Temptations of a Wallflower (23 page)

She rifled through the basket, producing a few meat pies, some apples, and a flagon of ale. Setting them out on the blanket, she said, “I imagine that there must be a bit of distraction at your own services.”

He frowned. “Am I so dull?”

“So handsome, rather.” She smiled. “I've seen the way the women of Rosemead look at you. Like a beam of God's grace has come to earth. There's been a few envious glares in my direction.” She handed him one of the pies and took another for herself.

“An exaggeration!” He broke off a corner of the pie and popped it into his mouth.

“You really cannot see it?”

“See what?”

“Oh, husband of mine,” she said with a sigh. “It is a good thing you are so blind to your own charms. Otherwise think of the trail of broken hearts and discarded underthings you'd leave in your wake.”

He gave a full-throated laugh. “What an imagination you have.”

He'd no idea of the depths of her imagination. But correcting him would send this ideal day into a dark spiral. “Suffice it to say that fortune has blessed me. And I will accept those blessings.” She took a bite of meat pie, then chased it down with a sip of cold ale. “How does your sermon on marriage progress?”

“The first draft is already finished.”

“Perhaps you were inspired.”

His gaze was heavy-lidded. “My inspiration has been plentiful as of late.”

Hers, too, but she could not say so. “Here's to inspiration.” She raised the flagon, then drank.

He took the bottle from her and also took a sip. She enjoyed watching the strong column of his throat work as he swallowed. He'd undone his cravat, leaving a small glimpse of the golden flesh at the hollow of his throat. Though she knew precisely how that skin felt and tasted, she doubted she would ever grow tired of experiencing those sensations over and over.

“Tell me something of yourself, husband,” she murmured.

“What would you like to know?”

Her lips curved. “A secret. Something no one would know about you.”

He was silent for a long while, turning a thought over and over in his mind. As if in debate. But then, finally, he said, “I hadn't planned on going into the Church. It wasn't my idea.”

She felt her brows lift in surprise. “Whose idea was it?”

“My father's.” Jeremy's expression was distant. “He
checked off the boxes. A son to be the heir.
Check.
A son in an esteemed profession like the law.
Check.
And one for the Church.
Check
again.” His finger made a little flicking motion, as though ticking off invisible boxes.

“You were the third son,” she noted. “You weren't beholden to him.”

His expression grew sardonic. “Clearly, you haven't met my father. He gets what he wants. Makes it impossible to refuse him.”

“Is he so persuasive?”

“Not with rhetoric, but with threats. He made it clear to me that if I didn't become a priest, my finances would suffer and I wouldn't be welcome in his home.”

Horror struck her. “My God. I'm . . . so sorry.”

He shrugged, though by the stiffness of the motion, hurt still lingered. “That's how the earl does business.”

“But you aren't business!” she exclaimed. “You're his son.”

“Children are means to furthering goals. Or so my father has always believed.”

She could hardly believe a man could be so cold to his own offspring. She imagined a young Jeremy being bullied into obedience, and anger surged. “What he did was wrong.”

“His own father was worse, according to my mother.”

“That's no excuse.” Her hands curled into fists. “I'm glad I haven't met the earl. Because if I did, I wouldn't be very polite to him. In fact, I'd be decidedly unkind.”

A corner of Jeremy's mouth turned up. “I'd no idea my wife was such a hellion.”

“When it comes to things that matter,” she said, “I am.”

“And I matter?”

She leaned forward and cupped his face with her hand. “Very much so. Anyone who tells you otherwise will feel my wrath.”

He took hold of her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “What of you?” His gaze searched her face. “What are your secrets?”

Panic seized her. She couldn't reveal herself as the Lady. Not yet. “I am entirely transparent.”

“Everyone's got a hidden side,” he pressed.

“Well . . .” She searched her memory. “I stole a fichu from my mother when I was seven. She blamed the servants, but I was too afraid to say anything.”

“Children can't be blamed for their actions.” He shook his head. “What else?”

“I used to hope that I was a foundling,” she admitted. “A lost warrior queen.”

“Who's to say that you aren't?” he asked.

“You've not seen my mother. We are duplicates of each other.”

“So, she's beautiful.”

Sarah gave his shoulder a playful shove. “We're married now. You don't have to say things like that.”

“It's precisely because we're married that I do,” he countered.

Sarah exhaled. Her darkest secret remained safe, but for how long? How could she keep it to herself when he continuously said things like that, things that made her body weak and her heart soften?

They ate quietly, continuing to murmur inconsequential yet deeply important things. She learned that
he'd always had the desire to help others, which did not surprise her. Sarah confessed that she hated gardening and had little head or interest in domestic responsibilities, not when there was a whole world to explore.

An hour passed in serene nullity, filled with neither excitement nor action, yet pleasing nonetheless. She hadn't known until this moment how much she needed this in her life—the soft passing of time with a handsome, good man, who looked at her as though she was everything to him. She felt as expansive as the sky, and just as generous.

Another hunger continued to thrum through her as they took their outdoor meal. But she could be patient. There was something else she had learned as a married woman over the course of these past days. Sometimes there was pleasure to be had in delaying gratification, rather than diving right into it with reckless abandon. A fine thing to remember when writing—to have her hero and heroine frolic a little before getting to the business of bedsport.

The meal was summarily finished, and Sarah packed away all the leftovers and the empty flagon. As she did this, Jeremy propped himself up against the tree, his legs sticking out in front of him. He tipped his hat forward so that it covered his face, and he folded his hands across his midriff. Preparing for a nap.

She was tired, too. Worn out. Pleasantly so, however. Excitement built as her idea gathered focus.

Before he could drift off, she murmured, “Let's play a game.”

“What sort of game?” he asked from beneath his hat.

“The sleeping farmer and the dairymaid.”

He pushed the brim of his hat back with his thumb and raised an eyebrow. “There are rules to this game, I assume.”

“The first rule is that you cannot look up from under your hat.” Gently, she pushed it back down so that his face was once again covered.

“And the second rule?” he asked, slightly muffled.

“Don't call me by my name,” she answered. “Just ‘lass.'
”

“You've thought this through,” he said with amusement.

“It's that wicked imagination of mine. It can take flight from time to time.”

He chuckled. “I think I like the sound of this game.”

“You'll like it even better if you keep silent. Pretend to go to sleep.”

He affected a snore.

She swatted his leg. “Not like that. Quietly. Don't move until the time is right.”

“How will I know when the time is right?”

She grinned, though she knew he couldn't see her. “You'll know,” she said with confidence.

When his chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, she stood up. Glancing around, she made sure they were entirely alone and could not be seen. She walked away a few paces, then ambled slowly toward him. Anticipation hummed through her. She couldn't believe she was about to do this, yet the prospect of trying was far too thrilling to turn back now. She'd planned something along these lines ever since she'd written this morning, her blood high, her desire keen.

“What a long day I've had at the dairy,” she said
aloud. “I'm so very tired. I could just lay myself down beneath this tree and sleep. Stop laughing,” she added, giving Jeremy a nudge with her boot.

“Who talks like that?” he asked, snickering.

“Never you mind!” she insisted. “If you don't want to play, we'll just stop right now.”

“I'll play,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

“No more interruptions,” she commanded.

“I'm silent as the night.” He resumed his “sleeping” position.

She cleared her throat. “This looks like a good place to have a little rest,” she said. “But wait—there's someone already asleep there. A strapping young farmer.”

Indeed, she could almost envision Jeremy thus, with his lean muscles filling out his shirt and his long, sinewed legs stretched out in front of him.

“He's not aware of me,” she murmured aloud. “I don't even know who he is. But . . . I'm curious about him. So very curious. Perhaps no one will notice if I just kneel down here.”

She did as she said, kneeling beside Jeremy's prone form. “I'll just have myself a little look,” she said softly. “Never seen a man up close before.”

Jeremy's chest rose and fell much more quickly now. He must have been getting into the spirit of the game.

“Never touched a man, either,” Sarah continued. “Wonder what he feels like.”

She stroked her hands along his arms, feeling the muscles tensing beneath her touch. Then she glided her hands up his calves, over his knees, along his taut thighs.

“He's hard all over,” she murmured. With satisfac
tion, she noticed a growing bulge in his breeches lifting the fabric. “Mm.”

Continuing to stroke and massage his muscles, she allowed herself the pleasure of simply feeling him, the energy and vigor of his young, healthy body. A body that responded to her touch. His legs shifted restlessly, but he didn't try to reach for her or speak. He continued to feign sleep as she caressed him.

“What's this here, that's becoming so thick and long?” she mused. She stroked between his legs and was rewarded with the feel of his hard cock beneath her hand. Though he didn't speak, he hissed in slightly at her touch. “I like the feel of this. I like it very much. I'd like to look at it, too.”

One by one, she undid the buttons fastening his breeches. The placket fell away, and there he was, his erect penis jutting up from the opening in his drawers. Though she'd seen it in the morning light, never before had she beheld his cock in the full day, out here in the open. It was ruddy and full, veined and eager. The head was nicely round and plump, looking delicious as a little bead of liquid gleamed at the slit.

Arousal built in her breasts and between her legs, her own wetness gathering just to see Jeremy's naked penis.

She wrapped her hand around it, her fingers barely meeting—he was as stirred as she. “How soft it is,” she sighed. “And how hard. Feels so wondrous in my hand.”

He groaned as she stroked him, up and down. His hips moved, rising up with each pump. It was all the more exciting because she could not see his face, could
only hear his sounds of pleasure as she caressed him. They could have been strangers. In a way, they were—she'd spent her morning penning tales of erotic adventure as he'd written a sermon.

“What must it taste like?” she mused to herself. Here, she wasn't playacting. So far, she had not yet experienced what it would be like to take him in her mouth. And she had been so eager, so ready for this moment, having written about it only today but never having known what it would be like to taste him.

Trembling a little, she bent low, her breath fanning over his penis. He strained toward her. She licked her lips, then gave the round head an experimental kiss. A groan tore from his chest. Feeling emboldened, she ran her tongue in a circle, tasting the musk of his flesh.

“Yes,” he growled. “Deeper.”

“He's awake!” she exclaimed.

“Aye, lass,” he said, his voice taking on a rough country lilt. “And I want ye to suck my cock.”

“So crude.” But she loved it. Loved hearing him talk in such raw, earthy language, as if she'd written it herself for him. She felt exactly like one of her heroines—bold and unashamed. “Yet I must try.”

She took the whole head into her mouth and was rewarded with his curse of pleasure. Sinking lower, she sucked his shaft, her hand grasping the base, wrapping tightly around it. She bobbed up and down. Women in books did this, simulating the feel of coitus with their mouths. He was exquisite, delicious. She'd never felt more powerful than she did at that moment, with him utterly at her mercy as she doled out pleasure.

His hand came up to cradle the back of her head,
gently guiding her. Her eyes closed in satisfaction, sensation pouring through her body. She was so wet, so ready for him. Judging by the way he growled and moved beneath her, arousal gripped him as tightly as it did her.

He grew yet harder in her mouth. Until he rumbled, “Fuck me, lass.”

She couldn't keep up the pretense of the untried maiden any longer. Quickly, she stood and peeled off her drawers. Then she straddled him. And sank down, his cock filling her as she sat in his lap. She gripped his shoulders and moaned.

“God, yes,” she breathed.

They could not go slowly. She rode him hard, bouncing as she ground her hips against his. Deep, hard thrusts that touched the very core of her. It was too good. Too wondrous. She felt her climax gather in hot gold streaks. Until it burst over her, racking her with pleasure.