Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  Kneeling by his bed, she whispered in his ear, her fingers trailing gently the length of his cheek and down his neck. The coverlet had slipped from his neck. How broad his chest was, how muscular his arms. How very, very young.

  “Come, chéri,” she whispered.

  Reuben woke, instantly aware of her presence. He lay quietly, giving himself up to her touch and her scent. He shuddered and felt her smile in the moonlight.

  “Come with me now, to my room.”

  Reuben swung his legs over the side of the bed, his hands clutching the edge of the plump mattress. Mickey dropped her head into his lap, and he shuddered. She was whispering again as her tongue did strange things to him, things he never wanted to stop. He drew in his breath, expelling it in a loud hiss. With all the force he could muster, he grasped her shoulders and pushed her backward. Heedless now, he stood in his nakedness, staring down at her. At last he reached for her and drew her up and close. With one fluid motion he enfolded her into his arms and in seconds they were both in bed.

  Eager to be close to him, Mickey knew no shame. Her fingers tore at her gown as she urged him with her hushed whispers and moist kisses to remove it. Oh, to be finally naked against him, to teach him her special secrets!

  His mouth sought hers, his arms locked her in a hard embrace. Wave after wave of desire coursed through her as she answered his kisses and inspired his caresses. Her tongue darted into the warm recesses of his mouth; her arms wound around him, making him her prisoner. Soft hands caressed and stroked her back, smoothing along the curve of her waist to the fullness of her hips and bottom, pressing her close to her desire. Her breasts were taut and full beneath his hands. Soft moans escaped her parted lips as he aroused her to the heights of her passion. He devoured her with his eyes, covered her with his lips, igniting her sensuality with teasing touches of his tongue against her fiery skin. His fingertips grazed the sleekness of her inner thighs, and, helpless, she felt her body arch against his hand with a will of its own, to aid in his explorations.

  His mouth became part of her own, and she heard her heart beat in wild and rapid rhythms. They strained toward each other, imprisoned by the designs of yearning, caught in an embrace that ascended the obstacles of the flesh and strove to join breath and blood, body and spirit.

  Gently, in the darkened room, he laid her back against the pillows, leaning over her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the heady fragrance that was hers alone. Blazing a trail from her throat, his lips covered her unguarded breast, and she shivered with exquisite anticipation. Gradually she became unaware of her surroundings, oblivious to time and place; she knew only that her body was reacting to this man, pleasure radiating outward from some hidden depth within her. She allowed herself to be transported by it, incapable of stopping the forward thrust of his desires, spinning out of time and space into the soft consuming mists of her sensuality.

  Her emotions careened and clashed, grew confused and wild, her perceptions thrumming and beating wherever he touched her. And when he moved away from her she felt alone. When he returned she was whole again, wanting and needing, wanting to be needed in return. The feverish heat of his skin seemed to singe her fingers as she traced inquisitive patterns over his arms and back and down over his sleek, muscular thighs.

  Reuben had never touched a woman this way, but somehow he knew he could touch a thousand women and none would feel the same to him as this one. None could have the unexpectedly smooth skin that tantalized his fingers and tempted him to seek more secret places.

  Suddenly the room grew dark, jealously veiling the sight of him from her eyes. She wanted to see him, to know him, behold the places her fingers yearned to find and her lips hungered to kiss. “The lamp,” she whispered, hardly daring to make a sound, afraid to break the spell. She barely recognized her voice; it sounded husky, throaty, sensuous, even to her own ears. “I want to see you,” she whispered brazenly. “I want to know you, like this…naked. All of you.” It was a plea, a demand, exciting him with its fervor, arousing his desires for her to a fever pitch.

  Soft, golden light flooded the room, and he stood there before her, just out of reach. Her gaze covered him, sizzling and searing, lingering at the swell of his manhood and grazing over his flat, hard stomach. Dark patterns of lustrous curling hair molded his form into planes and valleys, covering his chest and narrowing to a thin, elongated arrow that pointed below. Thighs thick with muscle supported him, the scars of his wound breaking her heart. His torso tapered and broadened again for the width of his chest. Her arms stretched out for him, beckoning him to her.

  He was filled with an exhilarating power…the power that only a woman can give a man when she reveals her desire for him, welcoming him into her embrace, giving as well as taking, trusting him to carry her to the highest star, where passion is food for the gods and satisfaction is its own reward.

  In the lamplight he gazed down at her, possessing her, held in the spell of the moment, watching her eyes travel the length of his body. Her lips parted, full and ripe, revealing the pink tip of her tongue as she moistened them. She was leaning back against the pillows, one knee bent, hiding her most secret place from his sight. Breasts proud, their coral tips erect, invited his hands and his lips. When he reached out to touch her, an answering voluptuous stretch revealed her womanhood where a fine feathering of downy hair caught the light, gilding her body in a soft, shimmering glow. She was beautiful, this lioness with the hungry eyes, beautiful and desirable, setting his pulses pounding anew, unleashing a driving need in him to satiate himself in her charms, to quell this hunger she created in him and to salve an appetite for her that was ravenous, voracious.

  He moved into her embrace, felt her arms surround his hips, aware that she rested her cheek sweetly against the flat of his stomach, rubbing against his soft, curling hairs. His hands found the pins in her hair, pulling them impatiently, removing them, eager to see its dark wealth tumble about her shoulders and curl around her breasts. Silky chestnut strands, scented and shining, rippled through his fingers, cascading from his hands down the smooth length of her back and onto the pillows. She lifted her head, looking at him, her eyes heavy with passion. He had been right in likening her to a lion, a wildcat of the jungle. Dark lashes created shadows on her high cheekbones; upward-winging brows delineated her features. The full, ripe body, tinged with gilt, tempted his hands and invited his lips.

  Her teasing touches grazed his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, slipping between them and rising higher and higher. She took in with her eyes all she touched with her fingers, the masculine hardness of him, feeling it pulsate with anticipation of her touch; and when her hand closed over him, a deep rumbling sounded in his chest, issuing from his lips in a barely audible moan.

  He lay down beside her, reaching for her, covering her breasts with his hands, seeking them with his lips. But her appetite for him had not been satisfied, and she lifted herself onto her elbow, leaning over him, her hair draping over her shoulder to create a curtain between them. Again she touched him, running the tips of her fingers down his chest, hearing his small gasp of pleasure. The flat of her palm grazed his belly, and her lips followed her hand’s downward slope.

  The swell of her hips and the rounded fullness of her bottom filled him with a throbbing urgency. Nothing short of having her, of losing himself in her, would satisfy. He was afraid the touch of her lips would drive him over the edge, past the point of no return. Impatiently he drew her upward, pushing her back against the pillows, trapping her with his weight. He wanted to plunder her, drive himself into her, slake his thirst, knowing his needs could be met only in her.

  Her mouth was swollen, passion-bruised, and tasting of himself. Her arms wound around him, holding him close as she pressed against him. His hand caressed her breast, just skimming the rosy tip, and his lips followed hungrily, tasting and teasing until a golden warmth spread through her veins, quickening her already erratic pulse. Her hair became entangled round his neck, and he brushed it aside
before resuming his sensual exploration. His lips lingered now in the place where her arm joined her body, then traced a patternless path back to her full, heaving breasts. She clung to the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms, afraid she would fall into a yawning abyss where flames were fed by passion.

  His hands spanned her waist, tightening their grip to lift her above him. His mouth tortured her with teasing flicks of his tongue, making her shudder with unreleased passion. She curled her fingers into his night-dark hair, pushing him backward, away, pleading that he end the torment, only to follow his greedy mouth with her body, straining her flesh against his.

  A throbbing ache spread through her, demanding to be satisfied, making her seek relief by the involuntary roll of her hips against the length of his thigh. He held her there, forcing her bottom forward, driving her pelvis against him.

  Suddenly he shifted, throwing her backward and settling on top of her, looming over her. For a thousand times, it seemed, his lips and hands traveled her body, starting at the pulse point near her throat and seeming to end at her toes.

  He whispered French words of love, words she’d taught him, praising her beauty, celebrating her sensuality. Her body seemed to have a life of its own, and she succumbed to it, turning, opening like the petals of a flower. His searching fingers adored her, his hungry mouth worshiped her. Lower and lower his kisses trailed, covering the tautness of her belly and slipping down to the softness between her thighs.

  She felt him move upon her, demanding her response, tantalizing her with his mouth, bringing her ever closer to that which had always eluded her and kept itself nameless for her. Her body flamed beneath his touch, offering itself to him, arching and writhing, reveling in the sensation that was within her grasp, reveling in her own femininity. She felt as though she were separated from herself, that the world was comprised only of her aching need and his lips. Exotically sweet, thunderously compelling, her need urged him on, the same need that lifted her upward, upward, soaring and victorious, defeating her barriers, conquering her reserves, bringing her beyond the threshold of a delicious rapture never dreamed of or suspected, even in her fantasies.

  And when his mouth closed over hers once again, he had proved her a woman and had not cursed her for it. He had allowed her to rise victorious in her passions, leaving her breathless and with the knowledge that there was more, much more. She was satisfied yet discontent; fed and yet famished. She wanted to share the ecstasy he had given her, participate in the sharing, and only with him.

  Grasping her hips, he lifted her as though she were weightless. He brought her parted thighs around him, and when he drove downward, she felt as if she were being consumed by a totally different fire—one that burned still but left the sensibilities intact. Yet there was that same driving need deep within her, deeper and more elusive than she had experienced the first time. She struggled to bring herself closer, needing to be part of him this time, needing him to be part of herself. These fires burned deeper, brighter, fueled by his need for her, his hunger to be satisfied.

  Tears glistened on her cheeks. She was triumphant, powerful, a woman. In this man’s arms she knew she had been born for this moment, that all her life had been leading up to what she was experiencing with this magnificent American. Together they had found the secrets of the universe.

  Reuben lay back among the pillows, Mickey cradled against his chest. He knew that there would never be a moment to equal what he’d just experienced. There would be other women, he was sure of it, perhaps even a wife someday, but they would never do for him what this woman had just done. He closed his eyes and listened to his heart pound.

  His last conscious thought before drifting off into a contented sleep was, George, you son of a bitch, you didn’t tell me the half of it.

  The purple dawn was wrapping its arms around the château when Mickey crept from Reuben’s bed and made her way down the hall to her own room.

  How cold and forlorn her bed felt. She wanted to be back in Reuben’s bed with her head on his shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She’d known it would be like this…and now there was nothing she could do. She’d tasted her fill of the American, and she wanted more. Would always want more.

  But how long would she be able to keep him? Six months, a year? At forty-three, she was old enough to be his mother. Hardly the basis for an enduring romance. In the end, would he be the one to ask to leave, or would she send him on his way? Where in the world would she get that kind of strength? Oh, why hadn’t she listened to herself, to that little voice that had warned her?

  Chapter Four

  Sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, Daniel knew immediately that something had changed. There was a different look about Reuben, a softer, more mellow expression around the lines of his mouth. There was a glint in his friend’s eyes and a ready smile about to break across his face. Mickey positively bloomed. Daniel was quick to notice that she had allowed the natural brightness of her eyes to replace even the smallest traces of makeup. She appeared younger, even more vital than before, and the smile that played about her lips was almost coquettish, like that of a young girl keeping a secret. Even Mickey’s usual lively chatter was no distraction from the way her eyes glowed each time she allowed herself a glance at Reuben.

  Thus Daniel arrived at the obvious conclusion: Reuben and Mickey had finally tumbled into bed together. The thought provoked a certain ambivalence in him. On the one hand he was glad for his friend because they both deserved the best life had to offer; but there was a certain sadness in him because he was going to be left at the gate when the three of them became two. He sighed, recognizing that the idyllic perfection of his time at the château might soon be ending. Perhaps not, he thought, remembering Bebe Rosen’s visit after Thanksgiving.

  “Ah, chéri, your thoughts are elsewhere this morning, and they are not pleasant, I think,” Mickey said suddenly, breaking into his reverie. Her smile was as bright as a summer day and seemed to envelop him in its warmth. “Did you hear a word I said?”

  “I’m sorry, Mickey. I was”—he searched for the right phrase—“woolgathering.”

  “I said I was going to the village this morning to bring you the tutor. You are ready for this next step in your studies. Monsieur Pierre Faroux is a scholar. Extraordinaire. He will read to you and he will teach you whatever you wish, philosophy, language, law, art, music. He is a rare individual. He was a wonderful friend to my husband and myself. He will take you under his wing, chéri, and in six months, a year, you will be eligible for any university you choose.”

  “Mickey, I never even finished high school. I can’t afford college, and law school seems a million miles away. Reuben’s got all these ideas but…I just don’t see how—”

  “Bah! Your mind is quick as lightning. Begin today solving the future’s problems! Be gracious. Let Monsieur Faroux share his knowledge with you. He is an old man now with nothing in his life but his books. And you love the books. You will make him happy.”

  “I’ll try,” Daniel conceded. He glanced at Reuben.

  “Mickey’s going to teach me to drive the motorcar today, Daniel. So while you’re having lessons I will be gadding about the countryside.” Reuben hesitated, realizing how that sounded. “Do you think that’s unfair?” he asked.

  Daniel pretended not to hear the anxiety in Reuben’s voice. “Of course it’s fair. Please don’t crash into a tree this first time out, or run over a cow.”

  “You worry too much, Daniel.”

  And you don’t worry enough, my friend, Daniel thought to himself. Six months, a year, she’d said. Had Reuben picked up on her intimation? And if so, how did he feel about it?

  Monsieur Faroux arrived two hours late; he, too, had celebrated the Armistice. He was a little man with a shock of white hair that stood on end, making him appear taller. His mustache was spiky and also white, curling at the ends. He possessed incredible eyes, the color of taffy, crowned by the same white spiky hairs as his mustache. He wore a he
avy wool sweater two sizes too large and baggy trousers that had once been black but were now muddy gray. His hands, though, were of a much younger man, the fingers perfect for playing the piano or violin. But it was the taffy-colored eyes that mesmerized Daniel: he read in them all the things Mickey had said about the old scholar. He worshiped the old tutor on sight and flushed when the Frenchman kissed him soundly on both cheeks.

  “So, you are my new élève! Come, we go to the library at once so I can choose our lessons for the day. Go, go, you are in my way,” he said to Mickey and Reuben, shooing them toward the door.

  “Come, chéri, we are in the way here. Daniel, do not forget to have your eye treatment and you must rest for a while. Pierre will read to you when you have the compresses on your eyes.”

  “Yes, yes I will see to everything. Go, so we can begin our work.”

  Reuben searched Daniel’s eyes to see if he was in agreement. What he saw there assured him. Except for the day his bandages came off, Daniel was the happiest he’d ever seen him.

  Reuben and Mickey strolled side by side to the barn. He wanted to say something to her, to tell her how wonderful the night before had been, but her behavior was so casual, so…so ordinary, as though nothing had happened between them. He didn’t want to be gauche, so he contented himself by returning her warm smiles.

  George had said you never let a woman know how important she is to you. Never let her see how much you want to bed her. You’re a man, that’s taken for granted. Women know their place, and it’s next to a man, when that man wants them.