by Diana Palmer
“Does this suit you better, my virgin bride?” He pulled her closer. “Are you hungry for my attentions? Then by all means, let me give them to you.”
He bent even as he spoke and opened his mouth right on her bare breast.
The sensation went beyond anything she’d ever felt before, even the touch of his hands on her body weeks ago. She arched and shivered, and then went limp from the force of the pleasure as he began to suckle her in a heated fury.
She felt his other hand at work on the bodice, felt him bare her to his hungry mouth. The room whirled around her while his lips devoured her pale, soft flesh, making her burn with a fever she didn’t understand.
When he finally was able to drag his mouth from her breasts, she hung there over his arm with her eyes closed, her mouth parted, her body yielding and trembling.
“Dear—dear God,” he whispered brokenly.
She barely heard him. He hesitated, but only for a second. She felt him move, felt him swing her violently up into his arms, lift and carry her into his own bedroom and close the door. He stood there, in the darkness, leaning against the closed door, uncertain, shuddering with desire so fierce that he couldn’t contain it.
“John,” she whispered through tight lips, clinging. “John, you mustn’t…take me to bed,” she pleaded unsteadily. “I’m not Diane! I’m not! Don’t take advantage of something…I can’t help!”
But the words were at variance with the audibly rapid beat of her heart, the longing and curiosity so evident in her eyes.
“Shall I stop, Claire?” He breathed harshly as he put her gently on her feet, bending again to her soft breasts. While he suckled her, he ripped off the white gloves that had covered his hands, and seconds later, she felt their warmth on her skin.
The sensation took the last of her willpower. She wanted him so desperately, loved him so much, that being near him was all of heaven to her. She went limp in his arms, her head falling back as he explored her soft bareness with his mouth and hands. When he picked her up again and carried her to bed, she didn’t even have a protest to make.
She yielded completely under the wonder of his ardor. He undressed her with a skill that she was too dazed to recognize. She lay on the cool white damask coverlet like a creamy sacrifice, open to his eyes in what little light filtered in through the wispy curtains, while he worked deftly at removing his own clothes.
When he finally came to her, warm and strong and very alien against her soft skin, she had recovered just enough to allow the return of her earlier apprehension. She was stiff in his arms, nervous and withdrawing when he touched her intimately for the first time.
“Shh,” he whispered, calming her, and his fingers moved again, this time finding a secret that she didn’t want to give him.
He heard her shocked gasp even as he felt her body coil and lift. “There?” he whispered huskily, and touched her more firmly.
She sobbed. The pleasure was indescribable. She grabbed at his shoulders and dug her nails in, writhing as he made her feel the most sinfully delicious sensations.
He heard her gasp rhythmically. He moved, inserting his knee between her legs, coaxing her to open them, to permit him even greater freedom with her body. She was beyond fighting him now, her legs falling open, her hips lifting in a quick, searching rhythm.
“Oh…please!” she cried on her last jerky breath before the heavens opened and she exploded up into them.
There was an odd sensation of tearing, a flash of pain with the pleasure. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that he had moved over her, that his body was between her splayed legs. She felt a part of him that she only dimly recognized as it penetrated slowly inside…inside her body!
“John!” she cried out.
But he didn’t stop. His movement grew longer, deeper. He pushed down against her, over her, his hands under her back, under her hips, pulling, pulling, pulling…
He was tearing her inside. She felt the sensation grow, of being filled up, overfilled. She whispered something, frantically pushing at his hair-roughened, sweaty chest. He made a sound. His hand went between their bodies and touched her, where he’d touched her before. The pleasure came back, sharper now, intense, painfully intense. And suddenly she couldn’t be filled enough, not deeply enough to satisfy the emptiness that became her whole being.
She pushed up into him, her hips arched and pleading as his rhythm grew violent, reckless. One of the slats hit the floor, and even the sharp sound wasn’t enough to break her concentration. She held on, gasping, sobbing, reaching toward that hot, sweet, blinding pleasure that was somehow just beyond, just above, just…
She went over the edge of the world with him. She fell into heat and throbbing softness, into aching completion that made her whole body feel as if it had tensed beyond relaxation.
As she trembled into exhaustion, she felt his body go rigid, heard the rough sound that was dragged from his throat as he began to shake. His hot face burrowed into her damp throat, and his hands on her hips made bruises as he shivered and shivered against her.
The windows were closed, but she heard the baying of a dog beyond the curtains, far away in the night. She heard the sound of the clock on the mantel. She heard the ragged sound of his breathing and the hard, rhythmic beat of his heart.
He moved. She felt the sweat on his long, powerful legs moisten her own as he shifted restlessly, without withdrawing from her. He groaned softly, and his mouth slid up her throat to her cheek, and, finally, into the cushion of her parted lips.
His hands slid along her body, savoring its perfection, teasing her soft breasts, easing down to caress the inside of her white legs.
She felt him swell. The sensation was exquisite. Little skirls of renewed pleasure traveled along her nerves, arousing her all over again. She moved under him, sensuously now, her hands sliding along his back and down over his firm buttocks.
“Yes,” she whispered recklessly against his mouth. “Yes, again…again!”
He groaned loudly as his mouth opened on her lips and his body began the rhythmic movements that were now familiar and pleasurable. She slid closer, clung, moved as he moved. She laughed deep in her throat as she felt the rise of heat, the beginning of the long, sharp spiral of ecstasy.
He heard the sound she made and it drove him to madness. He forgot everything but the silkiness of her beneath his demanding body. It seemed such a short time later when she cried out and scarred him with her nails…
SHE DIDN’T HEAR HIM LEAVE HER. The sunlight on the pillow, slashing across her eyes, was the first indication she had of morning. Her eyelids opened and she stared blankly at the ceiling until it occurred to her that this wasn’t her room.
With blinding suddenness, the events of the evening before came flooding into her mind.
Shocked, embarrassed, she sat up, hugging the sheet to her nakedness. John wasn’t there. There was no sign of him, no sound of him, in their apartments. Her clothes had been picked up from the floor where he’d thrown them. They were draped across the rosewood chair next to the bed, with her undergarments discreetly placed beneath the evening gown she’d worn. Her shoes were there, too, toes pointed away from the chair.
She glanced toward the other pillow and saw the imprint of John’s dark head there. But there was no note, no communication. He’d simply dressed and left her, apparently unconcerned—as if such nights were commonplace.
Cautiously she eased out of bed like a thief about to be caught. As she pushed back the bedclothes, a dark stain lay vivid against the once-spotless white of the sheet. She flushed, knowing that the laundress would remark on it. If it had only been on her own bed, she could have made some excuse about her monthly. But this was John’s bed!
She grabbed up her things and rushed barefoot across the sitting room and into her own room, quickly closing the door behind her. She saw herself in the full-length mirror. She looked flushed and guilty, and there were marks on her white skin.
Curious, she put her things on the bed
and moved closer to the mirror. Yes, there was a bruise on one breast, and several on her upper thighs where his hands had gripped her so tightly when she’d satisfied him the second time. She half turned, and saw more faint bruises on her buttocks. Her eyes were no longer those of an innocent. They had dark circles from her initiation into passion. Her lips were swollen, red. Her nipples had gone tight and dark as she looked at herself, as if they remembered the heat of John’s insistent mouth as he’d suckled her.
“Oh!” she cried out, embarrassed at the memory.
She poured water into the basin and got out a flannel and soap and bathed a little. She felt less besmirched afterward, dressed and perfumed, but later she must have a tub bath to wash away the feeling of tarnish. John had admitted that he loved Diane. How could she have permitted him to make love to her? Was she no better than a woman of the streets?
She was so ashamed that she couldn’t face him that evening. She pleaded a headache to Mrs. Dobbs, forgoing supper. She went into her room and locked the door.
It was a wasted effort. John didn’t come home for supper. In fact, it was after midnight when she heard him unlock the door to their apartment. And his footsteps didn’t even hesitate as he went directly into his room and closed the door firmly behind him.
8
IN FACT, JOHN WAS JUST AS ILL AT EASE AS CLAIRE was. His desire for his pretty, innocent wife had finally overcome his self-control. Like a drunken fool, he’d gone at Claire with all the finesse of a rutting stag, like some sensual animal. He hadn’t even taken special care about her virginity. His need of her had been so great that her innocence had been the last thing on his mind. And the second time, her own sensuality had dragged him under. Imagine Claire wrapping her soft body around him like a robe, he recalled with faint surprise—actually entreating the hard, deep thrust of his body…
He groaned out loud. Her sweet response had humbled him. He’d made love to her out of anger and confusion and jealousy and frustration. But no man alive could have asked for a sweeter fulfillment than Claire had given him so generously. He remembered the faint taste of whiskey on her mouth, probably from the punch. But it was love that had made her yield so sweetly to him, not alcohol. She loved him, and she had proved it again and again through the long, sensuous night, curling into his body with absolute trust, whispering encouragement, praise, soft endearments. He could still taste her on his mouth, that rose-scented skin so white and soft and responsive…
He had to force his attention back to the business at hand, and stifle the disturbing thoughts. His military upbringing had helped him learn to do that, even with the most disturbing memories of his life. He had no idea what he was going to do. But he knew one thing: his feelings for Diane weren’t nearly as strong as he’d thought they were. Otherwise, he couldn’t have been so ardent with Claire.
CLAIRE HAD THOUGHT long and hard about the lie she’d told the woman who asked the name of her dress designer. It wouldn’t do to be caught in such a falsehood. She decided that her best course of action was to sew some evening gowns under the “Magnolia” label, and toward that end, she visited the owner of the small boutique that sometimes displayed a gown for her. The owner was delighted to have original designs of such quality as the dress Claire showed her. Secrecy was assured, because Claire told her that she didn’t want her husband to know that she was working. And, as the older woman agreed, anonymity would give an air of mystery to her creative name and her designs, as well.
She was off to a running start, with all the work she’d already been commissioned to do for the governor’s Christmas ball. She worked diligently to meet deadlines, all the while making sure that she would have a special gown of her own for the occasion.
For a week, she and John avoided each other with varying degrees of clumsiness and embarrassment, especially on her part. She couldn’t even look him in the eye, and he seemed to understand her shyness and indulge it without anger. But when Thanksgiving rolled around, they had to eat at the table together and suppress their feelings so that Mrs. Dobbs wouldn’t think anything was wrong with their relationship. To do anything to cause more gossip was unthinkable.
“You really should take Claire out more, John,” Mrs. Dobbs said pleasantly. “Honestly, she seems to spend all her time upstairs, sewing and sewing.”
John glanced at his wife. “Sewing what?”
She almost dropped her fork. She hadn’t realized that the treadle machine made enough noise that Mrs. Dobbs could hear it all the way downstairs.
“I’ve been trying to remake some of my things,” she confided after a minute.
John felt himself bristle. “I’m not a poor man,” he said curtly. “There’s no need to alter old clothes. Buy new ones. I’ve told you before to use your account at Rich’s.”
Her fingers tightened on the fork. “Very well, John.”
Mrs. Dobbs went to bring in the cake she’d sliced. While she was away, John leaned back in his chair and stared levelly at Claire until she flushed. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” he began softly, and her heart beat erratically as she recalled their long, sweet night together. “But I couldn’t find the right words.”
“Oh?” she asked.
He sighed. She wasn’t helping him at all. He glanced at his plate, changing his mind. It was too soon to speak of what had happened, so he mentioned something else entirely. “I’ve been asked to organize a charity dinner next Saturday to benefit the local Presbyterian orphanage. You know that it was devastated by fire, and the children have to be kept together, all ages, in one common room. There is an urgent need for rebuilding.” He paused deliberately before he added, calculatingly, “I thought of asking Diane to do it for me…”
To his utter delight, her eyes came up flashing gray fire. “I am perfectly capable of organizing a dinner!”
Even anger was better than her painful shyness. He smiled gently. She was so pretty in a temper. “Of course you are. But I need monied people to attend this one, to make pledges to fund renovations for the home.”
“I told you, I can organize it.”
He was smiling. He must think of her as helpless and useless. It was another thorn in her heart.
“I won’t let you down, John,” she said proudly. “At least give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“Do you think you can solicit the presence of so many members of Atlanta society, people whom you don’t know?” he added softly, trying with all his might not to offend her.
She smiled wistfully. “You don’t think much of me, do you, John?” she asked quietly. “Your opinion of me was of great importance once,” she added, with a desperate grasp at her pride. “How fortunate that I no longer care what you think.”
His expression was so strange and unfamiliar that she couldn’t quite explain it. She put down her napkin and got to her feet, forcing him to his. “I’ll organize your dinner if you’ll let me have the details.”
“I’ll list them on paper for you,” he said, struggling to keep his inner turmoil hidden, “along with the names of the people I’d like you to invite. If you have any difficulties…”
“I won’t, thank you just the same. If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want dessert. Please make my apologies to Mrs. Dobbs.” She turned and went quickly up the staircase, the sad holiday behind her.
John watched her until she was out of sight, feeling alternately miserable and angry. So she didn’t care, did she? It hadn’t seemed that way in his bed, when she was holding him so tight he had marks all over his shoulders the next day! But if that was the way she wanted to play it, let her save her pride. He could forget that his body ached day and night for the comfort of her own. Idly he wondered what Diane would have thought of his lapse.
But he was surprised to realize that Diane’s opinion of him mattered less than Claire’s. Claire was pretty, he thought. Pretty and loving and generous and spirited. She should have a husband who spoiled her, adored her, treated her like a princess. Someone like Ted would have lo
ved taking care of her…
Ted! He was furious as he realized how much attention the other man had paid her, and how it had angered him. Convenient marriage or not, she was still his wife; Ted had no right to be familiar with her. There had better not be any further trouble in that direction, he decided firmly. No man was going to touch his Claire. When he realized what he was thinking, he laughed aloud, surprised. Only Mrs. Dobbs’s return kept him from talking to himself.
HE’D WANTED HIS CHARITY DINNER arranged in only a week, and Claire had found it easy to comply, despite the fact that she’d had to hire a messenger boy to hand deliver the invitations. Most social engagements required notice of three weeks, and John surely knew that. But she explained in her invitation that there was some urgency—since there had been a fire at the orphanage recently and the children were suffering. She’d hired a good local restaurant for the evening, where the meal would be catered, and she’d invited all the society women whom she knew from her charitable works. She even knew some who weren’t on John’s list, and she’d invited them, too.
The evening of the dinner arrived, and she wore another of her new creations, a black-and-white gown that was dramatic enough to bring a gasp of envy from Mrs. Dobbs even as it caused John to stare.
“I don’t remember seeing that dress,” he remarked.
“And you haven’t,” she replied coolly. “It’s an original, by a local designer.”
“How beautiful,” Mrs. Dobbs said, with a sigh. “Oh, my dear…if only I were young enough and pretty enough to carry it off. You shall be the envy of every woman present.”
Claire smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Dobbs.”
She drew her long black velvet cloak with its white satin lining closer around her. “We should be going, so that we won’t be late,” she told her husband.
He took her arm and escorted her out to the waiting carriage, signaling to the driver when they were securely inside.
He turned, staring at her through the lantern-lit interior. “You do look charming,” he said, his eyes going to her upswept hair. Around her neck she wore her grandmother’s pearls and no other jewelry, except her small wedding band under the long white gloves that accessorized her gown. “Who is this designer?” he added curiously.
