Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  She was an unmitigated fool!

  Her body was now shielded only by a skimpy pair of bright-red pantalets.

  The most recent whimsy from Paris, Rebecca had noted when she'd brought them home from London.

  The gift—six pairs of silky, frivolous underdrawers— had enchanted Sarah. She had so few nice garments, and no money for new. The wardrobe her father had purchased years prior for her debut was either too small or threadbare, so she'd cheerfully embraced the scanty unmentionables. They made her feel pretty and feminine, and she liked how they brushed against her beneath her clothes.

  But when she'd donned them that morning, it had never occurred to her that Michael Stevens would be evaluating them that afternoon. She blushed furiously.

  "Why, Sarah"—he was amused and surprised, as though womanly attire was the last thing he'd expected from her— "you're wearing French underwear."

  The knave was so familiar with women that he was well versed in the modern style of intimate apparel!

  The assignation had become too oppressive. What was she striving to attain? Why was she allowing him to tease her? She never tolerated men's jesting, having learned the hard way how an uncouth comment could wound, and, needing to flee, she wrenched away, trying to scoot off the bed, but he held her down.

  "Let me go," she decreed, focusing on the ceiling.

  "No."

  Odious cad!

  His hand slithered under the crimson waistband and tangled in her secret hair, then traveled on to where she was wet and swollen, and she was embarrassed mat he'd detected the unusual moisture—especially when he felt compelled to preen over his discovery.

  "God ... you are so ready for me," he asserted, as two questing fingers slipped inside her.

  He'd touched her in the same manner once before but,

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  at the time, she'd been too astonished to pay attention. Now, she moaned, clutching and weeping into his palm as he stroked deliberately, entering then retreating. The abominable machination stirred an acute appetite for more than the simple massage. She .wanted things she couldn't begin to enumerate.

  "Michael... please..."

  "Yes, beg me. I love it when you do."

  With a tap of his thumb, he sent a wave of stimulation up her abdomen to her breasts, and she whimpered.

  How mortifying! She wasn't a whimperer. Yet, how was she to comport herself rationally and routinely when she was splayed wide and being fondled by such an arrogant rogue?

  He was in pure agony, as well, as if palpating her was painful and, as he hung his head over her chest, she couldn't get past the impression that he hadn't been so unmoved, after all. Throughout, he'd seemed to be a sort of unaffected bystander, and his calm detachment had been so frustrating. She'd longed for him to endure some of the same jubilation and upheaval she was suffering.

  Evidently, he hadn't been so apathetic. He was seething with unreleased turmoil.

  "I have to come," he said, and he bent down and licked at her nipple. "I can't wait"

  'Tell me what to do."

  "Just hold me tight. Don't let go."

  She snuggled him against her bosom, and his cock dilated to an enormous proportion. Insistent and relentless, he impatiently thrust it against her.

  "Fuck me with your hand." And he ushered her to his shaft, once again.

  She took on the erogenous chore, and her firm grip was magic. In a half-dozen lunges, he tensed and emitted a haunting groan. Hot liquid spurted across her abdomen and fingertips, purging him, then he shuddered and sank onto her, collapsing fully.

  His breathing was labored, heavy and erratic, his heart-

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  beat thundering against his ribs, beating furiously with her own. He didn't speak—perhaps he couldn't—and for once, she was glad of the silence. Words failed her.

  Nothing had prepared her for how personal the moment would be. She felt he'd bared his soul, that he'd exposed himself as he never could with another, and she held him close. Eventually, he mellowed, but he was motionless, his forehead pressed to her breasts.

  Abruptly, he sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, showing her his back.

  His legs were unsteady, and he fortified himself then proceeded to the tub, dipping a washing cloth in the water and returning to her side. He avoided her gaze as he conscientiously cleansed his seed away, then threw the cloth on the floor. When he faced her again, in an unguarded moment, she witnessed vulnerability and loneliness.

  A wave of protectiveness flowed over her, and she needed to provide comfort, emotionally as well as physically. She opened her arms in welcome, and he joined her willingly, resting in the crook of her neck. Much as one might a young child who'd been scared or injured, she nurtured him and, as she rifled her fingers through his thick mane of hair, she couldn't help thinking that this was where she wanted to always be, where she belonged.

  Gradually, she noticed that he was developing another erection, and shortly, his cock was stubborn and intractable against her belly. He started kissing against her nape, sending chills down her spine, then he abandoned his safe perch, trailing down her chest, to a breast, and her breath whooshed out when he closed over the extended crest. Like a babe, he suckled against her. Gently at first, then more fervently, he increased the tension, until he had her writhing and squirming.

  "What are you trying to accomplish?" she managed to gasp.

  "I'm pleasuring you."

  "It doesn't feel pleasurable."

  "It will. Trust me," he commented encouragingly. "The

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  sensations are new, so they seem foreign to you, but they're customary."

  "I don't know what to do." She hated that he was in charge.

  "You don't have to do anything," he contended, laughing softly. "Just relax while I dally."

  Relax? Was he mad? How could she relax when a man the likes of Michael Stevens was on top of her and nursing at her breast?

  He kissed across her cleavage to her other nipple, and he toyed ruthlessly until it was raw and irritated. His hand idly trailed down her stomach. In a pattern of agonizing circles, he descended lower and lower, never falling quite far enough.

  Finally, he sneaked inside her drawers and honed in on the spot his thumb had located earlier. At the same time, two fingers glided into her cleft, and momentarily, he had her hips flexing in an infuriating rhythm. She strained toward an unknown goal—if the cad would just point her in the proper direction, the journey would be so much easier— and she teetered on a ledge of desire, needing to leap off but not confident of when or where.

  "What's happening?" she spat out, scarcely able to find the air necessary for communication.

  "Have you never touched yourself like this? In the night? When you're alone?"

  "No... never..." The information delighted him, and she could sense that he was grinning. The presumptuous rogue!

  "You're going toward a peak of pleasure. As I did." He delayed the tempo, just when she was burning for it to multiply, and, cognizant of the havoc he was wreaking, he chuckled again. "The first time can be scary. But I promise that it will also be wonderful."

  "I don't know ... how ..." She couldn't elucidate, couldn't implore, couldn't talk.

  Oh, when would this torment cease?

  "Your body knows." As though supplying confirmation,

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  he rubbed where all sensation seemed to be centered, and she arched up and would have flown off the bed if he hadn't been hindering her escape. "Close your eyes, and I'll take you where you want to go."

  "I'm afraid," she whispered.

  "Don't be. I'm here with you."

  "Michael..."

  He paused. "Say my name again."

  "Michael!" she wailed, on the brink, frightened.

  The cliff beckoned and, when he latched onto her breast and suckled adamantly, she jumped, sending herself into freefall. She was shattered, undo
ne, and careening through the universe. A voice called out, with an extraordinary kind of ecstasy, and she vaguely recognized that it was her own, then his lips were on hers, silencing her by capturing her wild cry of joy.

  The frenzy persisted for an eternity until, sequentially, she commenced to reassemble. Sanity and reality returned, and she was in Michael's bed, in Michael's arms.

  She dared a peek at him, and he lingered over her with a look that could only be tenderness. There was a hint of male pride there, as well, at having reduced her to such a wanton circumstance.

  "Much better," he murmured, and he kissed her cheek.

  "Yes." She endeavored to shift away but didn't get far. His weight still pressed her down. "What was that?"

  "An orgasm. The French refer to it as the petit mort, the little death."

  "Well... they've surely got the right of it." She lifted a hand and let it fall with a heavy thud. "My bones have melted. I can't move."

  "You don't have to. Just rest for a bit."

  "Then, what?"

  "We'll do it again."

  "You're joking!"

  "I'm not."

  "My heart would quit beating."

  He kissed her once more. "It will get better."

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  "More intense?"

  "Absolutely. And quicker to achieve the more you're with me."

  "I'll never survive."

  "Perhaps not."

  He urged her over so that her back was spooned against his front. One arm lay under her head, a muscled, intriguing pillow. The other was over her torso, his fingers making lazy loops on her stomach and hip.

  Her perception was heightened—the bristle of his bodily hair, the heat of his cock on her bottom, the smell of their mingled sweat and sex—and everything appeared more extreme and profound.

  A yawn emerged; she was too tired to hide it, and he drew a blanket over them, sealing them in a snug cocoon.

  What next? The vexing interrogatory flitted by, but she was elated, exhausted, and too fatigued to dwell on the future.

  She slept.

  When she awoke, she brooked only a minor instant of alarm while she sought to recall where she was, but the episode swiftly passed, and the scandalous memories flooded in.

  Where he was concerned, she'd developed an elevated awareness, and she could sense him in the room, studying her. A light aroma of tobacco tickled her nose. He was smoking—a tidbit to tuck away in her limited collection of the Michael trivialities she'd gleaned. Her eyes fluttered open, even as she pondered how they would interact now that their sexual escapade was terminated.

  He was in a chair by the window, but as distant as if he'd been all the way beyond me ocean in America. He was dressed only in a pair of trousers, his hair was swept off his forehead, accenting the cut over his eye, and he watched her impassively. A half-empty glass of brandy sat on the table, and he was holding a cheroot, the butt aglow, the smoke curling upward. Behind him, she could see out-

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  side. The shadows had lengthened and much of the day had passed away.

  On seeing her stir, he snuffed out the cigar, but he didn't say anything.

  She came up on one elbow, her cascade of auburn hair tumbling over her shoulder. The blanket drooped, baring a breast, and his brow rose in nonchalant disinterest. Their bedplay had been engaging and exotic when he'd been participating, but now, as he frigidly stared with no deference displayed on his beautiful face, she felt absurd.

  Clutching at the quilt, she posed the only query that seemed to matter. "What time is it?"

  "Almost five."

  Unnerved, she speculated as to whether he'd napped at all, or if he'd enigmatically assessed her, wishing she'd rise and retire, but not quite rude enough to wake her and insist.

  From her perspective, the romp had been the most resplendent, fabulous ever; from his, nothing out of the ordinary. In all likelihood, he regularly wasted his days in sexual frolic, and she'd merely been lumped in with the scores of loose women with whom he cavorted.

  Troubled by her musings, she strove for levity. "I guess you wore me out."

  "Fucking will do that to a person." He nodded toward the bed. "I fetched your robe."

  "Thank you."

  It was draped on the bedding, and she couldn't stifle a thrilling rush at the thought that he'd visited her bedchamber. For some reason, the notion of him invading her boudoir, searching through her armoire and examining her belongings, was fascinating.

  "You're going to miss tea," he remarked casually, "so you need to bathe, then go down for supper. We've been here for quite a spell, so it's important that you put in an appearance."

  So, he was eager for her to depart. How disappointing!

  "I doubt if anyone will miss me," she was compelled to

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  report. "I'm not any more of a social butterfly than you are."

  "Your cousin knocked a while ago."

  His look was filled with inquisition and accusation, and she could picture him standing in the middle of her room, robe in hand, with Rebecca on the other side of the door. They'd been so close to detection! While she should have been frantic and appalled, she was exhilarated by the danger in which she'd deposited herself—and him.

  What had come over her? The woman she'd been before she'd arrived, before she'd met Michael Stevens, had vanished.

  "Did she try the knob?'

  "Of course." He stared her down. "She's awfully determined to catch you in a compromising position. Why do you suppose that is?"

  "I've no idea," she responded blandly, adopting his reticence. She had no desire to discuss Rebecca, to permit the outside world, her other life—her real life—to intrude on this flight of fancy.

  Keeping the covers flattened against her bosom, she battled to don her robe, not granting him a view of her nakedness. While the state had seemed normal when they'd been making love, with him imperturbably glaring at her, she was embarrassed by her nudity, and she simply felt inappropriately undressed.

  She scooted to the edge of the bed, but she couldn't take the necessary steps to leave. She was terrified that once she departed, they'd never cross paths again.

  He was treating her just as he did his other lovers, as if the event hadn't had any effect on him, and she despised his composed, nonchalant disposition. His cool reserve and taciturnity were warning her off and away. Yet, she wasn't timid; she declined to surrender without a fight, because she craved a loving relationship with him.

  "Would you like me to return after supper?"

  His reply was the very worst. "As you wish."

  The aggravating response, the one he habitually utilized

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  to chase off his paramours, set a spark to her temper. She wasn't some doxy! Not a woman of loose morals with whom he could randomly trifle! She was a chaste, upstanding female, who'd chosen him—scoundrel though he was— and favored him with a part of herself she never proposed to bestow on another, and she wouldn't have her boon discarded as if she was of no import.

  Stomping across the floor, she halted at his chair, their knees tangled, their feet overlapping, and he was surprised by her audacious move. Let him be!

  "Stop it!" she dictated.

  "Stop what?" He was plainly uncomfortable with her directness.

  "Quit pretending that this afternoon was of no consequence."

  He fidgeted. "I never said that."

  "But that's how you're acting." Didn't he realize how special this was to her? "Our meeting held little significance to you, but it meant a great deal to me." Quietly, she added, "Don't ruin it."

  He scrutinized her, then tipped his head in acknowledgment. "I didn't intend to discount what happened. I just assumed you'd want to be about your business."

  "That I've had my fun, and now I'm finished with you?"

  "Aye."

  "Hear me, Michael Stevens: It will take a bit more than your bad attitude and rude ma
nners to make me conclude that we're through."

  "I see that." One corner of his exquisite mouth hinted at a smile.

  She figured that was as close as she'd ever get to an apology. There were many things about him she didn't understand, but many things that were clear, as well. When he let his guard down, he could be tender and unselfish, though he resisted her attempts at closeness, and it dawned on her that perhaps he never became amorously attached to any female, so he'd built protective walls.

  While he hoped to diminish the magnitude of their af-

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  finity, she had other plans. He wanted her to visit him again; she just knew he did! And she would force him to say so if she had to literally drag the admission from his lips.

  "Don't treat me with the disregard you exhibit to your other lovers."

  "I wasn't," he lied.

  "You could have fooled me." He had the grace to blush. Without a doubt, he'd been pushing her away, but she'd spoiled his scheme by refusing to go peacefully.

  "I'm confused, Sarah," he ultimately confessed. "About you. About us."

  "So am I," she agreed, "but I won't deny our connection, and I won't let you deny it, either. This is too vital to me." She laid her hand on his shoulder. "I ask you again: Would you like me to return later?"

  "I believe I would."

  Her relief was so immense that her knees sagged, and she yearned to confide so much more—to tell him how meaningful the interlude had been, how she'd been transformed—but words failed her.

  She turned and walked to the door that connected their rooms, and she stepped through but, unable to resist, she stole a peek at him, grimly desperate for a final glimpse.

  Bathed in the fading light, he was handsome, dynamic, dissolute. His solitude and isolation called out to her, swayed her, and beseeched her for recognition, for help, and a sustenance that she longed to confer.

  The sensations he invoked—to love, to cherish, to esteem—were so poignant that she couldn't remain. He was so alone and apart, and she required seclusion and distance to mentally prepare for their next encounter.

  Impelling herself away from the perilous, heartrending sight of him, she hastened into her dressing room and shut the door.