by Louisa Trent
What else could she think?
And then it came to her in a blinding insight what last night had been all about: when she had broken apart before his eyes, Doyle had made love to her out of sympathy, out of compassion. How foolish to believe he desired her! Doyle wasn't hungry for her; he pitied her! Theirs had been a one-sided pleasure--on her side. She hadn't pleased him in bed. Why should he bother this morning with a passionless woman, a clumsy lover like her?
"It's all right, Doyle. Really. I quite understand. You need more than I know how to give."
"You give me everything I need. Everything I want." The timbre of his voice deepened. "It's only that ... I don't know if I can hold back any longer."
Was that the problem? Was Doyle's over-protectiveness getting in the way of passion?
"Don't hold back! Please! I won't break, Doyle."
Only if you leave me now will I break.
"You didn't even know I was there last night. If I go hard with you now, there will be no doubt as to how we spent this morning."
His arms shook. So shocking, to feel such a strong man tremble! She had done that to him, she had that affect upon him. New awareness of her womanly power strengthened her resolve to give him what he needed.
"Treat me like your lover," she said over her shoulder. "Not like some silly, scared little girl. Make me your woman, Doyle. Go hard, not easy."
He leaned his forehead against her wildly tangled hair. "I want to."
He kissed her neck. Groaned. Kissed her again. Harder this time. Much harder. His hands gripped her bottom, his fingers clenched tight on her flesh. More love bruises to add to her collection.
"I am dying to get inside you. I have waited to make you my woman since you were seventeen," he rasped. "But Sweet Jesus, I have no wish to hurt you. Quit tormenting me."
But she wouldn't quit. Arms braced on the sill, she spread her legs wider and pushed her bottom back toward him.
On a brutal oath, Doyle was there between her legs again, shoving his shaft up into her vagina, back to front, pushing it in hard, and thrusting harder.
"Oh, Doyle, yes," she cried, loving the fierce honesty of the penetration. She had always known it would be this uncivilized, this savage with them.
She held onto the windowsill for dear life, until under the force of his assault, she could hold on no longer. "No!" she wailed, falling to her knees, bereft tears rolling down her cheeks at the severing of their connection.
She looked up at him from the floor at his feet. "Please, Doyle? Do anything you wish to me, just so long as you don't give up on me."
But Doyle looked indecisive, unconvinced, as though he had already chosen not to continue.
Her heart beating wildly, she got down on all fours like a bitch in heat. Sending her bottom high in the air, she opened her legs. "Please, Doyle," she sobbed, looking over her shoulder at him. "I need you so!"
Renewed lust surged in his dark brooding eyes.
"Pleeease?" she begged, tears streaming down her face.
Finally, she heard Doyle drop down behind her. "Lower your head," he ordered.
"Yes, yes," she said, eagerly.
Turning back, she dropped her forehead to the floor in the lowliest of subservient positions, surrendering her body to him entirely.
He mounted her then, pushed back into her. Grunting, holding her hips in place, his testicles battering her buttocks with each of his thrusts, he pulled all the way out, and drove himself back into her passage. He did this again and again and again, using her hard and deep.
The pained momentum built to pained ecstasy, and she was crying and moaning, then screaming, loving what he was doing to her, loving that he had finally succumbed to the ferocity that had always been in them both.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The afternoon was pleasantly warm, and Lily decided to take her sketchpad outside to draw the gardens.
Totally absorbed in her work, hours flew by, and before she realized it, she had filled five pages. They were only roughed-in drawings, of course, but still, she thought they showed potential. To be realistic, after ten years of negligence, her creativity would take a while to return to its former strength. Art, like anything else, requires work and time and dedication, as well as raw talent. Her eye would need to be retrained to depict the subtle nuances of nature and translate what she saw onto a drawing tablet. But she had renewed hope now that she would draw again, paint again, that it wasn't too late for her dreams. Making love to Doyle had not only restored her confidence in herself, but it had also given her a renewed sense of purpose in life.
Her hand flew across another blank page, sketching in the rose beds. Using the side of her charcoal, Lily laid out the shadow falling from the beech tree, showing how the leaves filtered the light and formed a canopy above her grandmother's prized American pillar roses. A few stokes later, the illusion of splintered sunshine was created.
Thoughtfully, Lily tapped her charcoal stick on the paper, her mind returning to the past.
Did she really need to know the truth about the night Frank died? Wouldn't it be better to accept the official pronouncement of accidental death? Why open up old, painful wounds?
Because Doyle's reputation needed to be restored, she conceded. The good people of Bar Harbor needed to know once and for all that Doyle had played no part in Frank's death. And Doyle had the right to know the truth of her relationship with Frank Johnson.
But to tell him the truth, to tell Doyle Frank had blackmailed her, would only lead to more and more questions. Questions she could not answer without revealing her grandmother's secrets, secrets she had no right to tell anyone.
She was so torn!
Placing her sketchpad aside, Lily moved onto the Memory Garden. Perhaps, if she freed her mind, lost herself in the project, the solution might come to her.
She dug and planted and mulched fifty or so perennials--everything from poppies to baby's breath to daylilies. After watering everything, she went back inside the cottage, no closer to solving her problem than before, but too impatient for Doyle's return to care.
* * * *
She met him at the door. No pretensions whatsoever that this was a courtship, no poised mask to hide her sexual excitement. "Make love to me. I am nearly desperate to have you inside me."
"I can see that, puss." Holding her at arm's length, he looked her up and down, frowning at her hopelessly dreary, dove gray silk. "Whom, may I ask, are you mourning?"
She touched the modest collar. "Well, no one..."
"Then, off with the depressing funeral attire." He undid her hooks and eyes right there at the threshold. "Somber colors suit neither your coloring nor your personality. I shan't look at you in widow's weeds for one more instant."
"How long are you here?" she inquired, holding her arms over her head as an assist.
"For the next day."
"Oh, joy. A full day!" She giggled in naked happiness.
He swept her into arms, and her feet took flight, and his hands were everywhere. Kissing open-mouthed, tongue-to-tongue, he carried her squealing up the staircase to her bedchamber, throwing her none too gently in the middle of the coverlet, which sent her legs up in the air and over her head.
"Now that is a fine position," Doyle said, leering. "Hold it."
She did, and when he was as naked as she, he joined her on the coverlet. With his fingers wrapped around each of her upright ankles like twin slave bracelets, he entered her. No foreplay, her feet shelved atop his shoulders.
A moan escaped her gaping mouth at the abruptness of his entry.
"Can you take my all or shall I hold back?"
"Give me your all," she panted.
His tremendous length and breadth filled her to the womb, and as she struggled to accommodate him, he asked politely, "Hard or slow?"
"Hard," she answered, teeth gritted.
He complied, and mercifully, she came fast.
He didn't come at all.
She stared at him speechless
as he withdrew, still spike-hard.
"I won't climax until you can no longer tolerate my attentions," he explained.
"That may take some time, sir."
"We shall see. For now, up to your belly with your knees."
When she complied, his finger slid inside her, moving inside her. The climax was leisured, but no less intense.
"The cock's turn now," he pronounced, and thrust to the hilt.
"Hard or soft?" he asked courteously, looking down into her lust-sated features.
"Hard," she replied, determined to see this contest through to the end.
Just as before, Doyle held back his climax in favor of the multiplicity of hers.
Next time, he took her like a wife: her legs righteously flat on the bedding, his erection, which had certainly grown larger with each engagement, pumping earnestly between her thighs.
"Is your cunt sore?" he questioned not like a husband at all, and without missing a stroke.
In answer, she scraped her fingernails down his back. Her nerve endings sending a spasm all the way to her toes, she screamed her way to release.
"Rest," he said, pulling out and folding her against him, stiff cock to soft bottom.
She awakened to find him inside her.
"Pay me no heed," the wretch said smugly, gliding in and out, back to front.
The grandfather clock ticked off an hour, while she shuddered and climaxed, shuddered and climaxed.
At dawn, his erect cock led them downstairs for sustenance.
"Eat it all," the cook said and stacked her plate high with bacon and eggs.
"I couldn't possibly finish all this," she demurred.
"If you don't swallow all of that, you won't swallow any more of me."
She asked for seconds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After their splendid day together, she didn't see Doyle for the next two.
On the third day apart, after eating a lonely dinner of cold meats and bread, she made her solitary way upstairs to her bedchamber, doubting her womanliness all over again as she retired for the night.
Doyle was a rugged and virile man; his hot-blooded reputation only added to his carnal allure. What could he get from Lillian Hill that he couldn't get from any number of more sensual women?
Nothing!
Doyle was most likely visiting another lady's bed this evening. She thought glumly, turning her pillow into a tear-sodden mess.
Emotionally and physically exhausted, she fell asleep.
Some time later, a cool draft on her bare skin awakened her. She was on her belly, her demure white nightgown raised to the waist, bottom exposed. Her positioning on the bed, the darkened room, the heavy breathing coming from somewhere behind her, all brought back terrifying memories. She struggled against the weight holding her down.
"Don't move, sweetheart, or it will be over before we begin."
She continued to struggle. "I don't like this, Doyle."
"Because it reminds you of that other night? Because I remind you in some ways of Frank?"
Big hands encircled her waist. "In the dark, you confused me for him. Are we still confused in your mind?"
"Frank Johnson was a vicious animal and I hated him. You are nothing at all like him. Do you hear me Doyle? You are nothing like him!"
"Oh, I hear you, all right. The swiftness of your absolution gives me some difficulty, however. I tend not to believe it, Lily. If there were no doubt in your mind, you wouldn't fear me now. You would feel safe enough to laugh, secure enough to be playful. You might even find my overpowering you sexually arousing."
Doyle was right! A measure of doubt had crept inexorably between them in this dark bedchamber. Because she had not yet resolved all her ambivalent feelings for Doyle, she was fearful.
"And what do you mean--you hated Frank?"
"I loathed him," she wheezed.
"Breathe, Lily," he coaxed. "Don't blackout on me now."
For his sake she would try, but the urge to escape was a powerful one, a self-preservationist one, and her will was such a fragile thing, easily defeated.
"Please, please, let me go," Lillian cried the morose words. "I don't like feeling helpless."
"I am not Frank. You need to understand that. You also need to understand that I shall never hurt you any more than you need to be hurt to achieve orgasm." He held her down, his strong thighs bracketing her legs.
She whimpered in distress.
"Hush, Lily. I am just getting you out of your nightgown," he soothed, dragging her only covering up over her head.
When she was nude, he smoothed his fingers possessively over her.
"Christ! This dimple at the top of your bottom maddens me." Still holding her forcefully, he cupped a buttock.
"I thought of doing this to you all day." He fingered between her bottom cheeks.
"Please," she said fretfully. Was she asking him to stop or to continue?
"I missed you today. And I apologize for my late return. It's this damnable new project. In order to finish it on schedule, I must take my leave of you."
"F-f-for how long?"
"A night or two."
An eternity! She thought, holding herself very still for his unorthodox caress.
"I would do anything not to have to go. And the hellish thing is: I cannot take you with me, not this time. To do so would be to further jeopardize your reputation. That's a risk I shan't take, for all that I shall suffer without you."
"Will you see other women while you are gone?"
"Why would you think that?" he asked, and eased her bottom cheeks apart.
"Because I know the kind of man you are. What your needs are. I fear I am not ... well ... experienced enough for you."
"I admit to appreciating variety in bed. But at heart, I am monogamous: I like my variety with the same woman. And as to my needs--will you give me what I need, Lily?" He pressed a digit to her anus.
Though inexperienced, she would not pretend to innocence. In a small voice, she said, "Yes. I shall give you whatever it is you need."
"Good," he said, releasing her buttocks, and kissing the dimple at the top, then placing his hot mouth on each of her cheeks.
"Mmm, sweetheart," he murmured, licking her skin. "You taste like candy."
He bit a buttock, and not gently.
"Oh, God," she moaned
"Now, do you have any scarves I might borrow?" he asked.
"May I ask why?"
"Part of the variety we spoke of. I would like to tie you to the bed. A little bondage, no? Do you trust me enough to allow that kind of adventurous love play, Lily? Or will you always entertain doubts about me?"
Oh, God! She would be a liar if she said she didn't fear giving over complete control of her body to a man. But this was Doyle, not just any man, and she was more frightened of failing him than losing control.
And there was something else, too: she was afraid of failing herself. Her true nature was not inhibited; her repression was a legacy from Frank. To fully liberate herself from her past, she needed to cast off all the artificial restraints she had acquired over the last ten years. How unbearably boring her life had been this past decade, how exceedingly conventional she had become! Always afraid that with one misstep she might not earn the good opinion of others! She had become bland and colorless, utterly blah and dull. She wished to break free of her safe cocoon!
Doyle offered her decadence, depravity, illicit pleasure, the kinds of intercourse that nice people only whisper about, and of course, never participate in, and he offered her all these luscious pastimes with him. She was tired unto her soul of propriety, of behaving to the standards of others. She wanted this with him, craved it with him; the memory of these times with him was all she would have to sustain her when she returned to her staid life in Boston.
"The scarves are in the top drawer of my bureau," she said.
* * * *
Her body felt heavy. Replete. Every pore passion bruised. Miss Oh-So-Prim-and-Proper-Hi
ll was drugged on unbridled sex.
They had gone at it for hours. The bedding was twisted and wet with perspiration, fragrant with come. Still tied to the bedposts with silk scarves, she was currently rounded over the headboard. Doyle knelt behind her, both hands occupied: one between her splayed legs, stroking her clitoris; the other used a dildo on her.
She licked her lips and groaned her pleasure as he tooled the tremendous phallus between her legs. When she pushed her bottom back against his groin, his turgid erection rubbed into her buttocks.
His manhood felt long and thick, the testicles heavy, the pubic hair coarse against her bare buttocks. The head of his penis, moist with pre-come, slick with pre-come, dribbling with pre-come, pressed to her back opening.
She moaned, "Oh, yes. Come into me."
"Sodomy?" he questioned.
"Call it what you will, as long as we are joined, the manner matters not to me!"
"You, my free spirit, are not ready for anal penetration yet."
"I am ready!" she cried in frustration. "Come inside me now!"
Full circle. She thought, her fear of the carnal dissipating in heady liberation. Euphoria filled her; she had found her sensual self again.
"I shall not risk injuring you." He kissed her jaw in tribute. "But my, I do appreciate your eagerness. And when you make demands on me, I appreciate it even more."
"You do?"
"I do."
Their words sounded like the exchange of wedding vows. Though, she doubted many virginal brides eagerly demanded anal intercourse on their wedding night.
"I know you wish this, Doyle..."
"Most men who are honest will admit to wanting anal intercourse at least once from the woman they are with. I am an honest man"
He removed the dildo from her vagina, and his touch from her clitoris, and his digit entered the demarcation between her buttocks to finger her anal ring.
"This hole is very inviting," he rasped, inserting a finger; it was Doyle who experienced breathing difficulties now. "Alas, the opening I would breech is also lamentably tight. There is a certain amount of pain involved for the woman upon the first penetration; wearing a plug for a goodly amount of time beforehand facilitates the entry and minimizes the discomfort. For that reason, I took the liberty of acquiring a mastery belt for you. It came all the way from New York City."