Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  "Frank tried to rape me."

  Her grandfather placed his arm around her shoulders. "I am glad I was there for you, but you must understand, I killed Frank for personal reasons. I didn't need to kill Frank Johnson, Lily. But--he wouldn't be quiet! He kept rambling on. Saying hateful things about your grandmother. Twisting the truth. He knew all about your father's true parentage, information he had stumbled across while working in his father's law office. Somehow, your grandmother accidentally included some very damning letters I wrote to her in the beginning of our affair, about her pregnancy and what its disclosure would mean to the lines of inheritance. She must have kept the letters in her safe with the rest of her legal documents, and somehow, they found their way to the Johnson legal offices.

  "Frank took those papers out of his billfold and flaunted them directly in my face. It was then that I decided to kill him. Make no mistake, Frank Johnson's murder was premeditated. He was about to spread his filth about Victoria. He would have taken away your birthright. To prevent that from happening, I took his life.

  "When Frank began brandishing those letters, shouting at me that he had proof that your father was my love child, I grabbed the evidence from his fingers. He tried to get the billfold back. We struggled. He hit me, tried to push me over the edge. Instead, he was the one who fell to his death. I later burned the billfold and its contents."

  Tony bowed his head. "You see before you a murderer."

  "But you struggled with Frank. He hit you, and then fell to his death during that struggle. My God, his death really was accidental!"

  "I know what was in my heart, my dear, and it was murder! Frank admitted to blackmailing you. He boasted about it. Had I confessed what I had done, it would have all come out. Frank Johnson's filth would have besmirched both you and your grandmother. I could not allow that to happen."

  "Does Grandmother know?"

  "Good, Lord, no! I alone know what happened that night. And now you." He sighed. "I shall do whatever you decide. If you would like me to turn myself into the proper authorities--I shall."

  "Right now, I don't know what to do or say or think. I need time..."

  "I am an old man, and I am at peace with whatever you decide to do. I have had ten additional years to be with your grandmother, and for that, I am grateful."

  Lily turned from the window and made her way to the door. "I need to think this through, alone. Doyle has suffered so much because of this ... he needs vindication and yet ... I don't wish to hurt either you or Grandmother. Frank's fall was an accident. Why dredge up the past?"

  "Therein lies the dilemma."

  "You won't tell Grandmother about our talk?"

  "No--it has waited these many years; it can wait a while longer. Take care, child. I suspect you will be returning to Boston to do your thinking?"

  She nodded. "To avoid hurting her feelings, please tell Grandmother I returned earlier than anticipated to speak with Charles about our engagement."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Her plan was to drop off her goodbye note to Doyle, then leave. But when Lily arrived late that night, Doyle stood on the threshold to his architect office, key in hand, overnight bag at his feet; evidently, he had returned earlier than expected from his business trip.

  Upon seeing her, he went as motionless as a cougar before striking.

  "Hello," she said softly.

  He leaned back against the office door, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his broad shoulders filling the door frame, his powerful legs spread wide, his dark-jewel eyes only for her. "I missed you, Lily."

  One stride and he was in front of her.

  "I worked 'round the clock to get back to you sooner," he whispered. "Is everything all right at the cottage? Did something happen? Did you have another blackout? Is that why you came to find me?"

  Lily kept her tone light. "Everything is fine. May we go inside, please?"

  He led the way.

  "Please, Doyle, don't light the lamps. I ... I like the dark." He mustn't see her red-rimmed eyes!

  He frowned, but said, "Anything you say."

  Doyle headed for the attached glass conservatory. "Let me wash up so I can say a proper hello. I rode like the very devil was chasing me and it shows."

  Totally unselfconscious, he removed his outer coat, his waistcoat, and loosened his trousers to remove his shirt.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Doyle's chest, bronzed from his work outside, was covered with a mat of springy curls. She remembered only too well the deceptively soft texture of those curls and how they tickled her bare breasts when they made love.

  After pumping out some water, he moved a soaked cloth over the enormous width of that chest to his washboard flat abdomen, and she silently gasped her pleasure.

  He snapped the cloth back in the sink. "That will do for now. My brothers should be snoring, which means a tub bath later for us."

  His grin was wickedly attractive. "You looked so beautiful when I looked up and saw you there. Travel dust or not, I had all to do not to drag you into my arms. I held off, only so as not to muss you."

  Muss me! A silent voice inside her screamed. She needed his hard lovemaking as much, if not more, than she needed his gentleness. He had brought her back to life in his strong arms. And now she was dying a slow death, for she needed to tell him her lie, then leave, quickly, before she changed her mind.

  He hauled her to him in a furry bear hug. "No more separations!"

  Her eyes filled anew with tears.

  A clean break, she thought. Don't tell him your suspicions about Johnny. Don't tell him about the destroyed Memory Garden. Don't tell him about the threats. Just tell him the lie, and leave.

  "That estate was something to see. When I heard the owners were looking for an artist to paint a landscape of their grounds, I volunteered you." He chuckled. "This might very well be the start of a whole new career for you, Lily."

  Her hat was removed, her chignon was loosened, and his hands, both of them, combed through her coiffure, turning it wild.

  "Your hair shimmers in the moonlight." He started to move, holding her in his arms. "I feel like dancing. Dance with me, sweetheart."

  Dancing was the last thing on her mind.

  She pulled away. "Don't."

  "Tired?"

  "It's not that. We need to talk."

  "Talk later," he said, dragging her close. "Dance with me now."

  "Stop!" she cried when he spun her in his arms. "This is serious, Doyle. Please! You must listen to me."

  "Do you know how irresistible you are when your cheeks wear an angry flush?"

  He nibbled her neck. "All I thought about the whole time I was gone was being with you again. Being inside you again," he whispered, hotly, his mouth against her ear, his busy hands bunching her full brown skirts and petticoats around her waist.

  Apart for the inconsequential barrier of her drawers, easily removed, nothing came between them.

  His fingers slid through the opening in the crotch.

  She was helpless to stop him, didn't wish to stop him. She closed her eyes, feeling herself go moist between the legs at his touch. He rubbed her notch. Gently. Back and forth. Not entering her; just slowly caressing her.

  Before she knew what was happening, the waist ribbon was untied and the undergarment glided down her thighs to the conservatory's stone floor.

  Mesmerized, she stepped out of them.

  "Separate your legs, sweetheart. Show me you missed me too."

  Holding her gown bunched at her waist in front, she let her thighs drift apart, letting him see her body's wanton moisture.

  He sucked in his breath. "You are an incredibly responsive woman."

  The foreplay turned hot. Abandoned. But as much as she hungered for the pleasure Doyle offered, she resisted his persuasion. They mustn't make love. Not now. Not like this. Not with everything unresolved.

  "I have suddenly changed my mind about that dance," she said, her voice husky with arousal. "Dance w
ith me, Doyle."

  He chuckled. "And here I thought we were."

  She shook her head and sighed. "Not that kind of dancing. And not alone."

  He kissed her mouth. "Not alone," he whispered, patting her gown and petticoat back in place.

  He swept her along the stone floor, slowly swaying to the imagined beat of a stately waltz. "Only one dance," he decided for both of them. "Then, I make love to you."

  Encircled in his arms, he navigated her around the moonlit conservatory. Because of all the plants, there was hardly enough room to perform the dance steps, but for a large man, Doyle was graceful on his feet. He led her like a ballroom master, while crooning how beautiful she was in her ear, as they took a grand tour around the crystal room. He reeled her, twirled her, dipped her, gliding her under his arm until she was dizzy.

  Sensing her vertigo, Doyle held her close.

  "You are soft in all the right places, sweetheart. Like here for instance," he said, placing a large hand over her small breast. "What do you have here, hmm? Something just for me?" He smiled, then whistled off-key, "Ah yes, something just for me!"

  The darkness made his every touch that much more compelling. She felt every one of his fingers through the material of her gown. Her breasts peaked, divine torture, sweet arousal, his expert caress coaching her. And she was greedy, so greedy, for more.

  "I want you naked," he growled, unhooking, then removing her gown. "A bed, my pretty, must wait. I shall never make it into the house. Do you mind, darling?"

  And then Doyle was kissing her, his raw desire more moving, more eloquent, than a love song. The scope of his kisses became the extent of her world, his labored breaths the perimeter of her universe. The different plants, some sweet, some pungent, scented the humid air around them. And it was so quiet. The only sound was her underclothing, puddling at her feet.

  Naked, she faced him; her nudity the only honesty she could give him. "This will be the last time, Doyle. I leave for Boston on the morrow."

  Doyle shook his head, as if to clear it. "What did you say?"

  "I am returning to Boston. To wed Charles."

  Doyle washed his hands over his face. "Lily, I am trying to be patient, but give me credit for a modicum of intelligence. You don't love Charles."

  He took one step, and slanted his mouth on top of hers, bending her to him, owning her. He devoured her mouth; he ravaged her hair between his work-roughened fingers. And she responded like struck flint. Her passion for Doyle was akin to pain. She was burning up, fully engulfed in the flames.

  Only when she gasped for air did he release her. "I want you and you want me. Do not think to deny it."

  "I do want you," she panted. "Sexually. But I have a life in Boston, a career. I must get back to it."

  "You expect me to believe that shit?" He sneered.

  "I am to wed Charles. I long for the society life, for the respectability marriage to him will afford me."

  He staggered under the icy-cold splash of her words. "You were miserable in Boston. You came home exhausted, high-strung with nervousness."

  Bleakly, his hands roamed her shoulders, breasts, belly, between her legs.

  "You would give up this, what we have, for respectability?" he asked.

  She moaned. "I must be honest with you..."

  "Honest!" He laughed without mirth. "You lie even now! Why are you lying?" He shook his head again. "Never mind. Don't bother to answer. Go over there. To the table. You may leave here on the morrow, you may pretend to respectability then, but tonight you will be my whore. Damn you!"

  She backed up, her poised façade back in place.

  He tracked her movements in the dimness of the room like a falcon watches its peregrine mate. He loved her, she knew he did, even as she corrupted what they had together with her lies.

  "I did not withdraw. You might already be with child. My child, Lily. Will Charles take you back, knowing you carry another man's child?"

  When she said nothing, he touched her nipple the way she liked best. "Nothing would make me happier than to see my baby here." Lowering his head to the distended tip, he pulled her nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Hard. He worked his mouth over her, drawing her pap deeper, rasping her tender flesh with his teeth.

  "You are the only woman I ever wished to carry my baby. Do you even understand how much I yearn for a child with you? Can you fathom the extent of my desperation, knowing that I shall never have a child if I cannot have one with you?"

  "Oh Doyle..." she whispered, willing herself not to cry.

  His baby! Was she already with child, carrying the son he longed for?

  He raged, "Were all the pretty words you whispered lies?"

  "They weren't lies. I meant everything I said. But I must give Charles a second chance."

  His black eyes swept her body. "You cannot hide your feelings from me, any more than I can hide my feelings for you. Not in this. I don't understand what happened in the short time that I was gone, but I shall find out. I know you desire me."

  "I do, but it's only a carnal attraction."

  "I shall have you carnally tonight, Lily, and you will let me. Pound of flesh, remember?"

  "It will mean nothing," she bluffed, as she helplessly opened her legs for him.

  "No," he said harshly. "Not that way. I have yet to make you completely mine, but I intend to tonight."

  Now that she was leaving, he meant them to commit sodomy. Somehow, the unnatural congress seemed a fittingly final tribute to their tainted love. Though wrong, Lillian knew, as she had always known, that she would permit the forbidden act; she would experience it all, the light, as well as the dark side of Doyle's lovemaking. But, by permitting this intercourse, the last bastion of her respectability would have fallen. The Church, the law, society ... all forbade sodomy. After this eve, she would truly be a fallen woman, as lowly as the lowliest of whores.

  A pearl of anticipatory moisture rolled down her thigh from the notch between her legs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Lillian was spread over the worktable used for potting up plants.

  Beneath her, scattered leaves and tangled roots and discarded segments of stems stuck to her belly. It also seemed fitting, somehow, that she should find herself awaiting anal penetration amidst damp clumps of earth and rotting vegetation.

  "Open your buttocks for me," Doyle said.

  She cringed. Not because his demand was sorely lacking in romance, but because he would not allow her to be a passive recipient in this. Doyle was making her actively participate in her own ruination. That too seemed fitting.

  Resolved to experience the totality of his love, the light as well as the dark, she reached behind her back, and with two hands, clasped her bottom cheeks, pulling them apart, thus giving him unrestricted access to her body.

  "Now that is an inspired pose," he said dryly, stepping up behind her.

  His hot stare was not the stuff of poetry; her harsh, guttural moan would never appear in iambic pentameter. Then again, this act wasn't about the beauty of romance; this act was about the power of sex.

  "Am I stretched enough?" she asked.

  "We shall soon see." His finger went inside. "Still tight. There will be pain," he pronounced.

  "Good," she said, honest at least in this.

  His digit was withdrawn, and without further hesitation, his sex, blunt-ended and pre-come weeping, went between her buttocks. The enormous plum head circled the dimpled entrance to her anus.

  A courtship dance. She thought whimsically, the act not so very far removed from romance after all in her mind.

  They had never gone this far before. Prior to this, he had used only his fingers or the plug on her. And she was afraid, not so much of the potential for pain, but of admitting to herself just how much she desired this.

  "Look to your left," he said, withdrawing his erection. "To that mirror high on the wall. You will see everything I do in the glass."

  She angled her head to the left, her eyes goin
g wide in shock. Not because his hard male flesh looked huge in the glass--she had expected that--but because Doyle looked as dark and brooding as she had ever seen him look.

  And she looked as eager as she felt.

  Her nude body was white and narrow; even her hips were narrow. Her toppled breasts resembled snowy cones with raspberries tips. Her red hair dangled down her back, covering most of her bottom and all of her hands as she held herself open for him.

  Picking up her hair, he swept it over a shoulder.

  "For both of our enjoyment," he explained, baring her bottom to his gaze--and to hers now too with the aid of the mirror. "There is just something so enjoyable about seeing it go into a woman. More to the point, I shall enjoy watching you see my cock go in. My cock in your ass. Fancy that! You have given me permission to commit sodomy on you. With the seeing, I think perhaps you will understand how completely you are mine."

  He caught her eyes as he withdrew his erection. Held her gaze as he diligently coated the length of the shaft with a jelly-like substance from a tube removed from his jacket pocket.

  "I went shopping for this on my trip," he explained, slathering extra unguent on the angry looking head of his member. "I want this with you, Lily. And more importantly, you need it done. You will never feel entirely sure of my possession, never completely secure of my devotion, until this is accomplished."

  She started to cry.

  "Just so you know--there haven't been any other women, sweetheart. No models, no willing widows, no town tarts. Not in ten years, not since the day I realized that I loved you and wished to marry you. I told you I would wait for you the night that Frank died, and I have waited."

  He coated inside her anus with the lubricant. "I love you. Why won't you be honest with me and admit you love me too?"