Cheryl Holt (15 page)

Fine? Was he mad?
They couldn’t frolic in the outdoors like a pair of rutting animals? Or could they?

She glanced around. They were so isolated. They could wander farther off the trail. They could . . .

No! What was she contemplating? They couldn’t!

He let go of her, guiding her so that she slid down his front, every titillated inch taking a leisurely trip across his anatomy. Linking their fingers, he led her off the path and, like a ninny, she offered no resistance, eagerly following wherever he went.

In a secluded meadow, he turned to her, unfastening her cloak and spreading it on the grass. Pensively, she watched, not assisting or hindering him, not running off as she knew she should. He knelt and brushed the cloak flat, a smooth, inviting bed where they could romp and rollick.

Then, he sat and held out his hand to her. She was so apprehensive, yet so excited, that she was paralyzed and couldn’t move to him or away. Physically, she was inclined to whatever he proposed, and if she joined him, she wouldn’t be able to contain her baser impulses.

“Come to me, Emma.” His ravishing blue eyes were beseeching, his smile beguiling her, luring her to her doom.

“I’m scared.”

“I know you are.” He clasped her hand in his, his thumb tracing captivating circles in the center of her palm. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I hadn’t imagined you would.”

Gently, he tugged on her wrist and, her knees buckling, she collapsed down. She huddled before him, out of her league and unsure of what to do. If he touched her, she might shatter into a thousand pieces. If he didn’t, she was worried over the same result.

“I want to take your hair down.”

“If I remove the combs, I won’t be able to fix it.”

“I’ll help you.”

As if she were a puppet on a string, she permitted him to rotate her, and he snuggled her to him so that her rear was nestled into his loins. With a few deft flicks of his fingers, which vividly reminded her of his experience with other paramours, he had the combs extracted, the curly brown wave tumbling down to graze her hips.

Cuddling with her, he burrowed his nose in the wavy mass, sifting through it, arraying it across her back, then he lay down, bringing her with him so that they were side by side on the ground. Casually, he looped his thigh over her legs, his foot impelling her nearer so that their bodies were united, and he scrutinized her intently while she stroked lazy circles, round and round, on the middle of his chest.

It was phenomenal to have him evaluating her. He did so often, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. No one had meticulously dissected her before, and she treasured how he roved and probed, searching for her very essence.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You’re a great mystery to me.”

An enigma! How thrilling! “Why?”

“On the outside, you’re so prim and proper, but on the inside, you’re a teeming cauldron of sexuality. Your carnal nature bubbles to the surface, and then you rein it in. Every time.” He was teasing, but serious, as well. “Are you always so forward with the men you meet?”

“Only with you. You overwhelm my better sense.”

“I’m glad.”

“Bounder.” She chuckled, and he did, too, then their mirth faded, and the interlude grew intimate and dear, and she felt she could confess any secret to him. “I guess
I’m terrified of what might happen if I let go.”

“So am I.” He reached out and petted her hair, her shoulder, his hand descending to her breast and massaging the pliant mound through the fabric of her dress. “You do something to me. Being around you makes me feel . . .” He broke off, incapable of explaining.

“Splendid? Miserable? Ecstatic? Panicked?”

“All those. And more.” He seized her nipple, squeezing the raised peak, causing her to chafe at the agitation. “What do you want from me, Em? I need you to say it.”

There were dozens of potential answers she could give, from simple to difficult, from cheap to expensive. He’d taken a fancy to her, and could aid her in innumerable ways. She wished he would ease her burdens, carry her woes. Cancel the eviction from her cottage, save her family from ruin, supply her with money, food, security.

But what she said was, “I want you to touch me. All over. With your hands and your mouth.”

Solemnly, he analyzed her again, then he nodded. “We’ll go slowly.”

“All right.”

“If I frighten you, tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“I won’t ask you to stop. That’s why I’m afraid.”

“Lean on me for a change, Em. I’ll take care of you.”

He kissed her, gradually rolling her onto her back, then coming over her so that his weight was partially on her. His hips melded into her pelvis, his phallus rigid and insistent at her leg.

With his tongue, he tormented her lips, and she opened for him, taking him inside, inhaling his taste, his smell, imprinting each superb detail.

He tarried, while his inquisitive hands roved and investigated,
traveling over her torso, lingering, journeying on. Eventually, he undid the buttons on her dress. She did naught to impede him, keeping her hands anchored in his hair so that she wouldn’t stupidly prevent him from going where she was desperate for him to be.

The bodice loosened, it fell away, and he drew the sleeves down her arms so that the top was pooled around her waist, her breasts covered only by her functional chemise. His fingers glided into the undergarment to her nipple, and the impact was so invigorating that she arched up, but he held her down, slithering the straps of her chemise so that her arms were pinned to her sides with her breasts revealed. The air rushed over her naked skin, her nipples constricting further, until they were painful buds.

“My, my, Emma.” He studied her bosom, estimating size and abundance. “So pretty. And all mine.”

He lay on her again, taking both nipples, twirling and pinching them until she was in agony, then he kissed down her nape, her bust, finally—blessedly!—arriving at her cleavage. Nipping under the swell of her breast, he licked and taunted.

“Do you want me, Emma?”

“You know I do, you cad!” she bit out through clenched teeth.

“Should I kiss you here?” His teeth skimmed an extended nub.

“Yes, yes,” she wailed. “Wakefield, please—”

“I love it when you beg me,” and he sucked the provoked tip into his mouth, abrading it relentlessly.

“Sweet Jesu . . .” she moaned.

He tortured her until she was sore and raw, then he went to the other, trifling with it, continuing on far past the point of pleasure, but she couldn’t get enough of the potent stimulation.

Brazenly, she spurred him on, lifting her breasts so that she contributed more of herself for his total, decadent enjoyment. He took what she offered and more, inducing her to give him everything, to hold nothing back.

Her loins were damp and aflame, incited beyond bearing. Their impassioned wrestling had rucked up her dress and furnished him with an inviting cushion against which he could flex, propelling them deeper into the inescapable quagmire, and she was growing so hot she fretted that she might ignite.

His hand sneaked down to cup her, then slip under her skirt. She was unclothed beneath it, with no drawers to shield her privates from his questing fingers, and she braced as he converged on her most sensitive area.

He tangled through her womanly hair, delving inside to explore. Her inner muscles spasmed, holding him tight, but it wasn’t enough.

She was no stranger to orgasm, having occasionally inflicted the wanton gratification on herself, but she hadn’t known how much more intense and satisfying it was for it to occur at the instigation of another.

Deliberately, he manipulated her. “God, you’re so ready for me.”

Grinning up at her, his mesmerizing eyes glittered with mischief, and a lock of blond hair fell rakishly over his forehead. Hovering over her breasts as he was, he looked beautiful, exhilarated, wicked, resolute.

“Do it!” she pleaded irritably.

“Now?” He halted the erotic path of his thumb.

“I can’t wait any longer. You’re killing me.”

“We can’t have that, can we?”

She’d thought that he’d progress with his hand, but he surprised her by sliding down her torso, urging her skirt up and baring her core.

She knew what he intended, and in a perverse fashion, she was thrilled that he would attempt the depraved act, but the notion made her overly uncomfortable, left her feeling too exposed, and she didn’t want to be so much at his mercy. She yearned to pull her legs together, to hide herself from his zealous appraisal, but he was wedged in, too heavy, and she couldn’t dislodge him.

He widened her nether lips, so that he could examine the folds, the pink cleft, and she threw an arm over her eyes, striving to absent herself from the embarrassing predicament.

“Wakefield, don’t. I don’t like this.”

“You will.”

“It’s too . . . too . . .” She couldn’t describe her sentiments. Undone. Ashamed. Titillated beyond her limits. Out of control.

“Ssh . . .” he soothed, as if she were a skittish horse that required gentling. “It will be all right. Relax.”

Relax!
As if she could with the virile scapegrace poised between her legs!

He elevated her bottom, and he sampled her, parting her with his tongue, running it along the middle, then probing inside.

“Please—” she implored again, not certain if she was begging him to desist or to proceed with all due haste.

“You taste so fine. As if you were created just for me.”

He toyed with her nipples, and his tongue perturbed her until she was set to explode. The sensations were ascending, her body stiffening with the approaching pinnacle and, with a crazed fervor, she chased after the elusive apex.

“John—” she keened, not meaning to use his given name, but she was beyond the juncture where she could
keep it from creeping out. It was a capitulation and, arrogant rogue that he was, he chuckled.

“Come for me, Emma. Come now.”

In her condition, she couldn’t refuse him. He latched on and sucked vigorously, and she raced to the edge and hurtled over, spiraling higher, higher, until she was careening across the universe.

Vaguely, she perceived that she’d cried out—loudly—but she couldn’t restrain herself. She plunged into the voluminous force of the orgasm, relishing every second of the zenith that had no boundary. Ultimately, the upheaval began to abate, and she floated down, only to find herself cradled in Wakefield’s arms.

Without her being aware, he’d scooted up so that he could nestle with her through the tumult. He was kissing her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, whispering soft declarations that she didn’t understand. They sounded French, or perhaps Italian, and she pretended that they were endearments, and from the magical foreign cadence, they very well could have been.

“What a joy you are.” He murmured the comment against her lips, and the tang of her sex was on his mouth.

He thought she was a
joy
! What a precious remark! Like a foolish ninny, she burst into tears, and he balanced her chin in his hand and swiped them away.

“My adorable Emma,” he sympathized, “what is it?”

“It was so . . . so wonderful.”

“Aye,” he concurred, “it was at that.”

“I didn’t know it could be like this.”

“Neither did I.”

“And . . . and . . .”—she hiccuped, scarcely able to speak—“I want to do it again. Already!”

He laughed heartily, and snuggled her into the crook of his neck so that she could have a good cry. It was a
fabulous spot to linger, and she sobbed as she hadn’t in ages. Shedding enough tears to fill an ocean, she wept for her father, her mother and sister, for herself and her plight, for all her dreams that would never come true.

He withstood it well, as though he consoled hysterical women every day, which she knew was hardly the case. Down below, his erection was evident, his disturbed anatomy not having attained any assuagement.

She fathomed that he needed tending, but she couldn’t alleviate his situation—she wasn’t sure how!—though he didn’t appear to be unduly concerned.

Selfishly, she grasped for all the solace he was disposed to render, soaking it in, letting him calm her with his body, with his words. The hum of his voice reverberated through her bone and marrow, and it lulled her. The lamentation ceased, and her eyelids drooped.

She was so tired! She yawned, a most unladylike gesture, and before she realized it, she’d nodded off.

When she stirred later, she couldn’t have guessed how long she’d lain there. She’d felt so content and safe that she’d slumbered heavily, and she stumbled to consciousness, stretching, reveling in how extraordinary it was to awaken in his arms.

He was on his back, clutching her to his chest and, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, he was leisurely contemplating the forest above their heads.

As she fidgeted, he turned to his side and kissed the tip of her nose. “Hello, sleepyhead.”

“Hello.” She was so happy; every pore in her body seemed to be smiling.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.”

Glancing around, she noticed that the shadows were much more lengthy than when she’d dozed off. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

“Five!” Aghast, she sat up. She was still naked to the waist, and possessively, he stroked one of her bared breasts.

“Stop that!” she commanded, slapping his hand away.

“You have the nicest tits,” he said.

“Do be silent!”

Frantically, she leapt away and adjusted her clothes, yanking at them while he did his level best to impede her efforts.

He was reclined on her cloak, assessing her brisk actions, but providing no assistance, and showing no signs of being in a hurry, himself.

“Let’s go to the manor,” he suggested, “and have supper. Then we’ll make love in my bed all night.”

“Wakefield!”

“John,” he insisted. “That’s what you call me when you’re crying out in passion.”

“Well, I don’t plan to make a habit of it.” She searched for her combs, but found only two of the necessary six. She held them out. “Help me with my hair.”