Worth Winning (32 page)

Mesmerized, she watched as he removed every stitch of clothing, so that he was as blessedly naked as she was.

Then, and only then, did he join her on the bed, where he shifted her and the ancient quilt until they were both partially underneath it, and then he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her.

She blushed.

“Must you look?”

Charles smiled. “Didn’t you know that looking is half the pleasure?”

Julia blushed again. “How would I know such a thing?” She tried to make her voice sound tart and reproachful, but the way he was looking at her, not touching her at all, just looking and examining her, as if memorizing every detail, was doing curious things to her skin. She was shocked to realize that just his gaze seemed to be enough to make her feel hot and tingly all over, to make that now-familiar wetness gather between her legs.

“Don’t worry. This is one arena where I can teach you.” With one lazy hand he trailed a path from her shoulder down to her belly, and instead of touching her where she most desperately wanted to be caressed, he skirted along the edge of her hip in a way that almost tickled her, his fingers tapping gently, massaging and stroking down her sensitized skin.

“In fact, I think you’ll find that I’ve become quite creative about the things I plan on teaching you.”

“Creative?” the question came out on another half moan, half gasp as his fingers pinched lightly at one nipple, quickly smoothing the area by covering it with his mouth and suckling gently. He continued to caress up and down her body, all while he calmly watched and watched her reaction.

“Oh yes. Though I’ll admit to caring for you and enjoying our conversations, don’t for a moment imagine that I haven’t dreamed of the ways in which I’d like to make love to you. I want you on your back, open and eager, begging for me. I want you on your stomach, so that you can’t see me, and are forced to concentrate on feeling everything I plan on doing to you. I want you against walls and on chairs, tables, and anything else that can hold our weight. I want to take you in front of a mirror so that you can see how you look when your body becomes flushed with desire, as it is now. I want you on top of me, so that you can learn to control the pace of our lovemaking, and so I can fill my hands with your breasts and watch as you come for me.”

He’d continued to caress her as he spoke, and though she had trouble imagining much of what he was describing, she couldn’t help but be excited. Still, she fixated on two things, “A mirror?” she gasped. “On top of you?” she repeated weakly.

He chuckled. “Yes, my innocent love. But I won’t shock you further today. Just trust me when I say that I’ve imagined far, far more scenarios. I’ll learn what excites you most, just as you’ll learn details about me, but believe me when I say there is more than what you’ve read or intuited from your books and your conversations. For our first lesson, I believe we’ll stick to the basics. We don’t have much time, after all.”

“I don’t have to be back until dinner.” The words were out of her mouth before she’d had time to think about what he was saying, what she was saying. Julia closed her eyes in mortification as the sound of Charles’s warm chuckle spread over her body. She couldn’t believe what she’d implicitly offered. In broad daylight, which somehow made it all the more . . . improper.

“As tempting as that thought is,” he said, caressing the side of her neck and then kissing her there, “and believe me when I say it is tempting, I’m fairly certain you’ll be a bit sore after the first time.”

“You don’t know?”

Charles shook his head. “I’ve never made love to an innocent, not even a brazen one like yourself.” His fingers traced paths up and down her body, inching ever closer to the wetness between her legs and yet, never touching her there—skirting by, teasing her, tauntingly close and yet . . . never actually giving her what she wanted.

“I’ve told you already: I am not brazen.”

Charles dipped his head again, suckling first on one breast and then the other. He let his fingers rest against her womanhood, entwined between her curls without entering her, touching her as if by accident. His fingers tapped a bit, as if playing an instrument, but the fact that they were there, on top of her mound, seemed to be almost by coincidence.

It was torture, and from the smile on his face, he knew it.

“Please,” she said finally, a bit frantic over the fact that he still wasn’t entering her. When he didn’t immediately reply, merely continuing his slow torture, she changed tactics and tried to reach down to touch him.

His body quickly arched away from hers, and he captured her straying hands with his, kissing and then releasing them, but smiling and shaking his head. Clearly, he was not prepared to allow her free reign over his body.

“Please?” he repeated teasingly, one fingertip nestled at her entrance, so that it was coated in her wetness. “Please touch you?”

“Yes,” Julia whispered, her eyes meeting his, both excited and a bit annoyed that he would toy with her at this moment.

“Like this?” His finger dipped inside her briefly, gloriously, and then left again. “Or like this?” This time his fingers parted and caressed her along the folds, his thumb lightly against her clitoris in a way that made her entire body seem to jump off the bed.

He smiled as she moaned softly and repeated the torture, entering her with one finger, sometimes with two, his thumb alternating barely touching with lightly resting with gently rubbing the tip of her clitoris.

Within seconds, she was panting and gripping at his shoulders almost convulsively. And, despite the fact that he seemed outwardly calm and in control, she could tell from his breathing that he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to appear, that he was becoming increasingly excited by her responses, so that when she shattered, minutes of delicious torture later, he too gave a small groan that seemed to be almost torn from him.

She was aware, even as she climaxed, that this time there would be more, and she felt a small quickening of renewed desire, tinged this time with a small amount of fear, when he positioned himself over her body, the blunt head of his erection resting against her opening.

He smiled down at her lopsidedly and seemed genuine when he said, “I really—I want and need this to be good for you and yet . . . I can’t wait, Julia.”

“Don’t,” she whispered, her arms going to his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and tensing just a little when he followed her advice, and she felt the hardness and softness that was him entering her ever so slowly.

Initially, it was more unfamiliar than uncomfortable. There was a very, very brief moment of pain when he sheathed himself completely, and then he was inside her, a part of her.

He broke their kiss on a gasp and buried his head against her neck, the look of strain on his face seemingly akin to pain.

“Are you all right?” Julia asked tentatively.

He laughed weakly, the sensation an odd one with them joined: she could feel the rumble of his chest against her breasts now that he’d lowered himself, could feel the way his entire body seemed to be not only in, but completely around her as his arms braced themselves on either side of her head, trying to keep his weight from crushing her. “Please don’t make me laugh, not at a moment like this. It’s far, far more than ‘all right’; it’s perfect. It’s”—he moved within her, leaving her body almost completely before sheathing himself again, completely—“It’s perfect,” he said. He moved again, in and out, teaching her the rhythm of their mating, each penetration a little deeper, a little more familiar than the last. “You’re perfect,” he whispered as he dedicated himself to the task of pleasing both of them, together.

It wasn’t long before she was completely caught up in the rhythm they’d created. She became focused on the joining of their bodies, the way hers moved to meet his, the way she could squeeze her muscles in a way that must have been instinctive, because it wasn’t something she’d read of or heard of but was simply something she knew to do.

They grasped at one another and pushed together, her arms sliding around his neck and curling into his hair, his weight crushing her a little at times, especially when he began to increase his rhythm and allow one of his hands to roam and caress again, to drift down to her breast even as his lips recaptured hers.

It all built to an almost unbearably heightened place, where her fingers and arms went from kneading and caressing to scratching and almost clawing, where the desire within her tightened to a breaking point . . . and then he kissed her again, sheathing himself completely, and she shattered, convulsing around him and giving a small scream that was only half-swallowed by his kiss.

From above her, he gave a brief grunt, and then he entered her body again, once, twice, three times and then his body emptied its seed into her, his mouth twisting away from hers on a contented groan.

He kissed her mouth again and disentangled himself slowly, rolling onto his back and then gathering her into his arms, kissing the top of her head and settling both of them for a well-deserved rest, despite the fact that it was still the middle of the morning, with many of the people in Munthrope probably just barely waking, preparing for the day.

Though they both fell asleep, it was Julia who woke first, the weight of his arm across her body an unfamiliar sensation that reached through her dreams and brought her back to reality.

And what a reality it was.

Putting aside the fact that she’d just made love with a man for the first time, and had quite enjoyed the experience, everything else in her life seemed to be in shambles.

Everything he’d told her had confirmed not only Robeson’s dire warnings, but also her worst suspicions: he was obviously still keeping many things from her, and he still hadn’t even told her his full name.

He was, most likely, as broke as Robeson had declared him to be.

More than that, he did not seem like the type of man who could long survive on a pittance. He seemed a true gambler at heart, believing that luck would turn his way despite mounting evidence to the contrary.

Probably he thought he could still win the bet, and despite the fact that Robeson had said that two thousand pounds wouldn’t be enough to sustain him, he’d alluded to his grand plans and no doubt thought he could double or triple the money at the tables.

Julia didn’t know much about gambling. But she’d known gamblers, or rather, had seen firsthand what happened to the women in their lives, women whose fates were forever intertwined with the foibles of their chosen loved ones. She’d watched Jack’s mother go from being a seemingly happy, carefree woman, one with a loving husband and a beloved son, to a worried, shadow of a woman, one who hid bruises even as she pawned off her jewelry, her dowry, her wedding gifts.

She’d seen, firsthand, what it had done to Jack as well. What it had been like for Jack to watch as his father had gambled away most of the estate only to break his neck—accidentally but perhaps purposefully—riding at a harrowing speed across the fields.

Jack had always thought that his father had chosen to take the easy way out, that, having saddled his family with nearly insurmountable debts, Mr. LeMay had simply decided it was time to quit the tables . . . permanently.

His mother hadn’t lasted long after that. There’d always been whispers about Mr. LeMay’s death, and his proclivities became one of the most widely known secrets of Munthrope, even though the women were all determined that they’d never speak of it.

She’d seen countless women in similar scenarios, happy when their husbands were home and sober, living for the times when their lovers weren’t gambling, always hoping that the last time they’d gotten drunk or gambled too much would truly be the last.

It never was. Otherwise, Jack’s factories and houses wouldn’t have needed to exist.

She kissed the arm that still held her softly, even as she reached her own, inescapable conclusion: she couldn’t live a life like that. Couldn’t tie herself to his romantic dreams and grand visions. She was not, at heart, a romantic woman. She wanted stability and foundation, to know that the house she lived in wouldn’t be lost the next day—something she’d seen happen to more than one of the women who now lived outside the soap mill. Julia didn’t need poetry or declarations, but she did need stability.

She shivered now, despite the fact that his arm was still across her body, and that he’d covered both of them with the faded quilt before dozing off. Carefully, so carefully that she wouldn’t wake him, she slipped from beneath his arms. Though he stirred once or twice, he did not wake up.

She bent and furtively picked up her discarded clothes, grabbing her hairpins and not bothering to redo her hair or put on any clothes until she’d gotten safely out of the bedroom and had shut the door between them. She dressed hastily, worrying all the while about how much time she’d have before he woke up, before he went looking for her.

She bit her already tender lower lip and decided to write him a note. She kept a store of paper, nibs, and ink because of the notes she took throughout the scent-making process. Now, she found a scrap of paper and wrote a quick explanation, hoping it would afford her enough time to make her escape, to leave Munthrope so that she could think through all that she had done . . . all that she had come so close to having. And all that she had lost.

She straightened herself slowly. It would do her no good to think that way. She was a grown woman and had made her own decisions. She blamed nothing and no one. The only thing left to do now was to escape before Charles could talk her into a life that she wasn’t prepared for, that she couldn’t survive.

Leaving Munthrope was easier than she’d thought it would be—almost surprisingly easy, actually. It helped of course, that she’d confided in her stepmother—not everything, of course, but enough to let Phyllis know that she needed to leave, as soon as possible.

There had been a deluge of questions but none that had been particularly prying. For the most part Phyllis had accepted Julia’s precipitous declaration with an eerie calm, asking merely about the details: Where would Julia stay? Did Jack have a relative who would act as chaperone? Was Julia certain that Jack would welcome her? Would Julia be certain to send word when she’d arrived safely? How long did she think she needed to be away?