Cheryl Holt (19 page)

What would he say to Edward if they did talk?
I’m having a clandestine affair with the woman you’re courting? I’d like you to endow me with a fortune so that I can marry her in your place?

The ludicrousness washed over him, and he shook
his head. There were no answers. There was no viable conclusion.

He peered around at the small dwelling where he’d lived for years, at the stables across the way. This was
home
. When he’d been lying in that dusty foreign field in Spain, his blood oozing into the dirt, he’d prayed that he’d survive long enough to return to this special spot, and he eventually had.

He’d recovered his health, had resumed his employment. But would the situation endure? Though Olivia was insisting she couldn’t wed Edward, what if she did? What if she decided she had no alternative?

If she married Edward, Phillip couldn’t remain at Salisbury. He couldn’t spend his life gawking at the manor, and imagining her in his father’s arms, in his father’s bed. He’d have to leave, but where would he go? What would he do?

He glanced around, at the familiar grounds, at his cherished house, and he pondered whether these were the last few days he’d be surrounded by the chattels to which he was so attached. By falling in love with her, had he wagered not only his heart, but his security, too?

In love
. . .

The words echoed past. Was that what he’d done? Had he fallen in love?

“Oh, God,” he moaned, unable to fathom the depth of his idiocy, but he had no occasion to reflect.

She was there and reaching out to him, and he hustled her into the cottage and closed the door.

She’d worn her cloak, and he dipped under the hood, capturing her mouth in a torrid kiss. He’d never been one to do anything halfway, and if this was to be the end of the world as he knew it, he intended to go out in a blaze of glory.

When their amour was over—terminated badly, he had no doubt!—he would neither rue what had transpired, nor regret what might have been. He would revel in every delicious assignation he could arrange, until ill luck or circumstances forced a halt.

His hands were everywhere, on her shoulders, her back, her bottom. Gripping her buttocks, he lifted her, whirling her around and carrying her to his bed. He laid her down, still swathed in the cloak, and joined her, stretching out, pushing her into the mattress. He was inflamed by the contact, ardent and ready for whatever he might attempt, and for once, he anticipated that he would
attempt
quite a lot.

“I want you naked.” Yanking at her wrap, he untied the hood and tugged it off.

“I missed you, too,” she said, laughing.

“If I don’t have your clothes removed in the next ten seconds, I can’t predict what I might do.”

“By all means, then. Help yourself.”

Beyond delay, he was desperate to nibble on her breasts, to lick her womanly core. He unbuttoned her dress, and jerked it down. Her nipples were pert, erect, and he bent over and sucked on one of them as he continued on, exposing her abdomen, her mons.

Finally, she was unclad, except for her shoes, and he wrenched them off, tossing them on the floor where they landed with a muffled thump.

Kneeling between her legs, he assessed her body, and she withstood his scrutiny well. Only the blush on her cheeks indicated that this was a new experience for her. She was perfectly formed, wide at the shoulders, thin at the waist, wide again at the hips. Her breasts were full and round, her thighs curvaceous and smooth.

The sight of her, nude, and awaiting his pleasure, thrilled and incited him.

Elevating her feet, he massaged his thumbs into her arches, as he spread her legs, baring her center. She didn’t like this novel exhibition, didn’t care for the awkwardness of being on display, and she tried to press her legs together, but he couldn’t be dissuaded.

“Don’t deny me, Livvie. Let me do this.”

“It’s too strange. It embarrasses me.”

“Well, it arouses me. I want to see all of you.” He stroked up her ankles, her calves. “Do you remember the book you were studying when we first met?”

“How could I forget?
A Feast for the Senses
.”

“You asked me why it was painted, and I told you because men like to look at nude women. I’m no different.” Rubbing his crotch, he strove to ease some of the building pressure. He was so hard for her that he felt he might explode in his trousers like a callow boy of thirteen.

She noticed where his hand had traveled. “Will you disrobe tonight?”

“I believe I will.”

“Do it. While
I
watch.”

He vacillated. While he was determined to forge ahead in their sexual relationship, he wasn’t sure he was cad enough to steal her virginity. He might yearn to do it, and he could arouse her sufficiently so that she would implore him to, but he hadn’t resolved to go through with it. However, once his garments were off, he wasn’t positive he could keep from taking that ultimate step.

There are many enjoyable things you can do short of her surrendering her virtue
.

The voice seemed to emanate from a site just beyond the bed, and it was so clear, and so sly, at urging him to do what he oughtn’t, that he wondered if the devil himself wasn’t sitting across the room.

Well, he’d always been a sinner, so if Lucifer was spurring him on, the old fiend was going to be very happy.

As she analyzed his every move, he unfastened his shirt, and hauled the hem out of his trousers. When it was free, he pulled it off and discarded it.

“Your pants, if you please,” she requested.

He had no qualms about stripping for her. During their previous carnal foray, she’d touched and fondled him, had even sampled his phallus—an act that had had his balls aching for days—so there would be no maidenly shock with which to contend, although he did worry about her viewing the scar on his thigh that had been inflicted by an enemy saber. It was ugly, and he didn’t like to chatter about it, or how it had been acquired.

He slid from the bed, plucked the trousers over his feet, and quickly dispensed with his shoes and stockings so that he was standing proud and naked before her.

She examined him, her keen appraisal making him undulate with tension, his cock swell to an even larger size, as she perused every inch of his torso.

Bracing his hands on his hips, he gave her an eyeful, elated that she was interested, excited that she wasn’t timid or afraid.

“You don’t mind my curiosity, do you?” she inquired.

“Not a whit.”

“It’s the artist in me. I need to verify what’s hidden beneath all that fabric.”

“At your service, Lady O.”

“Turn to the side,” she instructed, and he did, as she evaluated him again. “Now all the way, so that I can see your back and bum.”

Complying, he could feel her gaze sweeping over him, could hear her climbing off the bed. She came up behind him, and put her fingers on his shoulders, tracing the bones, on down his spine, across the nip of his waist, the curve of his ass.

She grabbed his buttocks, gauging its shape, its weight, then she dropped to her knees. “What’s this?”

“A scar.” Obviously! It ran from groin to kneecap.

“From what?”

“I was wounded in the army. In Spain.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“A soldier!” She beamed. “My very own war hero!”

“Not really.” He blushed. He’d done naught but try to save his bloody hide, which he’d never considered very heroic at all.

She trailed a finger over it. “Does it hurt?”

“When it rains,” which was a lie. It throbbed most of the time—a constant and unrelenting reminder of that horrid escapade—and on occasion, he still limped.

Astounding him, she leaned forward and kissed it. Few people had ever extended kindness or sympathy to him, and he was exceedingly affected by her concern. Tears clouded his vision, and he was glad he was staring away from her.

“Will you tell me about it?”

He had to swallow twice before he could reply. “Perhaps.”

She let it go at that, intuiting that it wasn’t a subject upon which he could elucidate, and he was so relieved.

“Would you let me draw you someday?” she queried, lightening the tenor of the conversation.

Why not? What an amazing lark it would be! “Certainly.”

“In the nude?”

The
nude?
“If it would tickle your fancy.”

“It would.” She chuckled. “It
definitely
would.”

She was inspecting him impersonally, as one might a statue, or a remarkable piece of horseflesh, but
nonetheless, he was inordinately titillated. The caressing, combined with her inquisitive oohs and aahs, kindled an unquenchable fire, and it took every ounce of his fortitude to keep from spinning around and taking her, then and there, across the edge of the mattress.

Loitering at his feet, she journeyed up until she was behind him, her naked front flattened to his back, and she wrapped her arms around him.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, kissing him between his shoulder blades.

Overwhelmed, he couldn’t speak, and he dawdled there with her, in the quiet. He directed her hand to his cock, and circled it around, so that he could flex into it, and he’d planned to languidly dally, but after a few thrusts, he was at the brink and unable to persist.

Whirling, he swooped her up, laying her on the bed once more, and covering her with his long, lean body. As they connected, he hissed out a breath.

“Oh, Jesus, Livvie.”

Of their own accord, her legs widened, and he was ideally situated, his cock slithering into place with no guidance. If he but dared, he could rid her of her maidenhood and put the matter to rest once and for all, but for some crazed reason, he didn’t progress.

“Are we to . . .” Cautiously, she posed the question, unsure of the terminology.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m just going to hold you.”

“But I want to learn what it’s like.”

“I know you do, but if I deflower you, you can’t ever change what we’ve done.”

“I won’t ever wish to.”

“You say that,” he counseled, “but you can’t divine what the future might bring. If I were to proceed”—he nudged two fingers inside her—“there is a thin fragment
of skin here, blocking access to your womb, and I would tear through it. It would pain you, and you’d bleed.”

“What would it signify?”

“The blood and pain are the indicators to your husband that you’ve come to your marital bed as a virgin. If I breach it, it won’t grow back. We can’t repair the damage.”

“Oh, I hate this!” she wailed as he began stroking her. “I don’t want the possibility of a marriage—that I can’t abide—to keep us apart. What am I to do?”

Her confusion matched his own, but he had no answers. Not for her, or for himself.

“I don’t want to listen to you prattling on about your marriage,” he snapped. “Or your choices.” They were too disturbing, because he could never be one of them. There was just the here and now, the two of them alone, and he intended for it to be a magical episode, where the outside world did not intrude. “I care for you too much, so I can’t give you valid advice. I’m biased as to the outcome.”

“But if you can’t help me, to whom can I turn?”

“I don’t know,” he claimed. “All I can offer is to make the most of the time we have. So that after you leave, we won’t regret a single minute.”

Glumly, she nodded. “I suppose that’s the wisest course.”

He nodded, too, then started kissing her again, wanting to halt further discussion. The topic left him so anguished! It was much simpler to make love to her. He could pretend that their association was merely physical, that it had no emotional depth.

Blazing a trail down her neck, he nibbled across her bosom, to her breasts. She was familiar with this licentiousness, and she acquiesced, arching up, and tendering more of herself for his ardent enjoyment. Down below, her hips responded in a slow rhythm, and he nipped
down her stomach, to her core. Rooting through her womanly hair, he sniffed and licked her abdomen. She acceded to all, until he lowered himself further, until he delved into her with his tongue.

“Phillip?” She was apprehensive, and she tried to shield herself from his probing, but he was wedged in, and she couldn’t push him away.

Separating the folds, he exposed her, revealing her slick haven, and he jabbed at her, as he pinned her down, as his fingers tormented her nipples.

“You taste so fine.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You will.”

“No, I—” She struggled to sit up.

“Lie down. Don’t fight it.”

“Please don’t!” she implored. “This is . . . is . . .”

“Indecent? Naughty? Wicked?”

“Yes.”

“Precisely why it thrills me.”

He went to her clitoris, dabbing at it with quick bursts, and she ceased complaining. Her body was rigid, straining against him, grappling with the torrent of passion.

“Let go, Livvie,” he commanded, and he sucked at the aroused nub, as he pinched her nipples. She gave a soft cry, then hurled over the precipice.

He rode the wave with her as she flew to the crest and spiraled down. As she relaxed, he was kissing up her torso, his mouth ensnaring hers.

She was desirable, seductive, her sensuality so at odds with the prim, proper façade of an earl’s daughter.

What a lucky man he was to have unveiled this aspect of her personality. How magnificent that he was the only one who knew it to exist.

“How do you do that to me?” she asked.

“You find your pleasure easily. It doesn’t have much to do with me.”

“Liar,” she chided, smiling. “It has everything to do with you.”

“Mayhaps, a little.” He was preening. They were so sexually compatible. It was a small task to deliver her to orgasm.

“What do you call that? What you just did?”

“A French kiss.”

“First the
petite mort
, now the French kiss.” She was laughing. “What is it about those French?”

“They know how to indulge themselves.”

“They certainly do.” She stretched like a contented cat. “I like what you do to me so much. Does that make me a harlot?”