“The door on the left is to the pantry,” he explained. “The other is a washroom with a door leading outside. Beyond that is a small herb garden. There are probably some vegetables growing there as well.”
She peered through the window, seeing nothing but the darkening water of the Atlantic. “Does that mean I shall be expected to cook?”
He laughed softly. “I’m not sure I trust you in the kitchen. After all, you claimed not to have had much experience in that area.”
She shrugged. “I could probably boil a potato or two.” Actually, she was a fair cook, despite what she’d told him.
“I think I shall be our chef, Ellie.”
“That suits me,” she answered. She ambled toward the doors she assumed went into the bedrooms, her nervousness increasing.
“Your luggage is in the room on the right,” he specified.
Her heart sank, but she answered cheerfully. “Thank you, Dante. I think I’ll put some things away, if you don’t mind.”
Anxious to be alone, she hurried inside and shut the door, briefly resting against it. A spermaceti candle enclosed in a clear, globe-shaped lamp was lit and placed on a crisply clean linen cloth that covered the bedside table.
She crossed to the bed and sat, sinking onto the luxurious stuffed feather bed. The quilt was a gaily colored patchwork style. There were extra quilts folded at the end of the bed.
Eleanor glanced around the room, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Well, she had thought this might happen; she would sleep alone. She wondered if there was anything she could do to change it.
She had made it very clear when they were marooned that she wanted to experience all the adventures availed to a married woman, although at that time, neither had known they would end up together. Even so, he couldn’t have forgotten. No, he hadn’t forgotten, he just wasn’t interested. And they had both understood that this was a business arrangement.
She stood, went to her valise, and opened it. With a weary sigh, she pulled out a long, silky item from her valise, paused and frowned. She brought the garment to the bed where there was more light and studied it. Why, it was a peignoir, sheer enough to read a book through!
Still frowning, she glanced back at her luggage, then at the gown. She returned to her valise and riffled through it, finding expensively embroidered camisoles, some with lace, others plain, eyelet lace trimmed split-crotch bloomers, soft, lawn petticoats and nothing, absolutely nothing familiar.
She flipped the latch on her trunk, flung it open, and saw not one piece of clothing that belonged to her.
With an exasperated cry, she rushed to the door and opened it. “Dante?”
He stepped in from outside. When he saw her expression, his own became worried. “Is something wrong?”
She could hardly get the words out fast enough. “Horace must have made a mistake. None of the clothes in my valise or trunk are mine. Whose are they?”
She caught her breath, then put her fists on her hips. “If he packed up your mistresses’ things and accidentally put them in the landaulette—”
“They are your things, Ellie,” he interrupted softly.
She swallowed and looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Mine?” With a quick shake of her head, she added, “I’ve never seen those clothes before.”
“I bought them for you.” He stepped into the pantry, returning with two bowls.
Still stunned, she stuttered, “I…you…you did?” When he nodded, she asked, “But why?”
“Because I wanted to,” he answered.
She chewed her bottom lip. “But how do you know they will fit me?”
He put plates and silverware on the rough hewed table then placed the bowls down in the middle. “I’m a pretty good judge of that.”
“Aha.” She gave him a scathing look. “Which comes, no doubt, from all your experience undressing mistresses.”
He shook a finger at her. “Now, Ellie,” he scolded, “we won’t talk of them, all right?”
Another sinking sensation. Right. It was best not to bring up his dalliances, especially on the honeymoon. “Well, what did you do with my clothes?”
“Do you really care?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Why don’t you go in and put your things away,” he suggested. “By the time you’re done. I’ll have supper ready.”
She stood for a moment, part of her feeling guilty for allowing him to prepare the meal, and part of her reeling from his admission that he’d bought her virtually an entirely new wardrobe. No one had ever done such a thing for her before. No one at all.
He glanced up, noting her indecision. “Get along, now.”
When she returned from the bedroom, their meal was ready. They sat down to a delicious repast of minced beef-filled corncakes, navy beans cooked with pork and molasses, and a succulent fish stew.
They finished the meal in front of the fire, each sipping a glass of rich, red port wine.
Eleanor listened to the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks. Although it was a lonely sound, it didn’t make her feel lonesome or sad. “Is there anyone else around?”
“No one at all,” he said.
“What made you decide to come up here?”
His gaze moved over her, slowly, deliberately. “I had my reasons.”
Eleanor squirmed, her corset suddenly binding and uncomfortable.
“Model your new underthings for me, Ellie,” he murmured.
The tempo of her heartbeat kicked up a notch, but she was suddenly shy. “I would feel foolish doing that.”
“Haven’t you ever done something foolish?”
She thought a moment, gnawing at her lower lip. “I don’t think so.”
“You should try it. I guarantee you’ll like it,” he promised.
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Here was her chance to draw him to her bed. But could she do it? For a brief moment, the face and luscious figure of Marguerite Banning loomed before her, and Eleanor knew that she could not compete with that.
“I’d be happy to model the clothes in the trunk,” she offered.
He barked a laugh. “Of course you would. Why not start with the wool-lined petticoat, or the pea jacket? Maybe you’d like to model my sack suit?”
She drained her wine goblet and stood, his harsh words what she deserved. “I’m sorry, Dante, I can’t do what you ask.” She rushed to her bedroom and slammed the door, wondering just what kind of fool she was.
The peignoir lay across the bed like a fallen gauze curtain. She picked it up and studied it, recalling that there had been no other type of nightgown in her valise.
Dante stared into the fire. What had he expected? That she, of all the women he knew, would simply disrobe and march around in her sensuous new underwear, just to please him? That wasn’t Eleanor.
But after learning a little about her wishes, desires, and passions, he thought it might happen. Hell, he had hoped it might.
He rose from the hearth and was about to go to his room when he heard a noise behind him.
Nineteen
Eleanor stood in the doorway. “I need something to read,” she stated, the peignoir shimmering like gossamer over her body.
Dante’s senses leaped to life, and he bit back a smile. “Of course you do.”
She straightened, unaware that in doing so, her tight-nippled breasts poked against the sheer fabric. “I did not come out here so you could ogle me.”
“Then why are you wearing that?” he taunted softly.
“Because you bought me nothing else to wear to bed, that’s why.” She sounded prim and tart.
He hid another smile. “You could have come out to find a book before you changed for bed.”
She moved toward the bookshelves, avoiding his gaze. The garment clung to her in places that would have made her blush, if she had been aware. “I didn’t think of it until I’d undressed.”
Light shimmered off her hair, making it look li
ke she wore a halo. She didn’t look all that angelic, however. “Lame excuse, Ellie.”
Ignoring him, she studied the books.
He strolled to the far corner of the shelf and removed the “sex” book. “You seemed inordinately interested in this one earlier.” He went behind her, put his arms around her, letting her loose breasts rest on his forearms.
She was the perfect height for him. If he bent his head slightly, he could nuzzle her ear. If they were ever to dance together, she would fit against him, the perfect partner. Not too short, not too tall.
He opened the book in front of her. The pages contained prints of erotic art carved in sandstone.
“Some scholars believed these sexual acts were an offering made to a deity. Even later,” he continued, murmuring close to her ear, “they were thought to be a secret code referring to exalted states of being.”
He breathed in her fragrance, the spicy aroma of her hair, the fresh, clean smell that was Eleanor, and briefly closed his eyes against the pleasure.
“But,” he continued, pressing lightly against her backside, “it’s hard to believe the figures represented are not having a good time. Don’t you agree?”
Her breath quickened, and he could sense the tension in her body as she leaned against him.
“I like this one,” he offered, moving his thumb over the picture of one man entering a woman from behind. Another woman stood by while the man stimulated her with his hand.
He flipped the page. “And here,” he said, pointing to a scene with a man and seven women in what appeared to be every man’s fantasy.
“Is that what men want? Seven women to satisfy their needs?” Her voice, although shaky, held a caustic edge.
“Oh, but look, Ellie. Notice that everyone is being satisfied, not just the man.” He waited while she studied the picture, knowing that it would excite her as it excited him, for while there was just one penis to go around, the women found other means of pleasuring themselves.
She shuddered against him.
“And, how about this one?” A woman was on her back, her legs spread wide while a man licked and stimulated her clitoris with his tongue. She, in turn, took the head of his penis into her mouth.
“People don’t actually do that, do they?” Her astonishment was absolutely free of the attempted aloofness she had manifested just moments before.
“People have been doing that since before they thought to draw it on cave walls or sculpt it in stone.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair and he wanted to drown himself in it.
She exhaled a long, shaky breath and leaned against him, her head lolling against his shoulder. “Is there a name for such things?”
“Cunnilingus,” he said, pointing to the one.
“Meaning?” Her body quaked against his.
‘“One who licks the vulva.’”
“Oh. My.” Both her voice and body trembled.
He pointed to the other. “Fellatio.”
Her breathing was shallow and rapid. “Meaning?”
“To suck.”
“I…I feel as if I’ve been living in a cave,” she answered, sounding flustered.
He closed the book, laid it on the table beside them, and turned her toward him. He took the braid that hung over her shoulder, loosening it so that her hair hung in long, loopy curls. “You look very beautiful in your peignoir, Ellie.”
“I’m not beautiful—”
“Don’t interrupt,” he ordered.
He put his arm around her waist, dipping his fingers lightly across her buttocks, and steered her toward the fire.
The outline of her body beneath the gown showed her rich, luscious curves. Her rose colored nipples teased the fabric. Lower, through the gauzy material, he could see the dark richness of her pelt; it was thick and soft to the touch, he remembered.
A wave of desire weakened him as he recalled the slick wetness of her when he had stroked her to orgasm. He slowly pulled her down to the rug in front of the hearth.
“I don’t know what we have here, Ellie, but it sure as hell isn’t a business arrangement.”
She answered with a jerky nod, her eyes wide and dark. “I know.”
He moved his hand up the outside of her thigh, over the peignoir, to the base of her buttocks. “When I came upon you on the island and you were changing into dry clothes, I couldn’t believe the beauty that had been hidden. Your buttocks,” he continued, “have delicious dimples. And your thighs are soft, the color of cream. The kind that every man dreams of being cushioned between. Did you know that?”
A tentative shake of her head as her eyes drifted closed.
“You have a tasty body, Ellie.”
She uttered a nervous laugh. “You are equating me with food, Dante.”
“That’s because I’d love to eat you. Nibble on your delectable, secret parts. Parts you would not even dream that I should touch with my lips and tongue.” He dipped and nuzzled her neck; she moved her head to give him access.
“Like…in the picture?” Her voice was a mere whisper.
“Exactly,” he assured her.
“But, I…I’m not beautiful, Dante, nor am I dainty, delicious, or delectable,” she said, her voice breathy as she exhaled.
“That’s what I thought at first, too. Your quick mind and acerbic tongue put me off, and I saw you as nothing but a termagant, out to make my life miserable.”
“I was,” she reminded him, moving so that her breasts were available for his touch.
He sat on the rug and drew her between his thighs.
“Are we going to talk?” she asked, murmuring softly.
He stroked her breasts, lifting, kneading, tugging gently at her nipples. He was hard. Ready for something, but he’d be damned if it was talk.
“Is that what you want?” His fingers moved lower, over her soft belly.
“We—” She inhaled sharply. “We could talk, couldn’t we?”
“Are you getting nervous?” His hand moved lower, his fingers finding her velvety pubic hair.
She hesitated a moment, then explained, “I…I have some marks on my abdomen, Dante. Marks left from my pregnancy. They’re quite unsightly.”
He rubbed his fingers over her thatch of hair. “So you’re warning me, is that it?”
Her legs scissored against the rug. “Yes.”
“I want to see them.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “As you wish.” She turned sideways, taking herself out of the shelter of his body and started to lift the gown. He stopped her.
“Take the gown off, Ellie.”
“All the way off?”
He nodded, and she stood, removed the gown, and held it in front of her. Her head was bowed, resigned, as though she waited for his rejection.
He caught a grin. “You look as though you’re going to your own execution.”
“It’s not a pretty sight.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
Dante rose to his knees in front of her and gently tugged the gown from her grasp, tossing it aside.
In the firelight, he studied her. Perfect breasts with hard, rosy nipples. Tiny ribcage that ended at a small waist. Hips that flared generously, rounded to perfection. Dusky pubic hair, thick and fine as ermine fur. And above it, below her navel, he saw them. Fine, silvery striations that glowed in the firelight.
Again, his desire quickened, thickening his blood, singing in his ears. He reached around her, pressed his palms against her buttocks and brought her to him. With his tongue, he slowly and deliberately traced the precious lines. Her body quaked and quivered, but she stood before him, allowing him to minister to what she believed were her imperfections.
Her hands went to his head, and she drove her fingers into his hair, shuddering quiet breaths.
He moved lower, allowing his tongue to graze the top of her mons, then lower, barely brushing against the top of her clitoris.
Her legs buckled, and he caught her, gently guiding her to the rug.
“Are t
hey not ugly?” she managed, though her voice trembled.
He took her onto his lap and held her, loving the feel of her naked flesh. “They are a badge of honor, and no such mark is ugly.” He touched them with his fingertips, memorizing their slight ridges and indentations.
His hand slid between her thighs and he groaned into her hair. “You’re wet, Ellie. So very, very wet.” One finger dipped inside. “And swollen. Your inner labia are swollen, and your clitoris,” he said, rubbing his thumb over it, “is engorged.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it this time?” Even though her voice shook with need, it held the dare; he could only respond to it.
“I’m going to get out of my clothes,” he began, reaching for a patience new to him, “and you’re going to watch.”
As he stood and removed his shirt, she found herself holding her breath. Her entire body hummed with a hunger so intense, she would plead with him to take her if she had to.
His dragon leaped to life as his shirt hit the floor, and she uttered a small cry as she remembered his pain. “We both have scars,” she reminded him. From the same man, she thought, but didn’t say.
He didn’t answer her, but he slowly removed his trousers, letting them pool around his feet before he kicked them aside.
Eleanor stared. A yearning swelled inside her. “It’s, it’s…big.”
“There are those who are larger,” he informed her.
She shook her head. “It is big enough. What would one do with a bigger one?” It was long and thick, and grew from a thick bush of black hair. The end, which had a bulb-shaped appearance, glistened in the firelight.
“Touch it, Ellie.” His voice was husky, raspy.
She shook her head again. “Oh, no.” But she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.
“Please,” he asked quietly. “Touch it.”
Eleanor got to her knees. Slick wetness slid down between her thighs, and she had an ache for him so deep, she thought she might fly into pieces.
She reached out and touched him, her fingers stroking lightly at first. “It’s so hard, yet like velvet on the outside,” she mused, amazed.
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