by Helen Brooks
‘Wait and see, Mrs Ward.’ Kingsley’s eyes were brilliant in the dim light. At some time during the night he had undone his bow-tie, which now hung either side of his unfastened collar, his jacket slung on the seat of the car. He looked hard and dangerous and breathtakingly handsome, and but for the driver she knew she would have ripped his clothes off on the spot.
She lay cradled in his arms in the car as they kissed, their breath intermingling, but when she asked him, plaintively, how long it was going to be before they were alone, he laughed and told her to be patient.
‘I can’t be.’ She turned her face up to him, rubbing her hand over his lower body beneath the concealing folds of her dress. ‘I want you.’
She felt his flesh leap and smiled into his eyes as his hand came out and caught hers. ‘Temptress,’ he muttered huskily. ‘Do you want me to take you right now in the back of the car?’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Well, I would. Our wedding night is going to be long and slow, and I’m going to spend all night showing you how much I love you, and in comfort. I want to touch and taste and explore over and over again.’
The throbbing ache in the core of her that his words had aroused was just penance for her earlier teasing.
When the car stopped Kingsley had been kissing her for a while, voluptuously enjoying her in the warm velvety darkness as he’d used her submissive mouth to slowly build them both to peaks of arousal, and so she glanced up in surprise, flushed and bright-eyed.
‘Kingsley, this is…’ Her voice trailed away as her eyes widened.
Beth and George had sold up and were due to leave for New Zealand the very next day after the wedding, and Rosalie had been sad at their going, part of her knowing she would miss the sanctuary of their exquisite old house as well as her aunt.
‘Yours.’ He finished her sentence, before opening the car door and pulling her out. After he’d dismissed the driver they walked to the front door through the perfumed darkness of the garden she had thought was lost to her for ever, and then he was opening the door and pulling her into the hall. ‘We wanted a house in England, so why not this one you love so much?’ he said softly. ‘It’s all empty for you to furnish as you like, except for the master bedroom, which I’ve furnished for us for tonight, but you can change it if you don’t like it.’
‘Oh, Kingsley…’ Words failed her. She wandered out into the sleeping garden at the back of the house before they went upstairs, the velvet sky overhead with myriad twinkling stars and the scents and smells of the wonderful old garden reminding her of the first time Kingsley had come here with her.
And then they went upstairs, and she gasped with delight at the bedroom as he opened the door. The bed was luscious and huge, a magnificent wicked piece of wantonness with soft, billowy covers and pillows galore, one third at the head of it surrounded by carpeted shelving for books or tapes or magazines. The colour scheme was gold and cream, the carpet thick enough to sink in, and the beautiful cream and gold drapes at the window drifted in the slight breeze from the sweet-smelling garden below.
A TV the size of a small cinema—to Rosalie’s fascinated eyes—took up one corner, the door to the en suite open and showing a wonderful bathroom following the same colour scheme as the bedroom.
‘So this is why Beth and George moved into rented accommodation and packed all their furniture off to New Zealand weeks ago?’ Rosalie turned round to Kingsley, who was watching her with laughing eyes. ‘Oh, darling, what can I say? How can I find words to tell you how much I love you?’
‘You don’t have to.’ He reached out for her, his hands moving over the perfect loveliness of her as he whispered huskily, ‘You’ve the rest of your life to show me, my darling.’
Her gaze moved to his mouth and she wondered how she could ever have thought it was ruthless. It caressed hers and she closed her eyes, her slight silver frame fitting into the hard, lean darkness of the man she loved with all her heart.
He kissed her heavy eyelids, one after the other, and then her ears, her throat, before returning to her mouth. He undressed her slowly, pouring kisses on every part of her flesh until she was quivering with a need that made her tremble as she undressed him.
He was already hugely aroused, and his impressive maleness caused an involuntary arch of anticipation as he drew her towards the epicurean bed. This was her husband, her love, and in spite of all that had happened in her past she felt as eager and awestruck as a virgin.
He admired and loved her with his eyes, his hands and his mouth, his boldness calling forth an uninhibitedness she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of. His tongue, his hands were magic, and as he continued to pleasure her he did things no one else had ever done and she knew she had been waiting for him all her life without knowing it. He was part of her, wound into her bones, her blood and her heart.
Pleasure coursed through her, focused on the places he touched with such loving precision. He seemed to read her mind, to know what she wanted next, what gave her the most pleasure at just the right moment, and she was conscious of thinking she just hadn’t known it could be like this. This was joy and bliss and erotic fulfilment beyond her wildest imaginings…
‘I love you, my darling. We’re going to go on and on and it’s going to get better and better. Do you believe that?’
She couldn’t believe anything could be better than what she was experiencing right now. She reached her arms to him, drawing him up and over her as she said, ‘Please, please…’
He waited no longer, possessing her so completely that their oneness was the only living thing in the universe, every cell and fragment of her body filled with passion and pleasure and him.
This was her life, her future. This was her love.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-7310-2
MISTRESS BY AGREEMENT
First North American Publication 2004.
Copyright © 2003 by Helen Brooks.
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