by Thea Devine
She woke up naked.
Sometime during the early hours of the morning, he had awakened and undressed her so carefully, so tenderly, so lightly, she'd had no awareness that he was even gone from her body.
He lay covering her now, one hand cupping her mound, his penis hard, thick, and pulsing and pushing against her buttocks. He hadn't tried to enter her or take possession again.
That showed some feeling, didn't it? Some respect?
The moment he sensed that she was sentient, he swooped his fingers deep into her slit, and she gasped with pleasure.
"Ahh, need to hot you up again. Five fingers' worth this time. Turn this way, angle your legs—that's exactly right. Four fingers in—maybe ... I haven't stretched you enough ... let my fingers work you .. . just. . . like that—feel them?"
She felt them, wriggling, stroking, pushing at her labia, easing in, in in . .. his thumb at her clit—how did he do that at that impossible angle? It felt too good, comfortable, his fingers there, spreading wide, spreading her ... so naked this time, the pleasure
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of his fondling so acute, she involuntarily ground her hips against the feeling, pumping the pleasure yet again.
How could she feel this much again so soon? This was more seductive than life, this mindless enslavement by his hand alone.
He was there, naked, behind her, and with every heave of her body, he pushed against her vulva, inching his way incrementally with minimal, meaningful thrusts—
She felt him, in a haze, as he slowly took possession of her with his penis, finger by finger, until he had penetrated her fully.
Now he was free to play with her clit while he stroked and tweaked her nipples with his other hand.
"I need three hands—four—" he growled. "I want every inch, all of your body, both nipples, lift your leg so I can get at your clit NOW..."
Now . . . her body felt like cream, whipped to a clotting consistency, the feelings of pleasure mounting one on top of the other, thick, luscious, pumping, pumping—settling on the hard point of... of—
She didn't shatter—she melted onto that point of pleasure, just let the sensation spread thick like treacle all over her body as she surrounded the point and surrendered to its power.
******************
He seemed to like this obverse position because it gave him all the power. She couldn't wriggle him off, she couldn't push him off; he had all the strength and leverage of being on top of her and surrounding her, and he didn't have to see her face.
Consistent with his philosophy of her being his receptacle. The words were meaningless, just a way to set the scene, arouse her ardor, get her juices flowing.
It was too much sensation, too much pleasure. That part was simple. Investing emotion—that had to be put by the wayside. It must only be about the pleasure, for her just as it was for him.
Was it conceivable that she could use him in the same way?
How did a woman love a man and set that aside for the purely physical part of the marriage? It did have its advantages; she could see that clearly and suddenly it became easier to comprehend why a man might seek out a whore.
It made things that much simpler. No emotions. No involve-
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ment. Someone who, because she was paid for her time and her body, would not be critical. Someone who would pet and play and compliment, and then, a clutch of sovereigns in hand, just walk away.
It was a fairly seductive idea for a wife as well, whose recompense was in her home, hearth, and pin money.
Give him your body—remove your intelligence. A simple formula in which each of them got what they wanted. She kept access to Waybury, and this comfortable life, and he had his receptacle whenever he felt like it; they both enjoyed the sex, and they both walked away.
Hramm.
Of course, lying here naked with him, with his legs pinning her, and his arms around her, one hand stroking and fondling her lazily between her legs, the other gently squeezing her nipples, she couldn't really think coherently. Probably that was why she thought all this pleasure without involvement was such a good idea.
Just put aside the ioving-him part. Love the sex. Love how he learned how to fondle and fuck you. Forget the rest. Never even think about the rest. . .
He rooted himself in her for three long days and nights, endlessly, ceaselessly, never tiring, never diminishing in his lust for her or in his hard, vigorous presence ready to take her.
Just the pleasure, just the sex . . .
Food was hardly necessary, but it was delivered to the bedroom door nonetheless, affording Emily an unobtrusive way to go back and forth with each knock on the door. Jancie could sometimes hear the scratch of her nails, a soft meuuw. It comforted her to know Emily was there.
Lujan would bring the tray to the bed, in those rare moments of quiescence, and they would dine on whatever Mrs. Ancrum saw fit to send up to them.
Or he would dine on her, slathering her body with sauces, jellies, creams, anything he could lick and suck from her nipples, her belly, her mound.
Just the pleasure, just the sex.
He mounted her again and again. He couldn't stop, couldn't let up; it was as if some voluptuary passion outside himself moved
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him. He reveled in the endless seeking of her depths, in her pleasure, her passion, and the knowledge that he and only he could bring her to this mindless, soaring surrender.
She wanted it, too—just the pleasure, just the sex.
But for her, it was like being in a prison, wholly at the mercy of Luj art's lust, and deliberately sloughing off the feelings and immersing herself in a bottomless pool of pleasure.
She had become exactly what Lujan most desired: the depth-less receptacle of his lust.
And—quite unexpectedly—her own.
Just concentrate on the feelings, the sensation, the satisfaction of coming to climax in his hands, with his penis, at his words.
She was concentrating ... to the utmost, although she was rubbed raw and worn out by the time, deep in the night, he rolled off of her for one last time and fell into his usual deep sleep.
Then, she heard the light scratch that signified Emily's presence, and a faint, ghostly, crickling sound.
Emily at play. Emily here, a presence under the bed when she needed her, consoling her yet again.
The marbley, rolling sound went on and on, as if Emily were chasing whatever it was under the bed. It sounded so loud in the silence of night. She kept listening for it, concentrating on the sound as Emily scrabbled under the bed.
So now you know Emily is there. Now you feel better. Now concentrate on Lujan's unsatiated lust for your body—nothing else . .. just the pleasure, just the sex ...
She didn't want to. She hated it.
It was more than a lot of wives had.
It was too little—
. . . and it was too much . . .
Chapter Thirteen
In the morning, after toast and tea, he mounted her yet again, tunneling into her, cradling himself against her hips and rocking gently, almost dispassionately, as he considered her face.
"Don't look at me," she murmured, avoiding his gaze. "That isn't the point, is it?"
He shifted, thrust. "That's the point."
"Get on with it, then."
He was surprised to find that her matter-of-factness irritated him. "Jancie ..."
"These are not my terms, Lujan. This is what you said you wanted. A receptacle, wasn't it? No need to search for any emotion, any feeling on my part. I've come to be completely amenable to looking at it just the way you do. It's all about the the pleasure, correct?"
That wasn't quite what he was looking for after three days of unparalleled coupling with her. Three days of finding in her what had been lacking in all the others. He didn't want to hear his words parroted back to him, that their union meant no more to her than his banging a whore.
He wanted someth
ing else. Maybe not quite that rash, unmentionable declaration she had made a week ago—but what, then?
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Get on with it?
"Ah, Jancie." He moved, just a little, pushing, prodding.
"That feels lovely," she said, her voice devoid of feeling. Just the pleasure, just the sex.
"Nothing else?"
She opened her eyes wide. Breathe. "What else is there?"
He didn't know, but her cavalier attitude was making him queasy. It meant her loyalty to him hung by a thread, and anything could snap it—another man, more money, better sex. It meant he didn't have the power over her that he had thought, that his sexual prowess was not the center of her world.
It was rather stunning to comprehend that Jancie could just up and walk away from him, and it wouldn't take too much to push her in that direction.
Well, he would just stop wanting her that much. He pulled back suddenly and withdrew from her, just to see what she would say, what she would do.
She did nothing—she just lay there, swinging her legs to the left so her hips and body were slightly turned away from him.
What?
Why was he feeling so bereft? And so off balance. Sweating. His penis lowering to half-staff.
"Why did you do that?" Jancie's voice, soft, impersonal, coming to him from a distance, as if she were on the opposite side of the room.
"Do what?" Yes, that was coherent, but he wasn't feeling coherent suddenly. No, mustn't go on about feelings.
"Why did you... stop?"
You stopped. No, that wasn't what he meant. He had stopped her, so that didn't make sense, except that he didn't want her to stop now. He wanted . .. what did he want? Not to stop.
But he had stopped. And flopped. He levered himself up on one elbow, and the room tilted.
Holy hell. He fell back on the pillow. Don't stop.
"Lujan?" Her voice was even farther away.
"Here. Don't stop ..." He felt boneless, suddenly. Couldn't move. Don't stop—call Kyger ... he couldn't get the words out. He felt Jancie shake him, call to him, and then jump out of the
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bed, heard her blurry voice calling down the hallway, heard pounding feet and voices.. .
. .. heard nothing more as he slipped into unconsciousness.
******************
He swam up through the darkness and the tentacles reaching out for him.
"Jancie... ?"
"I'm here."
"What happened?"
"Something you ate. The doctor doesn't know which meal, which food. Just that something you ate reacted in your system. You've been sleeping for two days."
Two days? TWO days? Forty-eight hours that Jancie was alone with Kyger in his house with him as good as dead to the world?
Jesus. God. And they put him in pajamas, too. Wait—was he remembering correctly—had someone, Kyger, induced him to ... heave all over the bedroom that night? Before he passed out?
That, too?
Jesus.
He struggled to sit up and a firm hand pushed him back against the pillows. "Not yet, big brother." Kyger, damn his soul. Enjoying himself immensely, too. "Bed rest for you. Gruel and barley water for the rest of the week."
"You'd love that," Lujan growled. "But I'm not down and out yet, little man. Out of my—our room, now. Just go away."
Kyger shrugged. "Sure. I'll just let you take over right now, and I'll be on my way."
With Jancie, no doubt, Lujan thought mordantly. Damn it to hell. How had this happened to him? When had he lost control— of his life, his wife, his brother's feelings of responsibility? His father's lenient hand . . . And where the hell was Hugo mucking around, anyway?
He felt soggy, soft, deflated. Useless in the face of Kyger's vigor and Jancie's detachment. "Go away."
"My pleasure," Kyger murmured. "Jancie?"
"You should rest," Jancie said.
Lujan hated her at that moment, hated that neutral tone, hated that she didn't seem to care one way or another, and maybe she'd just as soon be in Kyger's bed than his. Hated his brother
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for being so hatefully helpful and generous and looking so virile and strong next to him, so weak and helpless in his bed.
How had he come to this?
"Fine, I'll rest. Both of you, get out."
He wanted Jancie to protest, to say she'd stay, but off she went with his brother, and he felt a murderous urge to jump out of bed and follow them, to spy on them, to catch them doing what he suspected they wanted to do, what they were planning to do, while he was so incapacitated.
He wasn't quite able. Still dizzy, still weak. He lay back on the pillows, fuming.
Mrooww. Emily jumped up on the bed.
Damned cat.
She rubbed against his arm. Oww.
She was no comfort whatsoever.
"Go away." He lifted her—he barely had the strength to lift her—and dropped her on the floor.
Immediately he heard her scrabbling across the room, and the sound of something rolling and her chasing it, pouncing on it.
He was too tired to look, to care, even to sleep. What was Jancie doing?
The rolling sound filled his head.
Stupid cat. And Jancie so attached to it. And Kyger. And not to him . . .
He was getting delirious. The crickling sound felt like it was rolling around in his head, a marble on a table, rolling inexorably toward the edge . . .
Falling ... off the edge . . . falling . .. down the steps. . . falling .. . into oblivion—
... if he fell... he thought fuzzily, grasping for sentience and failing . . .
If he fell forever—his last thought. ,. Jancie would be free .. .
******************
She had never thought Lujan would return home this soon. She felt frantic, as if she were missing something, but she didn't know what it was.
The two points of her life were about to intersect: Lujan's presence meant more of his claiming her time, and her body. What if he stayed on for the foreseeable future?
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Not likely. He'd miss the fleshpots of London soon enough. He'd get tired of her sooner than later and off he'd go. Thank God, she'd clamped down on her feelings before she'd made more of a fool of herself. This way was better. Then she wouldn't be so devastated when he left, and she could continue on her quest.
She couldn't do much now. The servants were hovering everywhere, in deep concern for Mr. Lujan. Kyger closeted himself in the library and worked the house accounts instead of riding the fields.
Bingham was ever-present, cementing her feeling that he was always watching her now. Mrs. Ancrum kept preparing broth and oatmeal for Lujan, who pushed it away, and kept asking for Jancie.
But there wasn't much she could do for him. He needed bed rest, and a few days of letting his system regulate itself and get rid of the toxins was about all that could be done generally.
"Well, then, rest with me," he coaxed her.
"My company can have no restorative powers that I can conceive of," Jancie told him primly, "and besides, you're in no shape to do anything but lie flat on your back."
"Well, then—I'll do that, and you sit on my penis, and do all the work. That will be amazingly curative, I think."
"I think not," Jancie said, removed and detached once again.
He hated that. She could just as well have gotten naked and saddled him. But the emotion wasn't there. However, the minute he conceived of the idea, his body had gone haywire with emotion, rigid and upright, and he felt powerful, virile, and in control.
The next day he felt even better—he felt like himself, he felt clearheaded and ready to tackle the problem of Jancie.
He wanted her with him again. So he needed a strategy— somehow, he needed to captivate her all over again. Needed to seduce and enthrall her and make her . . . don't mention that word . . . what? Want him? Submit to him? Care for him?
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Get on with it. That was all she wanted of him.
No—that was all he'd said he wanted of her.
All right, then. Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe he hadn't known just how enthralled he would become with her.
Yes, because he knew it might not last, so why give it too much credence? Exactly—in his experience, nothing lasted. Everything was of the moment, done on impulse.
There were no good women. There were women with certain hopes, concrete dreams, greedy schemes, digging for money, status, and marriage.
What had been Jancie's motive?
Forget that—he tended to forget exactly how things had gone; but she was no mercenary—he had pursued her those two years, and she'd been halfway out the door to her father after Olivia's death.
They had come after her, all the Galliard men, seeking a convenient vessel who happened to be young, beautiful, available, and alone.
She had done nothing to try to seduce them. He had bullied her into marrying him, using her growing love for him, and then he had quelled her ardor, and demanded that she withdraw her emotions.
Who was he to complain that she was aloof, when he'd invited it by his treatment of her?
That was about to change.
He needed a strategy. He needed Jancie. Now.
******************
Ooowww. Emily appeared on the threshold of the library and Jancie leaned down and scooped her up and held her close against her chest.
"This is a madhouse," she whispered into Emily's most receptive ear. "I don't know what I'm doing here."
Mrrooww. Don't lose sight of what you want.
She knew, she knew, and she tried to keep the purpose of her presence at Waybury constantly in mind. But she felt so discouraged. She'd come again to the library to go through the books on the highest shelves, but the prospect was so daunting, she had just stood there staring up and around the room, doing nothing.
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