping a shriveled-looking carrot.
“I’m hungry right now,” he said in a plaintive voice. She forced herself to turn and found him smiling at her in a familiar, wicked way. He flipped ba
ck the bedclothes, patted the bed and gave her a suggestive look.
“Don’t,” she said in a choked voice.
His brow furrowed. “Damaris? What’s the matter?”
She stared at him, at the mark she’d made on his shoulder, and tried to think what to say.
In a flash he was out of bed and in three steps he’d crossed the room, stark naked and unashamed. He reached for her. She tried to step back but there was no room. The cold line of the bench pressed against her back and she was reminded of how this had all started, when he’d kissed her.
“What is it, Damaris? What’s the matter?”
She shook her head, unable to look at him, fighting tears.
But he wouldn’t let her avoid him. “What’s upsetting you? Tell me.” He cupped her face in his big, warm hands—another parody of that kiss—and gently forced her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and troubled.
She tried to look away and saw a small, dark semicircular mark on his shoulder, half bruise, half bite, and knew it to be her mark. She had bitten him. Shame washed through her.
She tried to break away, but he held her fast. He glanced down at himself and frowned. “Is it this that’s worrying you?” He touched the bite mark.
She didn’t answer.
His grip on her tightened. “Tell me what’s upsetting you. Was it too much? Did I shock you? Upset you?” He waited, and when she didn’t reply, he said, “You climaxed several times, so it mustn’t have been too bad, surely?”
She couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Damaris? Sweetheart?” His voice was deep and he sounded oddly uncertain, which cut her to the quick.
“I scratched you,” she whispered. “And I bit you too.”
“I know.” He sounded almost . . . proud?
Her head lifted and she stared at him. “You don’t understand. I behaved like an animal.”
He grinned. “We both did. Splendid, wasn’t it?”
She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then burst into tears.
• • •
“I—I’m sorry,” she mumbled, scrubbing at the tears with her fists. “I don’t u-usually—I never c-c-cry over . . . over—” Her broken speech ended on a hiccup.
“Hush,” he murmured and, pushing her hands away, gently mopped up her tears with a large white handkerchief. Where he’d got it from she had no idea; he wasn’t wearing a stitch. She was, she abruptly realized, sitting fully dressed, on the lap of a naked man.
She ought to get off him. But if she did, he would be even more naked. And she knew who’d be more embarrassed in that situation, and it wouldn’t be Freddy Monkton-Coombes.
She stayed where she was, letting him hold her like a child—no, not at all like a child. Her emotions were in a turmoil, her position was quite scandalous, but she felt oddly comforted.
“Now, then, what’s all this about?” he said after a while, his voice deep and easy. “Do I understand that you’re upset because you scratched me a bit? And gave me a little love bite? Is that the problem?”
A love bite? Was that what he called it? Being kind.
“Don’t,” she said in a choked voice.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be kind about it. Your back is all scratched. By me.”
There was a short silence. Then he said, “Many women—many ladies—react uninhibitedly when in the extremity of, er, lovemaking.”
She said nothing.
“Speaking as the man involved, I found it delightful.”
“Delightful?” She turned her head to stare at him. “But I scratched and bit you. I screamed, like . . . like one of those vixens we heard that night.”
He smiled. “Yes, but you didn’t hurt me at all. And when a man and a woman lie together, it’s perfectly natural for the animal part of our nature to take over.”
She shook her head. “It’s never . . . never happened to me before.”
“No, but then again, you’ve never had a man make love to you before.”
“What?” She gave him a puzzled look. “But I told you—”
“What happened to you on the ship was not the same thing at all,” he said in a hard voice. “That swine used your body for his own selfish satisfaction.” His voice deepened as his arms tightened around her and he murmured softly in her ear, “I made love to you, hoping you would find pleasure in the act. You did, didn’t you, Damaris? Find pleasure? Just a little?”
She felt a blush warming her face and wriggled a little, turning her face away, not wanting to let him see how much she’d enjoyed it.
“Because if you keep squirming on my lap like that, I will be forced to make another attempt.”
She froze, and he laughed softly. “My sweet innocent, has your puritanical missionary father taught you to be ashamed of your sexual nature? Is that it?”
She gave a small, awkward shrug.
His arm tightened around her. “Thought so. But he couldn’t be more wrong. The pleasure a man and woman find when they lie together is part of God’s plan.”
God’s plan? She’d never heard anything so outrageous in her life. Her father’s God disapproved of pleasure of any sort. It was probably some piece of nonsense Freddy was making up—he had admitted to not being the slightest bit religious—but she had to confess she was curious. Forgetting not to wriggle, she squirmed around to face him. “How do you work that out?”
He groaned and adjusted her position on his lap. “I suppose you believe the story that God created man and woman.” She nodded, and he kissed her lightly on the nose. “Excellent, and a very tasty little piece of rib you are. So if you believe that, you must believe everything about you was designed by Him.”
Again, though a little more cautiously, she nodded.
“Then let me demonstrate.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “Pleasure, pain, or nothing?”
She just gave him a look. Of course it was pleasure.
“And when I do this?” He cupped her breasts and stroked her nipples through the fabric of her dress. They rose. “Pleasure, pain, or nothing?”
She gave a shuddery little sigh.
“Pleasure?” he asked and she managed a nod, though his thumbs were still teasing her. “Can you make your nipples rise, according to your will?”
“N-no,” she managed. It was a stupid question. They just did. When it was cold or when he did . . . that.
He drew up the skirt of her dress, baring her legs to the cool air, and stroked the delicate skin of her inner thighs. She shivered, but not from the cold.
“Pleasure?”
“Yes,” she said on a gasp. Her legs quivered and fell apart as his hand crept higher. He cupped her at her apex and one long finger slipped between her heated folds. “And when I do this?”
She moaned.
“You will notice a certain part of my anatomy has risen and is hard and demanding your attention,” he murmured, rolling them both over on the bed.
She had no idea why he was telling her—it was perfectly obvious to them both. His fingers were busy stroking, circling, rubbing. She was too distracted to answer.
“And here, at your center, you’re all moist and slippery and delicious.” He demonstrated with his fingers, moving in a slow, rhythmic way that was driving her crazy. Suddenly he stopped. His fingers moved away and she felt a draft against her moist, heated skin. He lightly touched her entrance. “Can you make yourself go wet in this way?”
She moved against his hand in mute appeal.
“Answer the question. Can you choose to make yourself go wet?”
“No.” She blinked at him, wondering why he was asking her these stupid questions. “Not like that. It just happens when . . . when you . . . you know.”
“Oh, I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew—it’s not something you just
decide to make happen, is it? It’s the result of desire. You need to be pleasured for this moisture to come.” His fingers resumed their stroking. “And it comes to make it easier for me to do this.” He shifted over her and entered her with one long, slow thrust and she moaned. Her legs, virtually of their own volition, rose and closed around his hips. “That’s . . . yes . . .” He groaned and started to move within her. “And . . . so we . . . ahh . . . yesss . . .”
She caught his rhythm and they moved together faster and faster until . . .
The little death. Which was a glorious celebration of life.
Later, when they’d recovered, he slid from her body with a little smile. “See? God’s plan for men and women,” he said solemnly, in the manner of completing a rather dull lecture.
Still floating on a little cloud of bliss, she frowned and tried to concentrate. “Hmm?”
“Tut, tut, wench, haven’t you been paying attention? Must I go over it all again?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she murmured and stroked her hand down his stomach.
He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Enough of that, insatiable creature. I’m explaining something to you and it’s very important. God’s plan.”
“Oh. Yes?” she said vaguely.
“Yes. The pleasure men and women receive from lying together. Without the pleasure, it would happen far less frequently, and then where would we be? Would we be so happy about going forth and multiplying, as we’re told to do in the Bible?”
She stretched languorously and didn’t answer.
He went on. “Stop distracting me and listen. No, we wouldn’t. So the pleasure is all part of God’s plan and it is your sacred duty to enjoy it to the best of your ability. The future of the human race depends on it.”
It was so ridiculous she burst out laughing. “God’s plan indeed.”
“Are you doubting my word, wench?” He held her down threateningly.
She giggled and managed to say in a prim and virtuous tone, “If that’s what you want to believe, sir, who am I to argue?”