by Mary Campisi
She could not help but stare at his huge member which bobbed and jerked upon closer inspection. “It would never fit—” she hesitated “—anywhere.”
“I assure you, it would.” He stroked the pad of her thumb in circles reminiscent of another part of her body. Heat surged through her in great bolts. “But only with preparation, desire, and instruction. I would be a most willing teacher if you but let me.”
She gnawed on her bottom lip and shot a glance at his manhood. What knowledge she had of the workings between a man and woman in the bedroom were confined to snippets of gossip gathered over the years from the dwindling staff and Mr. Ogleby’s Position, the book she discovered in the back of Weston’s closet. While the first merely hinted at certain acts, the second expounded on them, though what or how they would actually be achieved was not certain. Still, if Simon believed her capable of the job, then surely he knew what he was about with greater certainty than she. He ran a hand along her thigh with casual precision creating new waves of desire that lessened her concerns about fit.
“Will you trust me, Madeline?”
When he looked at her like that she would agree to anything. “I will.”
He kissed the hollow of her neck and murmured, “There will be time for learning the various positions of lovemaking, but tonight, let us join in the most universal of all.”
How many positions were there exactly? Was he interested in all of them? When? She tingled with anticipation like a child with a newfound toy, Simon providing the ahem, toy. Curiosity won over and she inched a hand toward his open breeches and brushed his manhood. So hard and yet, so velvety soft. Not altogether unpleasant. She ran a finger the length of him. Simon cleared his throat. She circled him with thumb and forefinger. Stroked him. Twice. He groaned. He sucked in a breath. This stroking business was actually enjoyable, especially when accompanied by sounds and body jerking that could only mean she was providing pleasure. Madeline smiled and continued stroking in earnest.
Eight strokes later, Simon caught her hand and said in a hoarse voice, “If you do not stop now, there will be no lovemaking.”
“Because you prefer this?” She touched the tip of his manhood, surprised to discover it wet and slippery. This made the stroking faster, easier. Obviously, more enjoyable for Simon.
He thrust her hand away and levered himself between her legs. His expression grew fiercer and darker. “Because I am only a man and cannot withstand the pleasure of your crafty hand.”
He thought her crafty. In bed. She smiled at him and buried her fingers in his hair, anxious to show him just how crafty she could be. “Come to me, Simon.” She coaxed him forward so she could bear the full weight of him, chest to chest, hip to hip, sex to sex. He kissed her, buried his tongue deep inside her mouth until she moaned. She clung to him as his manhood pressed against the thin cotton of her nightgown, begging entry. She needed him inside. “Make love to me,” she whispered. “Now.”
“My sweet Madeline,” he breathed, a second before he yanked down his breeches and pushed aside her nightgown. Then he was pushing into her, bursting past her womanhood and filling her with his massiveness. Once sheathed inside, he stopped.
The fit was so very tight, like a wooden puzzle. She hoped this puzzle could be disassembled at some point without a modicum of pain or inconvenience. But what if it could not? What if they were, well, stuck? What if a physician were required—
“Madeline?”
“Yes?” She pictured Dr. Hastings peering at them from beneath his thick spectacles, a bottle of antiseptic in one hand, a large knife in the other. The pain was not the concern; the inability to dislodge from Simon’s manhood was the problem. “‘Tis fine,” she mumbled. Should she voice her worry? Simon had an opinion on most issues and would certainly have a thought on this matter. He must have been in this situation before, perhaps several times though she did not care to think about that at the moment. Perhaps if he twisted his hips one way and she turned hers the other, they would dislodge, much like the workings of a screw. She liked that idea, thought it splendid, when coupled with a quick jerk of hip—
Simon moved, just a hint, but sensation burst through her intimate parts and thoughts of dislodging lessened. When he increased the rhythm, the entire concern diminished. What heavenly titillations coursed through her, especially in her most private area!
“Do you like that, Madeline?” he whispered against her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
“I do,” she murmured. “Indeed, I do.”
He increased his movements, thrusting slowly in and out of her heat until she could think of nothing but his enormous manhood and her tingling heat. “More.” She dragged her fingers down his back, gripping his buttocks to pull him closer. “Faster. Yes.” She ran her tongue along his neck, clamped her mouth onto his shoulder. “Mmmm.” She jerked her hips to meet his, higher, faster, fuller. More! Simon increased his pace, pumping into her with groans that left no doubt his enjoyment equaled hers.
To think she wished to dislodge him? Heavens, she would keep him in this very position administering this very act, for hours if she could. Was that possible? One more thrust, deeper than the others and she could think no more, could only feel the deliciousness of Simon’s manhood pleasuring her, filling her with wondrous sensations that burst into every part of her body. Such pressure, such tantalizing fullness and friction. She could take no more. Good heavens, she could not. Madeline grabbed at his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his waist, lifted her hips to meet his, anything to bring him closer, deeper.
It was the tongue that did it. He captured hers and sucked with a greedy need as his manhood pounded into her with strength and purpose. Madeline stiffened, shattered and spun apart like the galaxy of stars she had recently read about, bursting into the universe. Indeed she may well have created her own star.
Simon buried his face in her hair and plunged into her, once, twice, three times with the frenzy of a madman who has lost control. He let out a groan and his body convulsed against hers as his hot seed poured into her, leaving no doubt he had found his own galaxy.
Chapter 15
Douglas lay on his back with Madeline’s head resting on his chest. Blast, but the woman had worn him out, not from physical exertion though. It was the damnable mental toughness required to withhold himself while he answered her questions about positions and such as though they were discussing the manner in which to devour a bowl of porridge. Thank God the little minx had stopped when he had taken matters into his own hands, or rather, his mouth, and planted it between her legs. If not, she might still be questioning and pondering.
She was the most inquisitive female he had ever encountered. Curiosity, intelligence, wit, Madeline possessed all of these along with a curious and eager nature toward the bedroom. How lucky could one man be?
“Simon?”
Damn, there was that name. He would have to come clean and soon if he held any hope of maintaining her burgeoning trust and newfound interest in him and his, ahem...attributes. “Yes, love?” Love, he liked calling her that. It smacked of intimacy. Emotional intimacy, something he had spent the majority of his life avoiding in relation to women. But Madeline was nothing like other women, not in her reaction to him, her honesty—in and out of the bedroom—and her lack of coquettishness, which most females depended upon to snare a mate. No willy-nilly flirting from this one.
“Are you asleep?” Madeline lifted her head to check on his state of slumber.
“Of course not. Do you think I tire because you have used my body at your will, bending and twisting it for your pleasure?” Would he ever tire of eyes the color of the indigo plant Ethan gifted him with several years ago? Or lips that tasted like strawberries left in the sun to swell and burst with flavor when plucked? Or the pretty blush that covered her face and neck? Damn, but he was expounding on the woman’s attributes like a besotted schoolboy. He must employ logic and reason at once and cease this idiocy before he could not form a thought. “I was me
rely considering.”
“Considering?” Her expression turned curious and a bit cautious. “Considering what?”
Get control of the situation before you lose control of everything. “Well,” he said, pretending lightheartedness, “I was considering we suit very well.”
“Suit well?” There was a breath of confusion before his meaning dawned on her and she said in a fluster, “Agreed.”
He would not mention how she challenged his mind or intruded upon his thoughts in ways no woman had ever been able to do. Wisps of a conversation, a tinkling of laughter, even a well-placed sarcasm clamored for attention. But he would tell her none of this, for if he did, he would have to agree with John Donne’s “No man is an island” bit, and furthermore, he might actually have to acknowledge Madeline was his safe harbor. Egad. Absolutely not. Instead of spouting the emotions filling his chest with the sticky sweetness of strawberry preserves, he sifted a lock of her hair through his fingers and said in a casual voice, “We fit together quite nicely, shoulder to shoulder, belly to belly, hip to hip.” He paused. “My—”
She clamped a hand over his mouth. “Point taken.” She removed her hand and confided in a conspiratorial whisper, “Though I did have my doubts at the outset.”
“You did?” He could not help himself. “Why?”
The whisper grew softer, more intense. “Has no one ever told you how very large you are?”
Good God, had she just asked him that? His lips twitched and he fought for seriousness. “It has been commented upon a time or two.” With moans of pleasure and screams of delight.
“It is a concern, I assure you of every woman who has ever—” she stumbled and blustered “—seen what is inside your breeches.”
A concern? “How so?” The women he knew considered his packaging a great delight. Some called it a beacon of pleasure. Or was that treasure? None had ever expressed concern but Madeline, the one woman whose opinion mattered. “Madeline?”
She suddenly grew intent with the scalloped edging on the sheet, so much so, she did not meet his gaze. Interesting, they had been ensconced in the damn thing for the past several hours and she had not paid it the slightest bit of attention.
“If you are unwilling to expound on the reasons for concern, you leave me no choice but to guess, beginning with the most obvious.”
She flashed him a warning look and said grudgingly, “I worried we would not fit. You are very large, overlarge actually.” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “I believe most men are not that large.”
“Do you speak from authority?”
She shook her head and a tumble of hair fell across his chest, arousing the overlarge piece of flesh in question. “Of course not, but that does not mean I have no knowledge of such things.” The look she cast upon him suggested she had seen her share of male flesh and was qualified to state her opinion. “I am quite knowledgeable in that area.”
She was? She could not be. Could she? Douglas cursed the damnable logic that fled his brain when Madeline was near. He must deal in facts, piece together information he knew to be true, not supposed based on Madeline’s pitch-patch comments. He would call her out on it. “How many private parts have you seen? On a male. A human male,” he corrected. “Horses and other barnyard animals do not qualify.”
She glared at him, only it was not a glare at all but an attempt at one that failed. Laughter bubbled out of her. “Quite clever. How could I have thought you dimwitted?”
He answered with a question of his own. “How could I have thought you cold and churlish?” His sex throbbed as her smile slid over him, landed on the sheet and spread.
“Books,” she responded, smoothing the sheet just above his belly which revealed the tent his arousal made. “I found certain gentleman’s books in Weston’s closet one day while searching for an old pair of breeches. Fortunately, Weston was away which allowed ample time to peruse the pages and study the contents. There were drawings, all quite detailed, but none with the same proportions as you.” She brushed a hand over the tented sheet and the overlarge subject in question jerked. “I do so enjoy watching it do that.” She sighed and outlined his hardness through the sheet. “As though it has a mind of its own.”
“It often does.” And right now it wants to pound into you.
“One day I found another sort of book.” Her eyes grew wide, her voice low. “Bound in black, titled Mr. Ogleby’s Position. I thought it might have to do with this Mr. Ogleby’s thoughts on certain matters, his position as such on things like war, love, duty. But it was not about that at all.”
Douglas had heard of Mr. Ogleby and his positions of which there were many. Madeline had looked at that? “What was it about?” The very thought of listening to her expound on Mr. Ogleby’s erotica made him even harder.
“They were positions between a man and woman. You know, like we did, though none involving the tongue…in that area.” Her brow furrowed as she studied the tent under her fingers. “But there were so many. Different angles, legs in the air, face up, face down, side to side, backside to front. I can barely remember a handful of them.” She looked up at him, her gaze coated with desire and curiosity. “Could we—” she paused, wet her lips “—do you think we might try a few of them. If I can recall what they are?”
An adventurous woman. The answer to every man’s fantasy. “If you can recall them, my sweet, we will most certainly endeavor to enjoy them. For those you cannot remember, I believe I may be able to supply a few of my own.”
She smiled then, a seductress’ smile of want and need. “Later today? Perhaps a picnic? I recall one such joining on a blanket under a tree.”
She was already anticipating their next encounter, and an out-of-doors joining at that. Men were not always so fortunate to find a mate who enjoyed the more carnal aspects of a relationship. Oh, he was indeed a lucky man. Only one problem stood between him and complete happiness. The truth about Douglas Fontaine. Once he dealt with that, he would ask Madeline to be his wife.
* * *
Madeline balanced a glass of milk and five of Mrs. Fowler’s sugar cookies on a tray. Simon had an apparent fondness for sweets which lent him to eat extra helpings of chocolate cake or lemon tarts or whatever Mrs. Fowler placed on the dessert tray. The desire for sweetness continued—something she had not noticed before but since her relationship with him had taken a jaunt to the bedroom, she had become most aware of his preferences. Just this morning he had told her she tasted as delectable as fine chocolate and last night after their third, ahem, encounter, he had likened her to a cherry tart. It would seem he had an affinity for confections of all sorts, most especially his favorite one—her. The first time he called her his sweetness, she had thought she misheard him. The second time, she had blushed. He had been referring to a most delicate part of her person at the time and she had never thought one would consider tasting that area, but, well, Simon had and he had not been disappointed. The third and subsequent times he spoke the endearment, her insides quivered and her body grew hot. She could no longer think of a confection without anticipating the sweetness that would follow in the form of his mouth, his hands, his tongue, his—
Good gracious, what was she about? Had she subconsciously decided to bring him the cookies so he might look at them as she had and remember the intimate moments they had shared? And hope for more, mayhap right there, in the barn with Matilda and her entourage of horses close at hand?
Of course not. She and Simon had a pre-arranged luncheon at the far end of the estate, away from curious eyes and casual intruders. Mrs. Fowler had already begun packing meat and cheeses and bunches of grapes. Madeline pictured Simon’s head resting in her lap as she fed him grapes. She would offer him sugar cookies too, as she stroked his hair and melted from the heat in those silver eyes. Oh, but the man could tempt a legion of maidens with that hot gaze and hotter touch. He need not even give a complete smile to render her senseless, a simple twitch of lips did the trick.
Now here she was
with her own brand of temptation in the form of cookies and milk. A thoughtful gesture, nothing more. Simon was a large man with a large appetite and moderate courses did not always satisfy him. Desire flooded her insides as she considered his body, including the part no proper lady should consider. She could have gone on thinking of confection and Simon’s most recent promise to show her the delights of drizzled chocolate along her belly, when a blast of dratted shouting interrupted her.
“Get the hell out of here before I throw you out!”
Simon? Who was he speaking to in such a manner?
“I’ll do no such thing. You’re behaving in a most irrational manner.”
The voice belonged to a man, a gentleman from the sound of it. Madeline inched closer.
“I own this place and I’ll do with it as I please.”
Good for Simon. He was indeed acting the owner of Lingionine with authority. But why? Who was the other man? She peered through the opening of the barn and once she saw him, she knew. It was Douglas Fontaine! Weston had indeed been accurate in his description, for the man was well-dressed, obviously a gentleman, with an air about him that spoke of wealth, privilege, and deceit.
“You will leave this moment,” Simon said, stepping closer to the other man. “I command it.”
“And what will you do if I refuse? Punch me? Clang me over the head with a shovel?”
“Do not tempt me,” Simon ground out, fists clenched and ready.
No, Douglas Fontaine could not leave yet, not until she secured the deed from him. Madeline kicked open the door and entered with a cheery, “Why hello, Mr. Fontaine. We’ve been expecting you.” The man appeared taken aback for a moment but then his golden features relaxed and he smiled. Devilishly handsome sort. She bet he had smiled the pantaloons off more than one female. She avoided looking at Simon. He would no doubt be furious at the intrusion. He did so believe her incapable of taking care of herself but she would show him how brains could outwit brawn. Not that she thought him unintelligent for she had long since adjusted her thinking. Simon was indeed a competent, knowledgeable man, but he was still a man and therefore, not as crafty or cunning as she. The trap had been set for their guest. Now all she need do was tighten it. She smiled at Douglas Fontaine and extended her tray. “Care for a sugar cookie, Mr. Fontaine?”