Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  She noticed where his hand had traveled. "Will you disrobe tonight?"

  "I believe I will."

  "Do it. While / watch."

  He vacillated. While he was determined to forge ahead in their sexual relationship, he wasn't sure he was cad enough to steal her virginity. He might yearn to do it, and he could arouse her sufficiently so that she would implore him to, but he hadn't resolved to go through with it. However, once his garments were off, he wasn't positive he could keep from taking that ultimate step.

  There are many enjoyable things you can do short of her surrendering her virtue.

  The voice seemed to emanate from a site just beyond the bed, and it was so clear, and so sly, at urging him to do what he oughtn't, that he wondered if the devil himself wasn't sitting across the room.

  Well, he'd always been a sinner, so if Lucifer was spurring him on, the old fiend was going to be very happy.

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  As she analyzed his every move, he unfastened his shirt, and hauled the hem out of his trousers. When it was free, he pulled it off and discarded it.

  "Your pants, if you please," she requested.

  He had no qualms about stripping for her. During their previous carnal foray, she'd touched and fondled him, had even sampled his phallus—an act that had had his balls aching for days—so there would be no maidenly shock with which to contend, although he did worry about her viewing the scar on his thigh that had been inflicted by an enemy saber. It was ugly, and he didn't like to chatter about it, or how it had been acquired.

  He slid from the bed, plucked the trousers over his feet, and quickly dispensed with his shoes and stockings so that he was standing proud and naked before her.

  She examined him, her keen appraisal making him undulate with tension, his cock swell to an even larger size, as she perused every inch of his torso.

  Bracing his hands on his hips, he gave her an eyeful, elated that she was interested, excited that she wasn't timid or afraid.

  "You don't mind my curiosity, do you?" she inquired.

  "Not a whit."

  "It's the artist in me. I need to verify what's hidden beneath all that fabric."

  "At your service, Lady O."

  "Turn to the side," she instructed, and he did, as she evaluated him again. "Now all the way, so that I can see your back and bum."

  Complying, he could feel her gaze sweeping over him, could hear her climbing off the bed. She came up behind him, and put her fingers on his shoulders, tracing the bones, on down his spine, across the nip of his waist, the curve of his ass.

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  She grabbed his buttocks, gauging its shape, its weight, then she dropped to her knees. "What's this?"

  "A scar." Obviously! It ran from groin to kneecap.

  "From what?"

  "I was wounded in the army. In Spain."

  "Honestly?"

  "Yes."

  "A soldier!" She beamed. "My very own war hero!"

  "Not really." He blushed. He'd done naught but try to save his bloody hide, which he'd never considered very heroic at all.

  She trailed a finger over it. "Does it hurt?"

  "When it rains," which was a lie. It throbbed most of the time—a constant and unrelenting reminder of that horrid escapade—and on occasion, he still limped.

  Astounding him, she leaned forward and kissed it. Few people had ever extended kindness or sympathy to him, and he was exceedingly affected by her concern. Tears clouded his vision, and he was glad he was staring away from her.

  "Will you tell me about it?"

  He had to swallow twice before he could reply. "Perhaps."

  She let it go at that, intuiting that it wasn't a subject upon which he could elucidate, and he was so relieved.

  "Would you let me draw you someday?" she queried, lightening the tenor of the conversation.

  Why not? What an amazing lark it would be! "Certainly."

  "In the nude?"

  The nude? "If it would tickle your fancy."

  "It would." She chuckled. "It definitely would."

  She was inspecting him impersonally, as one might a statue, or a remarkable piece of horseflesh, but

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  nonetheless, he was inordinately titillated. The caressing, combined with her inquisitive oohs and aahs, kindled an unquenchable fire, and it took every ounce of his fortitude to keep from spinning around and taking her, then and there, across the edge of the mattress.

  Loitering at his feet, she journeyed up until she was behind him, her naked front flattened to his back, and she wrapped her arms around him.

  "You're beautiful," she murmured, kissing him between his shoulder blades.

  Overwhelmed, he couldn't speak, and he dawdled there with her, in the quiet. He directed her hand to his cock, and circled it around, so that he could flex into it, and he'd planned to languidly dally, but after a few thrusts, he was at the brink and unable to persist.

  Whirling, he swooped her up, laying her on the bed once more, and covering her with his long, lean body. As they connected, he hissed out a breath.

  "Oh, Jesus, Livvie."

  Of their own accord, her legs widened, and he was ideally situated, his cock slithering into place with no guidance. If he but dared, he could rid her of her maidenhood and put the matter to rest once and for all, but for some crazed reason, he didn't progress.

  "Are we to ..." Cautiously, she posed the question, unsure of the terminology.

  "I don't think so," he said. "I'm just going to hold you."

  "But I want to learn what it's like."

  "I know you do, but if I deflower you, you can't ever change what we've done."

  "I won't ever wish to."

  "You say that," he counseled, "but you can't divine what the future might bring. If I were to proceed"—he nudged two fingers inside her—"there is a thin fragment

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  of skin here, blocking access to your womb, and I would tear through it. It would pain you, and you'd bleed."

  "What would it signify?"

  "The blood and pain are the indicators to your husband that you've come to your marital bed as a virgin. If I breach it, it won't grow back. We can't repair the damage."

  "Oh, I hate this!" she wailed as he began stroking her. "I don't want the possibility of a marriage—that I can't abide—to keep us apart. What am I to do?"

  Her confusion matched his own, but he had no answers. Not for her, or for himself.

  "I don't want to listen to you prattling on about your marriage," he snapped. "Or your choices." They were too disturbing, because he could never be one of them. There was just the here and now, the two of them alone, and he intended for it to be a magical episode, where the outside world did not intrude. "I care for you too much, so I can't give you valid advice. I'm biased as to the outcome."

  "But if you can't help me, to whom can I turn?"

  "I don't know," he claimed. "All I can offer is to make the most of the time we have. So that after you leave, we won't regret a single minute."

  Glumly, she nodded. "I suppose that's the wisest course."

  He nodded, too, then started kissing her again, wanting to halt further discussion. The topic left him so anguished! It was much simpler to make love to her. He could pretend that their association was merely physical, that it had no emotional depth.

  Blazing a trail down her neck, he nibbled across her bosom, to her breasts. She was familiar with this licentiousness, and she acquiesced, arching up, and tendering more of herself for his ardent enjoyment. Down below, her hips responded in a slow rhythm, and he nipped

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  down her stomach, to her core. Rooting through her womanly hair, he sniffed and licked her abdomen. She acceded to all, until he lowered himself further, until he delved into her with his tongue.

  "Phillip?" She was apprehensive, and she tried to shield herself from his probing, but he was wedged in, and she couldn't push him away.

  Separating the folds, he exposed her, revealing her s
lick haven, and he jabbed at her, as he pinned her down, as his fingers tormented her nipples.

  "You taste so fine."

  "I don't like this."

  "You will."

  "No, I—" She struggled to sit up.

  "Lie down. Don't fight it."

  "Please don't!" she implored. "This is ... is ..."

  "Indecent? Naughty? Wicked?"

  "Yes."

  "Precisely why it thrills me."

  He went to her clitoris, dabbing at it with quick bursts, and she ceased complaining. Her body was rigid, straining against him, grappling with the torrent of passion.

  "Let go, Livvie," he commanded, and he sucked at the aroused nub, as he pinched her nipples. She gave a soft cry, then hurled over the precipice.

  He rode the wave with her as she flew to the crest and spiraled down. As she relaxed, he was kissing up her torso, his mouth ensnaring hers.

  She was desirable, seductive, her sensuality so at odds with the prim, proper façade of an earl's daughter.

  What a lucky man he was to have unveiled this aspect of her personality. How magnificent that he was the only one who knew it to exist.

  "How do you do that to me?" she asked.

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  "You find your pleasure easily. It doesn't have much to do with me."

  "Liar," she chided, smiling. "It has everything to do with you."

  "Mayhaps, a little." He was preening. They were so sexually compatible. It was a small task to deliver her to orgasm.

  "What do you call that? What you just did?"

  "A French kiss."

  "First the petite mort, now the French kiss." She was laughing. "What is it about those French?"

  "They know how to indulge themselves."

  "They certainly do." She stretched like a contented cat. "I like what you do to me so much. Does that make me a harlot?"

  "No, it makes you a lusty, bawdy wench"—he wiggled his brows—"but I like you that way."

  While he didn't mind engaging in coital banter, his unassuaged cock was so hard, it was throbbing. There couldn't be many more occasions where he provided her with gratification but attained none of his own. He'd soared past constraint, and if he wasn't soon sated, he might rupture.

  She must have recognized his tension, because she clasped his hips and urged him closer. On his end, the move was dangerous. The tip of his cock was brushing against her. She was slick, open, and with a bit of pressure, he could glide into her.

  The temptation was extreme, the proximity staggering, and he slid off her and onto his back, nestling her to his side.

  "Touch me," he ordered her. "As I showed you before."

  She clutched him in her fist, tamely manipulating him, but he needed more stimulation. He enveloped her

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  hand in his, tightening her grip so that she ran her fingers over the end with each stroke.

  An avid, eager pupil, she complied with his coaching, but she wanted more, too, and she scrambled up onto her knees and straddled him. With her blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her ruby lips moist and swollen from his kisses, her sassy breasts taunting him to recklessness, she looked like a pagan goddess, a Valkyrie.

  He drew her down so that she was directly on him, her center a sleek crevasse where he could flex. The tit-illation was hazardous as he was, once again, located where he should not be.

  "If we were truly lovers," she said, "you'd enter me, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "It would hurt?"

  "Only the first time."

  "Do it!" she decreed.

  "No."

  "I want you to."

  "You assume you do."

  "Ooh ..." she pouted, "you frustrate me beyond my limits."

  He laughed aloud. If anyone was frustrated, it was clearly himself! "Take me in your mouth."

  "A marvelous idea." She scooted down, abandoning her perilous perch.

  Like a skilled wanton, she trifled and teased, going at him as if she regularly luxuriated in the risqué" maneuver. She grazed and kissed, laving him over and over, until his sexual juice was oozing, his balls two solid stones, his anatomy stiff with insatiable need, then she slipped her crimson lips over the crown.

  Considering how new she was at libidinous games, it was wrong and crude of him to use her so badly, but

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  he had to be inside her, even if it was for only a brief moment.

  Rotating them, he draped a leg over her. Focusing solely on the impropriety—on her, her mourn, and the driving force of his cock—he was able to fleetingly endure, to relish and revel in the vulgar indiscretion, but he couldn't keep on for long. His craving for release was too strong, and he had to finish.

  He pulled away, and she reached out for him, wanting to lure him back, but he slapped at her hand, and dragged her into his arms, his erection squeezed to the silky skin of her stomach.

  "I've got to come."

  "What should I do?"

  "Hold me."

  "I will."

  Crushing her to his chest, he began the race to fulfillment. There would be no stopping, no demurral, and with a groan of indescribable pleasure, his passion surged, and his semen spewed from his phallus in a hot, potent deluge.

  He thrust again and again, his orgasm never seeming to wane, until finally, blessedly, it was over. His pulse thundered. Perspiration drenched him, and he was hovered over her, his respiration labored, his thoughts in disarray.

  Collapsing to the side, he buried his face in the pillows, his fingers on her breast.

  How would she perceive his behavior? What would she say? He'd been too overcome to be gentle or passive, and he imagined it would always be so. Without trying, she goaded him to new heights of desire.

  She wiggled away, her hand slithering down onto her abdomen. "Is this your seed?"

  "Yes." He glanced at her as she dipped a finger into the

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  sweltering pile, and daubed it to her tongue, sampling its flavor.

  "Will you spill yourself in my mouth sometime?"

  Flabbergasted at her nonchalance, he rolled his eyes. "You'll be the death of me, woman."

  "Do you think so?"

  "I know so."

  The air was heavy with the smell of fornication, humid from their sweat and toil, and he crawled off the bed and retrieved a towel and a wet cloth, then he returned to her and scrubbed clean the stain on her skin. Quiet, studious, she observed all until he'd completed his task.

  "Was it wonderful for you?" she shyly probed.

  "Oh, yes." Grinning, he tossed the towel away. "If it had been any more exhilarating, my heart might have quit beating."

  "So I did it correctly?"

  He was charmed by her maidenly doubts. "You couldn't have been better."

  "Does that mean we can do it again?"

  Shaking with mirth, he stretched out next to her, spinning her and spooning himself behind her. "Give me a few minutes, you little hussy. I need to catch my breath."

  "I don't."

  "Well, I'm not as spry as you."

  "How long will you need?"

  "As long as it takes." He swatted her on the rear. "We're going to rest."

  "I'm not tired."

  Rising up on an elbow, she glared at him over her shoulder, appearing rumpled, satisfied, her cheeks rosy, her lips sulking. She was so beautiful, so enticing and alluring. And she was all his. At least for now.

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  "I want to snuggle with you," he said.

  The news mollified her. "I'd like that."

  He settled her down, an arm under her head, the other across her waist. She cuddled nearer, pressing her delicious ass into his groin.

  "I guess I am a tad exhausted." She emitted an unladylike yawn.

  "Close your eyes."

  "I daren't fall asleep."

  "I'll watch the clock."

  She yawned once more, her inhalations slowing, and shortly, she was slumbering peacefully.

  Shutt
ing his own eyes, he memorized every detail of the stunning encounter. He couldn't predict if she'd ever join him for a subsequent tryst, and he wanted to be sure that if this was the last one, he would never forget a single particular.

  Riffling through her hair, brushing over her skin, he traced her arm, her waist, her hip, marking the nips and tucks, the ridges and valleys.

  She fit against him just right, as though God had created her as Phillip's perfect mate.

  What a cruel jest! The Good Lord must have a bizarre sense of humor.

  Phillip had spent his entire life on the outside, looking in, yearning to belong, waiting for his legitimate place at the table, but he'd never garnered it. She was the epitome of all he'd ever wanted, all he could never attain, and the realization tore at him, killing him with how he hungered for so many things that could never be his.

  "I love you, Livvie," he whispered, and he could feel her smile. Despite her deep sleep, she'd heard and understood.

  With the ebbing of their ardor, the room had cooled,

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  so he tugged a blanket over them, wrapping them in a snug cocoon, and he stared at the clock so that he could wake her before the cock crowed with the approach of dawn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Penelope stomped down the hall to her room. In a temper, she swept inside and slammed the door forcefully enough to rattle the paintings on the walls.

  "How dare he!" she fumed.

  Since that dreadful night in the gazebo, she'd seen Freddy Blaine on a trio of separate occasions, and all three times, he'd ignored her.

  Another interminable meal had just concluded, with Freddy lounging across from her at the table, and despite how often she'd tried to garner his attention, he hadn't so much as glanced in her direction. After the repast, she'd strolled out on the verandah, at a moment when he could have trailed after her without being noticed, but she'd waited and waited, and he hadn't come out.

  "Bastard," she grumbled, relishing the crude word.

  He thought he was so bloody magnificent. Ooh, how she hated him! A pox on his despicable hide!

  While she couldn't quit ruminating about what they'd done together, about how thrilling it had been when he'd held her down, when she'd fought him, it seemed to her that he hadn't been moved in the slightest. And the realization that she'd had no effect on him infuriated her.