by Cheryl Holt
He was touching her everywhere, riffling through her hair, down her shoulders and arms. She joined in the fray, exploring as she'd always longed to do. She hadn't realized that a man's anatomy could be so perfect, and merely from caressing him she was growing agitated. There was tension building inside her, tension she didn't comprehend and didn't know how to assuage.
His crafty fingers went to her breasts, and he massaged them, the sensation so delightful that she squirmed and writhed in agony. He clasped the nipples, applying pressure so that her skirmishing increased.
His torso was wedged between her thighs, and instinctively, she flexed against him, her hips working in a rhythm that he instantly matched. His loins were connected to hers, only the fabric of her drawers and his trousers separating them, and she could feel the hard ridge at his center, about which her married acquaintances occasionally whispered.
She hadn't unraveled its purpose, but she was dying to learn more about the naughty rod. How was it used? Why was it necessary?
She hadn't a clue, but she recognized it to be an indication of heightened ardor, so despite how he might snap and bark, he still fancied her.
"You've missed me," she charged.
"I haven't."
"You desire me; I can feel that you do." "You're mad." "Quit pretending." "I'm not."
She tried to reach down and touch what she was so curious to investigate, but he grasped her hand, preventing any examination.
"Let me!" she protested.
"No."
He captured her wrists and trapped them over her head. The restrictive position was thrilling, and it placed numerous sensitive spots into closer contact with his masculine parts.
He slid to the side, his thigh draped across her crotch and holding her down. Without her being aware, he'd loosed her corset, and he slipped under the edge, his palm covering her bosom, bare skin to bare skin.
She gasped and arched up, wrestling to get away, but to move nearer, too.
He shoved at the frilly lace, and her breast popped free of constraint. Grinning, he was insolent and smug, as if this was what he'd planned all along.
"My, my, Caro," he murmured, "how pretty you are."
His thumb was twirling her nipple, making it ache, making it throb.
"Ian!" She was begging for something, but not for him to desist!
"Is this what you wanted? Is this what you came for? I'm about to give you what you've obviously been needing."
He bent down and took her nipple in his mouth, and he sucked on it as a babe would its mother, though with none of the tender ministration. He was rough and demanding, his teeth nipping at it till she was a thrashing ball of misery.
He rooted to the other, and soon he was shifting back and forth between the two. As he kept on, his hand slithered down her stomach, her abdomen. He fiddled with the string on her drawers, then crept inside, continuing on to her womanly hair and lower.
He spread her nether lips, his fingers gliding into her privates. They seemed to fit just right, to scratch an itch she hadn't known she was suffering. He stroked in and out, the tempo so mesmerizing that her sheath wept with joy at the fondling.
She was embarrassed and tried to press her legs together, tried to dislodge him, but he wouldn't budge.
"You are so ready," he muttered.
"For what?"
"For me, darling. For me." "What are you doing? I feel as if I might explode." "You just might," he said, worrying her as to what was approaching.
"Oh ... oh..." she panted. "Stop! Please!"
"No."
"I can't... I can't..." "Almost there."
"Where?" she anxiously questioned. "Where are we?"
His thumb flicked out, jabbing at a spot she'd never noted before. He poked at it again and again, as he suckled her nipple with all his might.
She splintered, her anatomy seeming to careen off in all directions. She was flying through the universe, blinded by ecstasy, as if pitched toward a precipice she couldn't locate.
Ultimately, she reached it, and she cried out, then began the journey down, floating forever in a sea of bliss and lassitude that totally engulfed her. She'd been paralyzed, her limbs were rubbery, and she was relieved to be lying down. If she'd been standing, she'd have collapsed in a stunned heap.
She landed, safe and secure in his arms. While she'd had her world shattered, her entire being ripped asunder and rearranged, he appeared relaxed and even a tad bored. How could she have been utterly undone, and he not fazed?
At having reduced her to such a pathetic state, he oozed with male arrogance.
"Are you feeling better?" he queried.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
She was far beyond the day when she'd grovel or shy away.
"What were you hoping to accomplish by coming here?"
"Precisely this, I suppose."
"You suppose? Didn't you know?"
"I'm a spinster, for pity's sake. How could I guess what would transpire?"
He flopped onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. With their ardor cooling, she was chilled, and she scooted nearer, seeking his body's warmth.
Her life was so sterile, her encounters with men so stilted and formal that she'd never imagined the sort of intimacy they'd just shared. She wanted more of it; she wanted all he had to give. She was tired of being unloved and unwanted, and she was certain that if she wed grumpy, elderly Edward, she'd be more isolated than ever.
"What should I do with you, Caro?" he inquired.
"Am I still a virgin?"
He sighed. "Yes, you are."
"How would I know if you ..."
"There's a bit more to it."
"What occurs?"
He sighed again. "May I take you home now? Or is your carriage parked out behind the house?"
He would send her home? Now? After what they'd done? How could he?
Her spirits flagged.
She felt as if he'd opened a door to a secret room she hadn't known to exist. She wished there were a mirror next to the bed. She was positive—that if she stared into one—she'd look different, yet he was exactly the same. How could he be so impervious?
"Do you really want me to go?" she shamed herself by asking.
"No, but what good would it do to have you remain?"
"We could spend a few hours together."
"We don't even like each other. What would be the point?"
He turned onto his side and scrutinized her. His face was an expressionless mask, and she peered into his blue, blue eyes, trying to read his mind.
"We could grow to like each other."
He scoffed. "I doubt it. We've had twelve years. It hasn't happened yet."
"I was engaged to your brother the whole time!"
"Yes, you were." He toyed with a lock of her hair. "Why are you really here, Caro? Tell me."
"I don't know."
'Then lie to me. Make something up."
She struggled with what to say, how to explain, but the words wouldn't come. For a fleeting instant, many months prior, he'd seemed to understand her, had been the only person who ever had.
"I'm so lonely," she eventually replied, humiliated by a flood of tears. "I'm so lonely, and I'm so alone, and I—"
As if he couldn't bear to hear the rest, he kissed her.
His mouth bit into hers, as his fingers wound through her hair. He fought with the strands as if he might yank them from her head. He was angry—either with himself or with her, she couldn't decide.
Finally, as if he'd figured out what he needed, or had reached the end of the road, he gentled and drew away.
"I don't want you to leave," he admitted. "I want you to stay. I want you to stay for as long as you can." "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm very sure." "I can tarry till dawn." "I'd like that."
"So would I."
He rolled over and pulled her with him so that she was draped across his torso. He grabbed for the laces on her corset, and they began again.
Chapter Four
>
Do you ever think about our brother?"
"Which one?"
"Which one do you think?" Jack said. "The
exalted Viscount Wakefield."
"Sometimes," Ian admitted.
"Will I ever get to meet him?"
"Why would you want to?"
"Just curious. I'm told I resemble him."
"You're an exact copy—though you've managed to control your baser impulses as Wakefield never could."
Jack smiled, glad his history was obscure. Ian had minimal clues about how Jack had survived his youth, but only those tidbits Jack had felt like sharing.
"Wakefield was a scapegrace?"
"And a cad. And a sluggard, but he thrived on his low reputation. He enjoyed aggravating people, and he misbehaved on purpose. It drove our father to distraction."
"Would Wakefield like me?"
Jack hated the plaintive tone underlying his question. He'd never had a family, so he was desperately pleased that he was with Ian. Ian had offered him shelter from the rough streets of London, but Jack couldn't move beyond his wish to become acquainted with his other brother.
The notion of having another sibling, of his being nearby and easily encountered, disturbed Jack's usually placid demeanor. He wanted to look Wakefield in the eye, to take his measure. He wanted Wakefield to know he existed.
"Why would Wakefield like you?" Ian asked, trying to appear stern but failing. "You're a pain in the ass."
"You're too kind."
"Aren't I, though?"
Ian was over by the fire, brooding and staring into the flames, and Jack watched him, wondering what had happened. The past few days, he'd seemed bothered, quieter and more pensive, as if he was weighed down by a heavy burden.
They were brothers, but hardly more than strangers. As Ian occupied himself with women, drink, and wagering, they stumbled along, with Jack doing his best to provide friendship and counsel on the lighter issues of life. But he wouldn't dream of giving advice on an important problem, nor was he certain advice would be appreciated.
Suddenly, Ian spun and started for the door. "I'm going out."
"Now? But it's almost midnight, and it's raining cats and dogs."
"I just need to ... to..."
"You don't have to explain. If you want to go, go." "Rebecca is here. She's upstairs, having a bath. She's waiting for me to join her." "You don't care to?"
"I guess I don't."
The news was odd. Rebecca was a great beauty, and even though she was a crazed witch, Jack couldn't conceive of any man shunning the chance to bed her.
He let out a low whistle. "If you leave, she won't be happy."
"I don't imagine so."
Ian was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be away, and Jack waved him toward the hall. "Just go. I'll deal with her."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"She can be a handful."
"She's a wee mite. I'm not afraid of her. I'll see her home—if I have to bind and gag her to get her there." Ian chuckled, his expression relieved. "Thank you." "You're welcome." "I owe you one."
He rushed out, as Jack murmured, "Your debt has already been paid a hundred times over."
Dawdling, he contemplated Rebecca. She'd be nude, hot and slippery all over, and at the realization, his cock stirred, which made him grin. She was Ian's mistress, and he wasn't such an ungrateful wretch that he'd take what Ian considered his own, yet he often caught himself lusting after her.
What healthy male wouldn't? She was sin incarnate, a walking, talking erotic fantasy. Frequently, he viewed her naked and doing all sorts of things she oughtn't, and he always tried to act nonchalant, as if he wasn't affected, but it was difficult to pretend indifference.
With that mouth and those eyes, she should have been locked up in a distant convent or prison, where sane, normal men wouldn't have to gaze upon her and be bewitched by lechery.
He went to the stairs and climbed, more eager than he should have been for the pending fracas. He loathed her—for her avarice, for her vanity, for her loose morals—but he garnered an enormous thrill from their sparring. She was a vixen and she-devil, wrapped in a pretty package, and there was nothing quite so entertaining as goading her into a temper.
He entered Ian's bedchamber and proceeded to the dressing room, pushing the door open and marching in. Her back to him, she was reclined in the tub. Her knees were spread wide, and she was sipping on a glass of Ian's whiskey and smoking one of his cheroots. Her lush red hair dangled over the rim and hung to the floor.
Expecting Ian, she glanced over her shoulder, a sultry smile on her ruby lips, but when she saw him, her mood instantly soured.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?"
"No."
"Were you raised in a cave?"
"I've heard it said that I was."
"I'm not surprised." She spun around, ignoring him. "Get out of here. I'm enjoying myself, and I won't have you pestering me."
Infuriating her to no end, he approached and sat on the edge of the tab. He could see into the water, and he struggled not to gape at her perfect breasts, her tantalizing nipples. He snatched the cigar and snuffed it out; then he took her whiskey and downed the remaining contents.
"You rat!" she protested. "Give me that." "You're finished."
"I am not."
"You are. Ian's gone out." "What?" "He's gone out." 'To where?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea. He asked me to take you home."
"But... but... I just arrived." "And now you're leaving." "I don't wish to go." "It's not up to you."
"You may have imposed on Ian's affluence and good graces, but this is not your bloody house."
"It's not yours either, princess."
"I don't have to listen to you. You managed to fool him with your false claims of a common paternity, but I'm not so easily duped. He's such a smart fellow. How did you convince him you were brothers?"
"I cast a spell on him. When I was younger, I traveled with a caravan of gypsies, and they showed me how, so be careful, or I'll cast one on you, too."
She frowned and studied him, clearly wondering if a hex was imminent, and he liked that he could keep her off balance.
He wasn't ashamed of his antecedents, but he wouldn't defend them to people who could never understand. His sudden appearance as Ian's brother had fomented tons of gossip, but he never discussed his history or answered the charges that were slyly voiced.
He had to give her credit: She had the courage to level her accusations to his face, rather than behind his back as most were wont to do.
His mother had been a gentleman's daughter, tossed out by her parents after the notorious aristocrat Douglas
Clayton had impregnated her. Jack had indistinct memories of her, but while she'd lived, their life had been one trial after the next, and he recollected it as a period when he was always hungry and cold.
After her death, on a sodden, wintry street in York, he'd been a boy all alone, and he'd gotten by as best he could. He actually had traveled with gypsies, with a circus, with a troupe of theatrical players.
Through it all, he'd kept a letter from his father to his mother, as well as a stained baptismal certificate. On a blustery autumn day, as he'd loitered on a London corner, he'd been weary and starving and questioning the reasons he continued on. He'd made a few inquiries, had learned Ian's address, and had knocked on his door.
His brother had read the two tattered documents, then had welcomed him to stay for as long as he liked. It had been as easy as that, but he wouldn't explain as much to Rebecca Blake.
Her world was one of wealth and privilege. She'd never missed a meal or huddled in an empty stairwell to get out of the rain. She'd wed and buried three rich husbands, and each of them had left her money, yet she constantly mentioned that she was broke, when she had no notion of what true poverty entailed.
Her last spouse's family had proposed a settlement, which she'd refused, demanding much more, and it
was obvious she was wrangling to have Ian as her fourth husband so that she could latch onto his fortune, too, which seemed so silly.
She had more than enough, yet she was never satisfied.
"Let's get you going," he said.
He reached down and pulled her up, but the tub was slippery, and she toppled to the side. There was nothing he could do but catch her. She landed in his arms, every damp, shapely inch of her sprawled across him in a provocative way. Her bare bosom was crushed to his chest, her lips a hairsbreadth from his own, and for a stunned moment, they froze, then a wave of madness swept over him, and he kissed her.
He didn't ponder Ian, or her relationship with him, didn't consider her prior dead husbands, or what he viewed as her greedy behavior. He simply forged on.
She was hot and wet, and she smelled so good, and he dragged her across his lap. His cock swelled to an enormous size, and he grew so aroused that he worried he might spill himself in his trousers.
The placard of his pants was all that separated him from paradise and, pushed beyond his limit, he flexed into her. He wrestled to get nearer, as she was doing the same. She hissed and bit, clawed and rasped, offering him her breast, and he seized it in a frenzy.
When she was urging him to feast, how could he fail to oblige her?
He cupped her between her legs, and he felt as if he'd been jolted by lightning. Frantically, he ripped at the buttons on his pants, yanked his phallus free, and impaled himself in her sheath. He thrust once, again, again, and he came in a torrid rush, but the ecstasy quickly waned.
He pressed his forehead to her nape and struggled to calm his breathing. Sanity returned, and reality sank in for both of them.
"Oh, my God!" she muttered. "What have I done?"
She leapt away and stood before him, a naked, quivering ball of wrath.
He stood, too, so that they were eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe. He wanted her again, already. "I'm not sorry," he said. "I am!"
"I didn't hear you complaining while it was happening."
"Then you weren't listening very closely. Ian will kill me." "Probably."
"Don't you dare tell him! If you do, I'll kill you!"
