The Pretender (36 page)

Simon had been up late and was likely sleeping deeply. She was sure she had covered every possible contingency. There would never be a better opportunity. • His room was as dark as the hall, but she had taken a moment while Button prepared her costume to count the steps it required to move from the doorway to Simon's bedside.

Counting silently, she finished just as the bedskirt brushed her ankles. With slow, controlled movements, she dropped her wrapper to the floor and lifted the counterpane.

The mattress rustled slightly as she inched her way beneath the covers. She could hear Simon's breathing just inches away. Hopefully her feet were not so cold that he'd wake before she reached her goal.

Success. His body was burning against her air-cooled skin, and for just a moment she held still, allowing herself to warm and soften to his heat like candle wax held too close to the fire.

Then she made her move.

Ever so slowly, she stroked her fingertips from one out-flung manly wrist down to the tender inside of one elbow. His skin was smooth, with a different texture from her own.

Touching him was all new somehow. Perhaps because the dark enveloped them, making her senses focus on even this slight contact. Perhaps because he was oblivious to her attentions, not watching her every move with a hungry gaze as he had the first time.

Gaining courage as Simon continued to sleep on, Agatha began to trace the muscular hills and dales of his shoulder and chest.

So hard. So different from her.

His warmth spread to her and she carefully snuggled closer. Laying her head gingerly on his shoulder, she pressed her palm over the rippled contours and the patch of wiry hair that crested his chest from flat male nipple to nipple.

Her heart pounded in delicious anxiety. It was somehow illicitly thrilling to stroke him unawares. There was a word for such things.

Erotic.

She'd never truly understood that word before. Probably because she wasn't supposed to know it at all. But this dance of caresses and darkness was undeniably erotic.

If only she could see him as well. She daren't light a candle, and she did not want to stop, so she pulled from her mind the indelible memory of the first time they had met.

Ready for his bath that day, he had seemed the finest possible picture of a man. He had taken her very breath away even then.

Now she knew the soul inside her Simon, the strength and the selflessness, the past pain and heroic loneliness. Indeed, the dazzling outside of him seemed the only fitting wrapping for the man inside.

She moved still closer, pressing her bare breasts to his ribs and trapping one hard leg under her thigh.

He moved then, but without the striking intensity of last night. This time, he shifted his leg lazily under hers until her inner thigh pressed upward into most interesting territory.

He was rigid beneath her knee. Agatha's eyes widened and she bit her lip. There was no point in becoming faint-hearted now.

Her hand slid down past his stomach, trailing down a subtle path of hair until her fingers contacted another growth of springy fleece.

Oh my. Interesting territory indeed. She hesitated. Should she take him into her hand? She knew nothing about a man's organ, despite her previous intimate acquaintance with Simon's. What would he like her to do next?

Simon was floating in a fantasy of warmth and wicked pleasure. It was his best Naked Agatha dream yet. He could even detect her scent and feel the softness of her nest against his hip as she snuggled close.

He turned into her silken haven and wrapped her in his arms. Her lovely breasts melted against his chest except for the rigid jewels of her nipples.

Long fragrant tresses fell against his cheeks as he pulled her up over him to bring her mouth to his. She tasted of tea and honey and Agatha.

Rolling to his back, he felt her soft thighs embrace his hips. He wanted to plunge himself within her, to find her sanctuary of gentleness and warmth. He slid his hands from her waist to cup her luscious rear and—

He really
was
cupping her luscious rear!

Agatha was a little disappointed when Simon froze beneath her, his hands going hard on her bottom.

"Agatha, what are you doing here?"

His voice was thick with lust and confusion. If she was to be fair, she should back off now and try to convince him with her words that they should be together.

But her own escalated arousal desperately cried out for more. And words hadn't worked very well before.

With a mere tilt of her hips, she slid his thick shaft into position, poised at the verge of her cleft.

"Agatha—"

She stopped his protest with an open kiss, thrusting her tongue in to battle his in a hot sortie. His objection died away. His hands tightened on her flesh and he gave a roll of his hips that told her he would dispute no more.

Prepared for the pain, Agatha drove herself down on him in one fatal plunge.

Pleasure exploded through her, driving the breath from her lungs in an astonished gasp. Oh,
again.

Instinctively she rose on her knees, then impaled herself upon him once more. The excitement burst over her again, and this time Simon groaned aloud with it as well.

With his hands urging her on, Agatha set a steady pace of rising and falling that soon took on a life of its own.

Her body was a wild thing, spurred by animal need, while her mind was lost, tossed by the waves of exquisite sensation. Her entire consciousness centered about that one point of delicious friction. Swiftly she rose high, leaving him until they almost parted. Slowly she descended, savoring every inch of him until he filled her deeply, cleaving her with sweet aching pleasure.

She began to move faster, driven by the growing craving within her. Suddenly Simon cried out beneath her, arching his body and bucking deeply into her.

He swelled and throbbed inside her, expanding her with a last erotic spasm. A wordless sound of ecstasy was ripped from her own throat as she shattered into a thousand bright shards of rapture.

When he had control of himself again, Simon eased his fierce grip on Agatha's bottom. He hoped he hadn't left marks on her skin, for he had not been in command of his actions in the slightest.

She lay panting upon him, her hair trailing down his neck, her hands gripping his shoulders.

"Shh," he soothed, although he could scarcely breathe himself. She shuddered still, trembling from the power of her orgasm. "You'll be all right in a moment," he whispered.

"What—what was that?"

Her astonishment made him want to laugh, but he didn't wish to mock her innocence.

Morning was about to break, and silvery light had begun to seep into the room. She'd timed her attack perfectly. He'd always been a morning man.

"That was the usual result of making love," he told her.

She raised her head and blinked at him through the damp strands of her hair.

"
That
happens to everyone?"

"Well, honestly… no. Not to everyone." Not to him, either, not like this. He'd been dazed by the strength of it.

Of course, it had been a long time for him.

Less than a week
, whispered reality.

She'd sprung it on him, he argued. He'd been taken by surprise.

Admit it. In your life you've never before given yourself body and soul.

"Oh, very well," he muttered.

Agatha rolled to his side, leaving one arm and one leg draped over him. Her skin clung to his damply, and her sweet womanly scent was intoxicating, mingled with that of their lovemaking.

He liked it a great deal.

"What did you say?" She'd regained her breath, but still lay limply against him, skin to skin.

Her unconscious lack of modesty was appealing in its innocence. He was nude—therefore, so was she. There was no prim show of covering up what he had already seen and touched.

For all her skill at lying, she was as honest a woman as he'd ever known. No halves for Agatha. Only full-strength loyalty and devotion would do.

"I can't give you any tomorrows," he blurted.

"I know," she whispered.

He felt her lips press to his shoulder. She was reassuring
him.
His throat tightened.

"You are the most peculiar creature, Agatha."

"Is that bad? Or is it another way of saying I'm unique?"

"Oh, unique does not begin to cover it." He realized that he was stroking her hair and almost stopped. But he continued. God, he was so tired of resisting her. So bloody damned tired of fighting his heart.

Gently he rolled with her until she lay on her back, looking up at him. Tracing her beloved features with his fingertips, he gazed down on her solemnly.

"I want to be with you for as long as is allowed us," he said. "When our time is done, we must both walk away."

She nodded, her eyes filling.

"No tears now and no tears later. Can you do that, damsel? Can you let me go when the time comes?"

"I know I cannot compete with her." Her soft voice was resigned.

"Who?"

"England."

"Oh, sweetness, it isn't that I love her more than you. But you are strong. You can get on without me. She cannot."

Her eyes went wide, her expression stunned.

"Agatha? What is it?"

"You love me?"

He had never told her. Too afraid, too cowardly to say the words. If he told her, he might not be able to let her go.

He opened his mouth, but she brushed her fingertips across his lips, silencing him.

"No. Perhaps it is best if you don't."

She freed both hands and held his face between her soft palms, gazing up at him.

"But
I
am free to speak my heart. I love you."

She was braver than he. He looked away. "Love is a great risk, Agatha."

"You are not a risk."

"How can you know that?"

"You came back."

"Only to leave you again."

She shook her head. "Being torn from me is not the same as leaving me."

He kissed each eye in turn, feeling and tasting the faint trace of tears. "I'm glad I returned to you. Although I shouldn't be dishonoring you this way."

She snorted. "Simon, I practically ravished you."

He grinned. "I know. I feel so cheap." . "There is nothing cheap about you." She reached up to stroke his damp hair from his brow. "Darling man, you deserve the finest of this world."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he rolled back to lie beside her, staring up at the canopy.

"I really am merely a bastard chimneysweep, you know."

"Yes, I know."

And the hell of it was, he knew she truly didn't care. So he told her everything. Everything he hadn't told before, to anyone.

He told her how he grew up, often cold and usually hungry. How his mother had barely fended for her own survival. How she had sent him out on his own, unable to face his growing understanding of how she earned her way.

As a boy, he'd become a chimneysweep to support himself, but the pay was small, when he was paid at all. He'd spent many a cold night wandering the streets in his efforts to stay warm.