Destiny (7 page)

42 • SALLY BEAUMAN

"Ah, but you see what has happened? So quickly? An instant and you are big again. So big and hard and strong. You are quite a man, cheri, you know that? With this, you can give a woman such pleasure, cheri, such pleasure. ..."

She was careful not to touch him, and when he tried to push her back against the pillows again, she gently stopped him. She shook her head reprovingly, and to her delight she saw a teasing light come into his eyes. He could be amused—good! Then his confidence was growing.

"Wait?" He smiled. "Not too fast?"

Celestine took his hand.

"For my sake," she said softly. "You know that for a woman to make love is a wonderful thing. She wants it to last, to be slow. She cannot always be as quick as a man. She cannot always be as quickly aroused as a man. He has to help her."

She lifted his palm, and pressed it against her breast. "Touch me there, cheri. Oh, how I want you to stroke me, there, you see? Like that. Yes, like that ..."

Edouard slipped his hands under her breasts and felt their full weight. Then, almost before he knew what he was doing, he did the thing he had been longing to do, had dreamed of doing. He lowered his mouth, kissed the smooth flesh. Then he buried his head between the mounds of her breasts, lifted them, caressed them, took the soft pink nipples in turn between his lips. He teased them with his tongue, and felt their points grow hard. A tremor ran through his body, and Celestine held him.

''Doucement, doucement, mon cheri. Pas trop vite . . . doucement." He steadied, paused, felt the tremor subside. Then he looked up at her.

"Comme qa? Tu aimes comme qa?" He took the nipple between his lips once more, and sucked. This time it was Celestine who trembled.

"Mais oui. Tu sais bien. Comme qa, Edouard, comme qa . . ."

Celestine could feel her own body responding, the pulse beating up through her blood, as if an invisible chain of nerves connected her breasts and her womb, and every one of those nerves sang out with pleasure. She felt herself grow moist, and it was harder for her to keep still. She wanted to part her legs, to let him touch her there. He was learning fast, she thought, very fast. . . .

He lifted his mouth from her breasts, and kissed her. "Mais, que tu es belle, si belle. ..."

He muttered against her mouth, his breath coming fast, and Celestine fought with her own instincts, fought to make the kiss slow and gentle. Not too passionate, not too deep, not too long, not yet, not yet. His penis was hard against her stomach, and she moved slightly to free him, frightened that the pressure might make him come.

DESTINY • 43

"Doucement, Edouard. " She let her hands stroke the fine hard curve of his buttocks, and moved a Uttle so their bodies lay side by side. When she judged he was a little calmer once more, she took his hand, and raised it to her lips.

"You are so good. It feels so good when you touch me. You know that? You can feel, I think, that I Uke it, yes? You see—it makes my nipples go so hard when you touch me, when you kiss me there. That is the first sign, Edouard, but there are others. ..." Very slowly she drew his hand down, over the curve of her stomach to the triangle of gold hair. She let it rest there awhile, then she parted her legs.

"You see? A woman's secret place, the part of her only her lover knows. You see, cheri —how soft, how moist? That is because you make me want you, Edouard, want you very much. ..."

Edouard let his hand be drawn down to the softness, the moistness. He parted the two soft Ups, and felt a place of mystery, of folds and crevices, felt one tight hard bud. He touched it delicately with his forefinger, and to his wonderment, Celestine arched back with a httle cry. He leaned forward and kissed her, a long slow sweet kiss, and all the time his hand gently stroked, gently explored. Celestine moved beneath him; she lifted her knees and parted her thighs wider, and she seemed to Edouard infinitely soft, infinitely pliant, infinitely and wondrously open. He withdrew his hand, and Celestine took it and kissed it, and for the first time in his life Edouard smelled the honied scent of a woman ready to make love, musky, shghtly salt, like a sea creature.

He sUpped his hand down once more, Celestine moved shghtly, and his finger shpped easily, gently, inside her. He groaned then, and Celestine knew she must be quick.

With the deftness of experience, she moved so he was between her thighs. She withdrew his hand gently, and guided the full head of his penis to the soft entrance. One tiny lift of her hips, and he was inside her. She knew better than to move then; she kept still and quiet, though she was very aroused by his beauty and his gentleness, and she longed to move, to draw him down deep inside her. But she stayed still, and let him thrust; three, four, five times. Then he came inside her with a shuddering cry, and Celestine wrapped her arms tenderly and protectively around him.

Less than an hour later, he was hard again, much more relaxed, clearly proud of himself Celestine felt proud too. And she Uked him, she thought, as she looked fondly down at him while he sucked at her full breasts. She liked the absence of bravado, the instinctive care and delicacy

44 • SALLY BEAUMAN

of his touch. Oh, he would make a fine lover, this man, she thought— perhaps even a great one, an extraordinary one, and there were very few of those. He would not be like some of them, such greedy animals, so coarse, so quick, and afterward so furtive. No, he would be sure, giving pleasure as well as taking it—open, responsive . . .

*Tw seras — exceptionnel, tu sais . . ." she murmured, and the boy lifted his head. The compliment pleased him, but it also amused him, and she liked that. She liked his quick intelligence, his capacity for amusement. After all, lovemaking was not always a serious affair, that was very dull. Passion, yes, women wanted that, but also a little teasing. "Teach me— show me . . ."He hesitated. "I want to give you pleasure in return. ..."

Celestine sighed, and stroked his hair. Like many women of her kind, she found it difficult to reach orgasm with a man. She had long ago accepted this. She enjoyed lovemaking, and the absence of climax never worried her greatly. She found fulfillment enough in embraces and caresses, and if she did not, then it was easy enough to relieve the tension in her body after the man had gone. To give pleasure was her pleasure; when she had been younger, with her first lover, her second, it had been different. They had been able to bring her to a peak of excitement, quite easily. But they had left, and it had become harder; she thought sometimes that her own mind held her back, refused to let her give everything to men who were—more and more often—strangers.

But she was touched by the boy's request, so she smiled up at him.

"Watch—let me show you."

Gently she slipped her hand between her legs, one finger between the lips; she moved.

"You see? Where you touched me before, cheri. If you touch me there— not too hard, quite softly, there's no need to be quick. . . ."

She withdrew her hand, its fingers glistening. Edouard touched her as she had touched herself, felt the small hard swelling of her clitoris between the soft lips, and then, on impulse, knelt, and bent his head, and kissed her. That heady moist salt scent; he touched the little swollen bud gently with his tongue, and the effect was instantaneous. Again she arched, her hands came down to cradle his head as he lapped. His hand reached for the swell of her breasts, and Celestine moaned.

"Like that?" He paused for an instant, and she quickly drew him back.

"Oh, yes—Edouard, yes. There. Like that ..."

Celestine trembled. It was not that he was perfectly expert, but someone more expert could have left her unmoved. It was him, she realized with surprise, as she felt the waves of heat start to build in her groin. It was something about him, a little magic, the fact that he wanted to please her, the way he looked at her body, lustfully, of course, but also tenderly, shyly.

DESTINY • 45

It reminded her of the past, and it feh good, so good . . . and yes, it was going to happen after all, she knew it would happen now: she felt her body poise, wait for the sudden rush of sensation, and as if he sensed that, he stopped the soft rhythmic motion of his tongue, the pressure of his Hps, so she cried out in an agony of sudden want. Then he touched her again, his mouth moist, his hands clasping her hips and lifting her up to him, and she cried out as the tide of heat took her. Edouard felt the fierce sudden pulse against his lips. He moved, thrust hard up inside her, and felt to his great joy the soft contraction and relaxing of her body against his flesh.

This time there were more than four or five thrusts. He discovered, triumphantly, how fine, how extraordinary, how tantalizing it felt to withdraw almost out of her body, and then to push so deep he felt he touched the neck of her womb; to alter his rhythm from slow to fast and back to slow. And he discovered how it felt when Celestine, too, moved, slowly at first, and then more insistently, circling as he pulled back from her, circling again as he thrust. He came with a sharp agonizing sweetness, and afterward she lay along the curve of his arm, and they both slept a little, their bodies entwined.

When he woke, Celestine lifted his chin in her hand, and looked down with amusement and understanding into his eyes.

"You learn fast. So fast. Soon, I shall have nothing to teach you. . . ."

Edouard laughed, and slipped his arms around her. He was covered in silken sweat, his body heavy with a sweet languor.

"I want to see you again. Soon. And then again and again. Celestine. Celestine. ..."

"I should like that," Celestine answered simply.

That night, Edouard dined at home with his mother and Jean-Paul, the only guest being Isobel. Such occasions, when they were en famille, were rarely a success. Jean-Paul chafed at them, and itched to be off to a nightclub. Louise, perhaps because she sensed this, perhaps simply because she, too, wished for more brilliant company, was often irritable. Usually, Edouard would try hard to cheer them both, and to supply some of the spirit and gaiety there was at family meals in France, when his father was present.

But tonight, seated at the long table, wearing evening dress, he was dreamy and abstracted. Try as he would, he could not concentrate on what was being said, or who was saying it. His mind was miles across London, in a little room in Maida Vale.

These dinners were never brief affairs, for Louise insisted on rigorous

46 • SALLY BEAUMAN

Standards. They were served by Parsons and two immaculate footmen; there were never less than six courses; the wine was always exceptionally fine. Tonight, the evening seemed to Edouard interminable. The foie gras was without taste; the grilled sole was cardboard; the pheasant he pushed away scarcely touched.

This unusual loss of appetite did not go unremarked. Once or twice Edouard looked up to find Isobel, who was seated opposite him, regarding him mischievously, her emerald eyes glinting, a little smile curving her bright scarlet lips. She, too, said very little. The conversation dragged, and Louise became peevish. When peevish, she complained, and tonight she grew quite eloquent—nothing suited her. She found London dull, she told Isobel; it was quite amusing at first, but now, more and more she missed Paris. The same faces, again and again—and really, though Englishmen could be charming, Englishwomen were so odd, so dowdy most of them, and so lacking in chic—here she gave Isobel a sharp glance. And then there was their passion for animals, their obsession with dogs; it was charming to stay the weekend in the country, yes, but then to be leaped upon by labradors ... to be expected to go for long walks, even when it was raining . . . truly the English were a curious race, quite unlike the French, quite unlike Americans. And then—well, of course, she missed dearest Xavi so terribly. So little news got through, and she worried constantly.

"He should have known how much I would worry." Her voice rose slightly. "To have packed us off" here, and left us to fend for ourselves ... I know you won't agree with this, Jean-Paul, but really, on reflection, it seems to me a little selfish. Dearest Xavi can be so terribly obstinate. I'm perfectly sure he could have come with us if he wished. He can have no idea how difficult life is. One can't buy petrol—which seems to me perfectly absurd—how on earth is one supposed to motor out of London? I hve in dread that one of the servants will give notice, because—well, you will know this, Isobel—it's quite impossible to find replacements. The men are all in the army, and the women are all making ball bearings in factories —what can they be doing with all those ball bearings? And these wretched sirens. Just when one is about to go out, they always sound, and then the streets are cleared. I don't think Xavi understands how wearing it all is. . . ."

"There is a war on, Maman." Jean-Paul looked up. He winked at Isobel, and Louise, who saw the wink, flushed.

"Jean-Paul, please, there is no need to take that attitude. I know that. I've just been explaining that I know that. I must say that neither you nor Edouard help, you know. Both of you—tied up with your own affairs, you never seem to give a thought to my feelings. . . ." She broke off". At the

DESTINY • 47

word affairs, Jean-Paul had given a snort of laughter. Louise's face grew tight; her dark eyes glared down the length of the table.

"Have I said something to amuse you, Jean-Paul? Please explain. We should all like to share the joke."

"Forgive me, Maman." Jean-Paul gave her his most winning smile. Edouard glanced up, waiting to see how he would extricate himself. He always could: Louise could never be angry with him for long—she always succumbed to his charm—and sometimes Edouard thought Jean-Paul was contemptuous of her for that.

"It's just that you know what you say isn't true. Edouard and I are devoted to you. You know that. . . ."

"You might make it a httle more obvious, occasionally." Louise gave him a reproving glance, but she was molUfied.

Jean-Paul rose to his feet with a masterful air, and the discreetest glance at his watch.