Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine nodded frantically; a tear fell onto her neck, slowly travelling downward.

  ‘Then you have your answer.’ Carstairs blinked back a tear of his own. ‘Your answer, and me, until death.’

  There was a moment of deep, holy silence. Then, with a breathless cry that Carstairs knew he would hear in his heart for the rest of his life, Catherine moved closer.

  When the kiss came, Catherine’s lips feverishly seeking his with all the wild abandon of the snowstorm that raged outside, Carstairs felt every last trace of his resistance burn to ash. She was here, open, giving herself to him, her kisses fire and honey and salvation all at once, and he was damned if he would refuse such a gift. Damned if he would waste the chance, after years of longing, to show her what love could feel like. At first he held back, not wishing to frighten her—but the ardency in her kiss, the aching want he felt humming in her, convinced him that she would welcome eagerness.

  With a low, heartfelt sigh he leaned into the kiss, matching her passion, feeling her shiver as his tongue brushed against hers. Why had they ever wasted time speaking to one another; this was the only way to truly hear the other—to commune more deeply than words could ever reach. Years of restraint, of silence, of pacing the borders of their understanding, were vanishing with every sweet, sinuous movement of her mouth.

  He remembered with a delicious shock that he had hands; hands he could use. Moving his fingers from her face, feeling a jolt of desire as his fingertips briefly brushed against her hair, Carstairs brought his hands to Catherine’s waist.

  A deep, giddy thrill ran through him as he touched her. Finally he could touch her; touch her as he had always wanted to, but never could. His hands roamed over her back, her shoulders, his fingers taking joyous possession of her body as her mouth sighed softly against his. The satin of the gown was almost as erotic a thrill as the bare flesh that he felt beneath it; she was his lady, dressed as she should be, clothed in the finery that she deserved.

  There was so much of her that he wanted to kiss. With a rush of lust he moved from her mouth to her jawline, kissing along it, then from her cheekbones to the tip of her nose. Catherine closed her eyes; Carstairs gently kissed her closed eyelids, feeling her shiver under his touch, moving back to her mouth with a small, irrepressible growl of want. This time he kissed deeper, harder; she kissed him back in kind, her wildness breaking through again, making his cock stiffen and swell to a point of aching hardness.

  Slowly, slowly, touching usurped kissing. Catherine’s hands were as busy as his; they roamed shamelessly, moving from his back to his shoulders to his hips with a kind of marvelling touch as Carstairs gripped her waist, then her hips, hardly able to believe that he could touch her with such a lack of restraint. He didn’t give a damn about her gown anymore; not the level of craftsmanship, not the attention to detail, not the patience with which the gown had been constructed. All he cared about was that it covered Catherine’s body; the body he needed to see with a desperation that shocked him.

  Evidently Catherine shared the same need. It became a silent conversation; a dialogue of kisses and sighs and fumbling with buttons and stays, of gasps of mutual pleasure as hands finally touched bare skin. All too slowly the gown slowly fell from her shoulders, then her waist, then her hips—until Catherine, with a burst of laughter, rested her head against Carstairs’ shoulder.

  ‘I cannot believe I managed to put this on alone.’ The smile in her voice warmed Carstairs to his core. ‘It clearly requires at least two people.’

  ‘It is something we can consider after the fact.’ Carstairs slowly stroked his hand down her back, revelling in the delicate feel of her chemise-covered skin; the linen was so thin that he could feel the heat of her body against his fingertips. The shape of her body, admired from afar for so long, was now definite and real; the delicious weight of her breasts, the curves of her hips. ‘But we will need to remove it before we can even consider putting it back on. One cannot put the cart before the horse.’

  ‘A practical man is such a gift in any number of situations.’ Catherine slowly fingered the linen of his shirt; Carstairs held his breath, unable to believe how erotic the movements of her fingers were against his skin. ‘… John?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have there been—’

  ‘No.’ He knew what she wanted to say before she said it. ‘No women.’

  ‘Not a single—’

  ‘Before I came here, many. After I came here, none.’ He looked down, suddenly shamefaced. ‘I… I tried. Sometimes. But I could not.’

  ‘I am glad.’ Catherine looked at him, smiling in a slightly embarrassed way. ‘Is is wrong, to be glad?’

  ‘No. I am just as glad.’ A sudden doubt came to Carstairs. ‘Have… have you…’

  Catherine’s eyes widened. ‘I—no. Gosh. Apart from… apart from him, before, no. No-one.’ She blinked, clearly shocked. ‘Where on earth would I have found the time? Or an appropriate location?’

  ‘Innumerable ladies in fine houses have found both appropriate times and places. The stories you could hear.’ Carstairs closed his eyes, smiling as he shook his head at his own foolishness. ‘I… I cannot say I would not have minded, but I also cannot say I would have seen wrong in it.’

  ‘And I would say the same for you.’ Lady Chiltern moved closer, murmuring the words against his neck. ‘But… we need not think of them now. The women and men that came before—or did not.’

  ‘No. We need not.’ Carstairs almost spoke the words that rose to his mind, but bit them back. Because, God willing, no-one will come after.

  He resumed his attentions with even more ardent concentration. Soon the gown was forgotten entirely, kicked into a luxurious if dishevelled pile a little way away, as Catherine stood before him in nothing but her chemise. She had clearly left at least some of her underclothes in the morning room, where she had changed; the thought sent another surge of lust through Carstairs’ mind as he undressed, moving more quickly than Catherine’s eager hands as he kicked his breeches to join her gown. Standing in his linen shirt and drawers, acutely aware of the heat of her body as he reached for her, he suppressed a moan of pure longing as she pressed tightly against him.

  Perfect. With a hand that trembled slightly, he stroked along the curve of her hip; upward over her waist, pausing at the underside of her breast. Perfect beyond measure. As Catherine nodded, mutely urging him onward, he brought his hand up to cup her flesh; to stroke over her delicate skin, his thumb circling her nipple through her thin chemise. They sighed together; the moment was so needed, so right, that even the smallest movement of his fingers caused a swift reaction that shivered through them both.

  Now that his hands were busy, his mouth felt unoccupied once more. He kissed Catherine again, harder this time; more unabashed in his lust, his longing. Her response was even more ardent; she gasped through the kiss as he stroked her breasts, cupping her with both hands, his cock hard and straining against her soft white thighs as he began grinding against her, unable to stop himself.

  Slowly, every action taking on the significance of something written long ago, his kisses moved downwards. Back to her neck again, the creamy white line of her throat; back to her shoulders, trembling as he kissed them. Briefly leaving her breasts, he tugged aggressively at the delicate bodice of her chemise—only pausing as Catherine’s hands eagerly joined his, pulling the garment downward to settle at her hips.

  She was half-naked, waiting, his. Carstairs looked at her for a brief, burning moment of pure desire, committing the sight of her to memory, before moving his mouth to her breasts.

  Her high, gasping cry of pleasure sustained him. She was no maid; she was stronger than him, and always had been. She could take the full force of his passion; take his teeth grazing against her erect nipples, his tongue insistent against her reddened, love-marked flesh as he held her to him, moving from one nipple to the other as Catherine’s breathless cries of surprised pleasure hardened his cock all the
more. He could live here, his head between her breasts—make his home at her feet, worshipping her body, making up for all those years of lost time.

  Catherine’s hands moved up his back, tangling her fingers in his hair as she pulled him upward. Carstairs amended his fantasy; he would make his home at her feet, worshipping her body, with Catherine an active participant in her own pleasure. The most perfect future he could imagine.

  ‘More.’ Her shy, slightly embarrassed whisper made his cock stir. ‘More, please.’

  Carstairs ran his fingers over her nipples, smiling at her gasp. ‘More of this?’

  ‘Yes, but—but no. Later. Which is not to say I do not—I want you to do both, but you do not have two mouths. And I have but one body.’ Catherine swallowed, looking at him. ‘And if I do not—if I do not feel you, everywhere—I feel as if I may die. It is most distressing.’

  ‘My lady, you are rushing.’

  ‘I know.’ Catherine bit her lip. ‘Do you not wish to rush? Not even a little bit?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Carstairs brought her hand to his lips, kissing it as he revelled in her sweet, ardent frankness. ‘But rushing will not bring you what you seek.’

  ‘I believe I seek oblivion, of a kind. The oblivion that pleasure brings, and—and you, among the ruins.’ Catherine’s words caught him deep in his core, stirring both his lust and his heart. ‘Will rushing really not bring me such a thing?’

  ‘That, I cannot know.’

  ‘I thought not.’ She smiled, and Carstairs fought the urge to kneel. ‘But then, neither can I. So perhaps we can go a little faster—but not as fast as I would wish.’

  Carstairs couldn’t resist an answering smile. ‘I aim to disappoint, my lady.’

  ‘What a pity.’ Lady Chiltern slowly moved her body against his; Carstairs gasped as her linen-clad hips ground seductively against his cock. ‘You are failing completely at that.’

  What was there to do, other than obey his lady? Carstairs silently thanked God as her returned to her body, kissing the valley between her breasts as he tugged her chemise down over her hips. Her nakedness was glorious, her body smooth and glowing in the firelight, the dark patch of curls below her navel as tantalising as her hands as they pulled his shirt over her head, revealing his bared chest. Yes, he needed to be naked too; there was to be nothing between them now, no title or class or history—not even clothes.

  He gently pushed away Catherine’s hands as he pulled his drawers downward; he did not wish to frighten her with his readiness. As he kicked away the linens he had been wearing, his cock stiff in the firelight, Catherine’s small gasp filled him with a mixture of pride and intense vulnerability.

  No words were needed at this precise moment. All that could be said was present in Catherine’s face; the surprise, the pleasure, the need. With a hoarse, grateful sigh at being alive, being where he so desperately wanted to be, Carstairs pulled Catherine back into his arms.

  The feel of her naked skin against his own was divine; a swift, savage thrill of possession ran through him, more animal than human, surprising even himself with its force. He had always imagined exploring her with a sort of detached, loving idea of service; his own pleasure had barely come into it, except in the midst of his wildest fantasies. But as he held her now, Carstairs realised that it would not, could not be the case; he was no servant now, not here, with her in his arms. He was a man, with a man’s needs, in front of a woman who would welcome everything he wanted.

  It was no work at all to kneel with her, building a makeshift bed from the pile of blankets they had meant to sleep on. With the heat of the fire warming him, he began to explore her body.

  A blend of selfish lust and selfless service guided his mouth and hands; he touched the parts of her that he had always wanted to touch, her hips and breasts and the warm, curved plane of her stomach, listening all the while for her reaction. Her gasps, her moans, guided him to where he needed to stay—her nipples, still stiff and wine-dark from his earlier attentions, as well as the soft white skin of her upper arms. As he moved downwards, her hands trailing over his back as he kissed his way along her rounded hips, Carstairs felt his cock slide over her flushed skin with a pained lightning-bolt of pure want.

  There was so much else to explore below her waist; to stroke and kiss and lavish his attention on, as Catherine moaned out her agreement. Her delicate ankles, her slim calves, her red thighs that blushed as he kissed them; all of her was a rich feast of the senses, an abandon beyond imagining. But even as he lingered at the undiscovered parts of her, mapping her with his hands and tongue, the patch of slick, springy curls at the meeting of her thighs attracted him more with every passing moment.

  As Catherine’s hands gently but firmly guided her upwards, Carstairs realised with a shock that she felt much the same as him. He felt her thighs shift, opening as she placed him between them—his face inches from her sex, as she looked at him with a gaze that mingled anxiety and want.

  Carstairs breathed softly on her dark curls, watching Catherine tremble as her hands tightened in his hair. ‘Do you know what you are asking me to do?’

  ‘... I do not know how to ask for it.’

  ‘Have you—’ Carstairs struggled to phrase it, more than aware that Catherine had probably not done anything of the kind during her marriage. ‘Is this—’

  ‘No. I have no idea what you wish to do, but I am beginning to suspect.’ Catherine bit her lip, her hands gently cupping Carstairs’ face. ‘I cannot say the practice is something I have heard of openly—although I believe I have heard hints.’

  ‘I see.’ Carstairs couldn’t resist the swift flash of anger; how could any man have denied her this pleasure? She deserved to have at least been introduced to the practice. ‘As this is new to you… will you allow me to show you? Will you let me?’

  ‘Allow you? Let you? I—I want you to. Very much.’ Catherine’s face, flushed and wild-eyed, brought Carstairs back to himself. ‘Must everything be a question of permission?’

  ‘Of course it must. It is.’ Carstairs brought his fingers to Catherine’s thighs, restraining a moan at the silken, yielding softness of her flesh against his palms. ‘Do I have your permission?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, yes, and yes, and yes again.’ Catherine looked at him, her eyes alive with a giddy frustration that brought a smile to Carstairs’ face. ‘And please, do not stop until I explicitly command you to.’

  ‘Command?’ Carstairs couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘Goodness. I—I do not know why I chose such a word.’ Catherine smiled weakly. ‘Perhaps it is your current position.’

  ‘An accurate point.’ Carstairs gently kissed her inner thigh, feeling a shudder of pleasure ripple through her Catherine’s body. ‘And we both know, I think, that you could command me to do anything. Everything.’

  ‘Good.’ Catherine laughed. ‘Then do anything. And everything.’

  She could always surprise him; even now, after all this time. Carstairs, softly breathing once again on her dark, waiting mound, slowly parted her lips with his tongue.

  How sweet she tastes. It was the only coherent thought he could muster as he lapped at her, head bent between her thighs, eyes closed as he lavished attention on her flushed, quivering core. He had always wanted to kiss her like this; kiss her as intimately as he could, hands gripping her thighs as he licked his way to her tightly swollen bud, hearing her moan with the loud abandon of a woman discovering true pleasure. She was so wet; wet enough to take even the most ardent ministrations of his tongue, so slick with her own desire that he half-felt as though he were drowning in her pleasure. What a wonderful way to die.

  He wanted her to climax; wanted her to clutch his head tight to her, ruthlessly taking her pleasure as forcefully as she could. He lingered at her bud, feeling each and every shudder of delight run through her as he licked and sucked, his hands reaching underneath her to cup her thighs.

  Only after countless, splendid minutes of loving her with his tongue, judgin
g her readiness, did he gently move one of his hands to her mound. Keeping his tongue tight against the centre of her pleasure, hearing her moan, he slid a finger deep inside her—and was rewarded with an ecstatic cry from Catherine, along with an eager thrust of her hips. Carstairs added another finger, curling at her inner walls with patient, deliberate skill as he kissed her mound, rejoicing in the hot, slick feel of her as she welcomed his exploratory touches.

  This was perfection, kneeling at her mound—but Catherine’s fist pulled painfully at his hair, dragging it upward, forcing him to dislodge his fingers. Her hand grasped his cock, greedily, eagerly stroking it, touching him with such evident want that Carstairs had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from finishing then and there. She didn’t deserve that; she deserved nothing but the best, after the no doubt atrocious bedroom experiences she had been forced to submit to during her marriage. He opened his mouth, trying to work out the best way to warn her of what she was doing—but stopped, his throat tightening, as he felt her press her cock to her wet, open entrance with a small gasp of bliss.

  Without warning, without hesitation—without anything other than a deep, searing kiss that seemed to come from her very soul—Catherine pushed upward. She guided him inside her, her hips thrusting upward to welcome him, take him, claim him. Carstairs felt his whole body shudder with pleasure; his hips surged forward, no longer under his control.

  ‘Ah!’ It was all he could do not to climax then and there; she took him to the hilt, her fingers tight against his back as he sank inside her. Deeper, sweeter, wilder than he had ever dreamed, ever dared to dream; he was in the stars, past them. He was home. Finally, impossibly, home.

  He had no words left; neither, it seemed, did Catherine. He could not be measured with his thrusts; it was clear that Catherine didn’t want him to, and neither did he. It needed to be exactly this way; hard, merciless, almost angry at the time they had wasted until now. Catherine’s hips eagerly met his every thrust, bucking under him with the fierce, ferocious energy of a woman possessed; this was the final length of the race, the sweetest and most crucial part, and Carstairs was determined to finish what had finally been permitted to begin.