by Cheryl Holt
Brutal as it sounded, money was the cure, the remedy she sought. He didn't have any, so he couldn't be the one. He was poor. The situation was no more elemental or complicated than that.
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"Don't let's fight," she chided.
"We're not." He brushed a kiss across her lips.
"I've tried to figure out what Margaret will do." She shifted the conversation away from his finances—or lack of them. "I believe she'll have me go to London, to commence anew with another suitor. She won't want any scandal that might affect my reputation, and she wouldn't hazard having your father learn of our affair."
"So you'll be leaving soon."
"Maybe tomorrow." She rested her palm on his cheek. "Even if it's not tomorrow, I don't dare visit you again. It's too risky now."
They gazed at each other, and Olivia prayed he could read the sentiment she was concealing inside. She ached to confess how much felicity he'd brought to her, how much delight and gladness. He was like a ray of sunshine, and he had changed her, had furnished her with a fuller understanding of herself as a woman.
With every fiber of her being, she wanted to proclaim how much he meant to her, how much she loved him, but she kept quiet, hoping he could discern the secret for himself.
What good would it do to declare her emotions? Though he tried to hide it, he was chivalrous, had noble intentions. If she but asked, he would do anything for her. But it was grossly inequitable to request his assistance, or hint that she would embrace his aid, when she could never reimburse him for his loyalty and devotion with any long-term commitment.
If he realized how much she cared for him, he would feel compelled to obligate himself in whatever fashion she would permit, but their paths were on diverse trajectories, and they were shooting toward different universes. She wanted to spare him any repercussions caused by her
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rash conduct. She couldn't abide having him hurt or persecuted for what she'd wrought. He was valorous, and he might attempt to take the blame, to pretend their relationship had been at his instigation, which she could never countenance.
It was better to have him presume that he'd been a fleeting caprice. Let him suppose her esteem was heightened, genuine, but not overwhelming. It would be easier for both of them.
As for herself, she couldn't predict what would become of her. It was best that this folly be ended quickly and peacefully, for she couldn't wed Edward after having loved Phillip. But could she accept another suitor as her plight would demand? Could she marry another? Could she welcome him into her bed?
The answers to those questions were beyond her, too painful to contemplate, too depressing to ponder.
"I want to make love to you," he said.
"I'd like that."
"So you'll always remember what it was like."
As if she'd ever forget! Did he mink she would? The blasted man.
This brief interlude had been the most exciting, exhilarating period of her life, and she would hold it to her heart, would never let it go. Should she be lucky enough to live to a ripe old age, she'd recall each and every detail with vivid clarity.
Such distinct, intense euphoria could never fade.
She pulled him into an ardent kiss, and with great relish, he reciprocated. He moved onto her, giving her his weight, and she hugged him close, cherishing the sensation of his large body pushing her down.
After her departure, he would have other women. But how many? Would they find such pleasure and bliss?
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Oh, how the thought wounded her!
More terrible still, she imagined the day she would ascertain—in some unexpected way—that he'd wed. Maybe she'd see Edward in town, and he'd mention the estate. She'd hear Phillip's name in passing, that the newlyweds enjoyed a simple existence, that his bride had been elated to share his cottage, to birth him a gaggle of cheerful, boisterous children.
She shut her eyes and could visualize him laughing and content.
At that moment, she came nearer than she ever would to relenting, to forsaking her family. Was it so wrong to want this glorious man? To do whatever she could to make her dream come true?
Even as the greedy supposition presented itself, she shoved it away. She could never cast off the shackles that bound her. Selfishness had never been an aspect of her character, and her personal happiness would perpetually be secondary.
If she broke down and married, she wouldn't encounter this type of ecstasy, this negligent, burning passion that he inspired solely by looking at her. She wanted to experience every facet of his ardor, to saturate herself with the feel and smell of him, to bind herself so deeply and so completely that neither time, nor distance, nor altered circumstances could tear asunder the connection they'd forged.
He was fumbling with her dress, slipping the buttons through the holes, revealing her breasts. She went to work, too, opening his shirt, jerking down the sleeves.
Their upper torsos were uncovered, his chest hairs abrading her soft skin, inciting her to recklessness. She snuggled down, rooting to his nipple, and she took it in her mouth, licking and nibbling at the tiny nub, inducing his breath to hitch, his muscles to tense.
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Previously, she hadn't been the aggressor, but had lain lazily, the recipient of the rapture he'd lavished on her. She'd been a novice, a pupil, anxious to master the techniques he taught, but tonight, she longed for more.
She yearned to tease and taunt him, to goad him beyond his limits. As he wanted her to recollect the stirring physicality that had blossomed, so too did she plan that—when their tryst was over—he would never forget, either.
He rotated them, so that she was on top, so that her breasts dangled over his enthusiastic mouth, and he nuzzled from one to the other, until she was wild for him.
"Talk to me about the sketches you drew of us," he coaxed. "Were we together like this?"
"Yes, yes," she moaned, scarcely capable of speech with the torment he was inflicting.
"Am I nursing at your breast?"
"Occasionally." Her stomach tightened in knots as he bit down on her nipple and rolled it between his teeth.
"Are the pictures arousing?"
"Very."
He was lifting her skirt, baring her calves, her thighs, his hands at the curve of her bottom, but maddeningly, he went no further.
Why didn't he proceed? She was a hot torrent of need, frantic for him to move those last, decisive inches, to alleviate some of her agony. He clutched her rear, and he was rubbing her privates into his.
"Would you like me to touch you?"
"Please." The word came out as a whimper.
"Where? Between your legs?"
"Yes. Now!"
"With my fingers? Or my tongue?"
"Either. Both. I don't care."
"Should I let you come? Or make you wait?"
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The naughty banter thrilled her. Just as with the carnal illustrations, she hadn't understood that mere speech could provoke one to a frenzy.
"Let me—"
He wrapped his lips around her nipple, sucking hard, cutting off whatever she might have solicited. His fingers slithered up, up, but they never arrived where she needed them most. He massaged her thighs, her buttocks, her thighs again, and she was writhing, groaning, but to no avail. She couldn't find satiation.
Turning them, he tossed her onto her back, and with rapid, short bursts, he impaled her with his tongue. She panted and struggled toward the end, and a powerful wave coursed over her. Soaring to the heavens, she cried out his name, and he pinned her down, as the fervor peaked, as it began to wane. Yet when she'd regained her equilibrium, she wasn't sated, and she knew she could only be truly assuaged if he inserted his phallus into her.
He was kneeling before her, unfastening his trousers. There was a strange air about him. It was primal, feral, and he seemed to be perched on a precipice, teetering, uncertain. She wanted to set free whatever barbarian was trapped within. Dare she prop
el him over the edge?
"Take me, Phillip."
"No."
"I'm begging you to be the one."
"You have to marry, Livvie. Isn't that what you keep telling me?"
"Yes, but—"
"If I steal your virginity, you can never wed." He dipped into her with his fingers, fondled and spread her. "I won't make your predicament any worse than it is."
"I'll he on my wedding night, I'll fake it, I'll. . . I'll . . ."
With what he was doing, it was difficult to concentrate.
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Straining, she was impatient for the relief he could bestow. She didn't really wish to surrender her virginity, and in a foggy, confounded portion of her brain, she recognized that it was the most harmful thing she could possibly do, but lust had overwhelmed her better sense.
"Phillip!" she implored.
"Be still!"
Taut, agitated, sweat pooled on his brow and chest. His cock was out of his pants. It was turgid, erect, and he clutched his fist around it, stroking himself. Then he leaned in, aiming the blunt crown toward her.
He parted her nether lips, and she braced for the sharp pain that would ensue as he entered her, but to her dismay, he didn't progress. Draping her legs over his thighs, stretching her further, he peered down, studying and palpating her.
Flexing the slightest amount, he brushed the tip across her wet, swollen flesh.
"God, I could be inside you in an instant." Halting, he stared at the ceiling, as if praying for strength. "It would be so easy."
"Do it."
"Don't give me permission," he snapped. "I'm not a saint."
"Neither am I." She'd always considered herself to be moral and upright, but her bawdy disposition had routed every virtuous trait. "I can't visit you again. This is the only chance we have, and I want to discover what it's like. Don't make me learn of it from a husband for whom I have no tender feelings."
"Don't mention your future husband when you are in my bed."
'Then show me. I would have it occur now, with you, so that I will know joy and abandon. Not later, when it will be performed out of duty and obligation."
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He scrutinized her, and she could almost see the battle that was raging inside him: He cared for her, and he couldn't bear to hurt her, or exacerbate her situation, but above all else, he desired her. Eventually, manly ardor won out over gallantry and wisdom.
"Lie back." Pushing her down, he tugged at his pants, exposing his hips, his flanks, then he kneed her thighs ever wider.
The beast within was loose.
Chapter Fifteen
Phillip braced himself over her.
Why not?
The question rang out.
Why not take her? What was impeding him?
Pride? Stupidity? Fear?
They were far past the point where common sense might kick in. As usual, passion had swept them away, though he couldn't explain why this occasion was more critical than the prior ones. Previously, he'd restrained his base instincts, had walked away from the ultimate act, but now he wondered why he should continue to deny himself.
By proceeding, he wouldn't be doing anything for which she hadn't pleaded. She wasn't some confused young lass. At twenty-three, she was a mature woman who knew her own mind. Why not give her what she craved?
Should he let misguided chivalry prevent him? Was it better to have her stepmother barter her to some aged noble sod? He could visualize an obese, malodorous gent sawing away between her pretty thighs, and his stomach roiled.
While another man might eventually call her wife, he couldn't move beyond the notion that she was his and always would be, despite where circumstances might convey her.
He was hungry to be her first. So that she couldn't
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forget him. So that, in defiance of whoever claimed her through matrimony, Phillip would be the one she would see when she lay down in her marital bed and closed her eyes.
"Promise me something," he said.
"What?"
"Swear to me, that no matter what happens, or how situations evolve, you will never marry my father." It was a strange request to make, just before he ruined her, but her vow was vital to his sanity. "I couldn't bear it."
"I won't," she pledged. "I couldn't do that. To you. Or to him."
He nodded. "No regrets, Livvie. Never."
"No regrets," she replied.
Was he mad? Was he crazed to reach so high? To pine so tenaciously?
None of it signified. The only subject of import was her, and the exquisite joy he would find when he was inside her.
He started kissing her, his tongue darting into her mouth, then he dipped to her breasts, nursing, inciting, spurring her to the brink once more. Toying and playing, he dallied until she was tense, straining, then he stroked between them, fondling her, stretching her.
She was wet, relaxed from her initial orgasm, as ready as she could be in her virginal condition, and he centered himself at her opening. He spread her, prodding in, enabling her to become accustomed to his novel invasion, but it was all he could do to keep from plunging ahead. Jolted by the contact, he forced himself to moderate his pace, when every pore in his body was screaming for him to progress with all due haste.
Pushing in further, he was at her barrier, and he halted, desperate to finish it.
Anxious, she arched up, her hips writhing as she
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struggled to escape his relentless entry. Though mentally she'd convinced herself she aspired to this, her chaste anatomy wasn't prepared. Her inexperience made her resist what she didn't know, and her alarm escalated.
"Phillip"—she was squirming, striving to get away— "I'm afraid. Slow down."
"No." He'd waited so long, all of his life it seemed, and he was too stimulated and couldn't indulge her maidenly apprehension. It had to be done, over. There could be no retreat. "I'll have you now."
"You're scaring me."
"It can't be helped."
"Phillip!" she repeated, begging.
"Hush!"
Gripping her hips, he pinned her in place, intending to allay some of the pain by holding her firmly. In a quick motion, he burst through her maidenhead, intruding to the hilt, the entire length of his cock implanted. She was hot, tight, her sheath clenching around him, her virginal blood a steamy, sweltering caldron that lured him to his doom.
His passage was brutal, and he recognized that he should delay, that he should allow her to acclimate, but he was too provoked to worry about her comfort.
He began to flex—he simply couldn't stop himself— propelling in all the way, then withdrawing to the tip. Again. Again. Glancing down, the sight of his swollen rod impaling her raised his lust to a frenzied level. His behavior was so wrong, and so outrageous, and the iniquity made it even more exciting.
Any hint of his gentlemanly qualities had fled. He showed her no mercy, riding her as a soldier would a whore after a vicious battle. He went deep, deeper.
She braved his foray, accepting what he inflicted on her, and he catapulted her across the bed, until she was
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banging into the headboard with each penetration. Grappling for purchase, her fingers tangled in the blankets and pillows as she fought to steady herself against the onslaught.
He wanted the joining to be so tumultuous, so raucous, that he would become part of her, that they wouldn't be two people, but one, that—when they were done—a piece of him would be left behind. Yet he couldn't delve into her far enough.
His fervor rose, peaked, his loins wrenching as his orgasm commenced. He endeavored to stave it off, to endure another few blissful seconds, but he couldn't contain the wave of pleasure.
He was rabid to spill himself inside her, to spray his seed into her womb. He yearned to mark her as his with his child. Formerly, he hadn't wanted a babe, hadn't dreamed of himself as a father, but suddenly, he wanted it more than anything. With Livvie as the mother. The urge was prim
al, savage, and he bit off a curse at the violent need that was driving him.
He couldn't impregnate her!
With a frantic effort, he yanked out of her, clutching her to his chest, her breasts flattened to his own, and he spewed himself onto her stomach, his semen disgorging in a fiery surge of gratification. He thrust over and over, the ecstasy never ebbing, the soft skin of her belly goading him onward.
The impetus abated, and he collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her into the covers. Very likely, he was smothering her, but he couldn't slide off.
He'd been a heedless cad, and with the ardor waning, he was too much of a coward to look at her. What would he see? Disgust? Horror? Resignation?
Though they'd talked about the deed, and had flirted around the edges of it, there was no method for clarifying
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what it was like. A virgin could only muddle through to the other side, hopefully without too much trauma attached to the episode.
With how he'd comported himself, she was probably torn and battered. Would she pardon him for being so rough? For using her so crudely?
The silence grew awkward, but he couldn't break it. Then, she kissed him on the nape, and he was amazed that she would. He dared to lean back, and she was watching him, her perplexity evident.
"I'm sorry." He brushed his lips to hers.
"For what?"
"I was so wild, so out of control."
"I hadn't expected you'd act any other way." She smiled. "I rather liked it."
"Axe you hurt?"
"A little. I'll mend."
"I'd meant to be more deliberate, to be more reserved." He grinned. "You arouse me beyond my limits."
"I'm glad."
"Let me wash you."
Going to the dresser, he poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl and hauled it over to the nightstand. Cleansing away the traces of their sin, he wiped her abdomen, and dabbed at the blood smeared on her thighs. Then, as she studied him, he tugged off his trousers, and swabbed his privates.
