Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  cheeks colored to a blazing shade of crimson, and she clasped her hands over them, trying to ward off the flash of heat. "Oh, mercy me! I'd better be off."

  They made their good-byes, with Abigail contending that Sarah needn't accompany her downstairs, and Sarah was glad. With only James and Abigail still in attendance, there wouldn't be much time before Michael joined her, and she needed every second to prepare. Now that she was in possession of Abigail's marvelous gift, she required a few moments to deduce how to utilize it to premium advantage.

  Abigail started out, then halted in the doorway. "Don't you dare tell James I snooped at those pictures!"

  "I won't," Sarah vowed, chuckling as Abigail scuttled away.

  Immediately after Abigail's exit, one of the maids conveniently popped in. Sarah flung her pouch of illustrations on the bed, then mellowed as she was stripped of her clothes, her hair brushed out, but she declined the other woman's offer to apply lotions or perfumes.

  Dismissing her, Sarah instructed that they not be disturbed till the mom, then she proceeded to her bath, sinking into the hot water and attempting to relax while she waited for her husband.

  Her husband! The luscious concept tickled her stomach and ignited her anxiety. He would arrive anon, animated, domineering, urgent for her and what she could give him, and she couldn't stand the anticipation, so she strove to contemplate some other topic, but diversion was impossible.

  Her ears perked, detecting the faint noises of James's and Abigail's farewells, which meant Michael would enter directly. She slumped down in the tub, immersing her breasts, her shoulders, aiming for every inch of her body to be wet and slippery.

  Presently, he was ascending the stairs, then advancing down the hall. She paused until he was in the outer bedchamber, then she clambered to her knees, lazily stretching

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  her arms, showing him her backside. Knowing he was at the door, she pretended she hadn't noticed, but she could sense him behind her, prowling like a caged animal.

  Coming up on her feet, she stepped onto the rug, whirling about just as he moved into the room.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Stevens." He formally greeted her, tipping his head in acknowledgment, and her heart did a colossal flip-flop at his mode of address.

  "Mr. Stevens," she answered just as precisely.

  His sapphire eyes shimmered with desire and something more, something she wouldn't even try to name. The cooler air had hoisted goose bumps on her skin, her nipples constricted, and he reached out and stroked an erect nub. "Always a pleasure to find you at your bath."

  "Would you like to take one, too?"

  "Momentarily. First, let's share a glass of champagne."

  Remarkably, he wasn't his customary poised, confident self, and it was odd that, after their lewd frolicking of the past days, he could be nervous. Then, she recognized that she was tense, too. Assuredly, speaking those binding vows could unsettle a person; it hadn't been any less austere the second time around.

  "I'd like that." The delay would be appreciated; the libation would calm them both. "It's a tad chilly in here. Would you dry me?"

  Retrieving a towel off the vanity, he rubbed it up and down her back, front, bottom, legs, then he enfolded her in the large cloth, tucking the flap at her cleavage to secure it in place. His arms went around her, and he pulled her close.

  "How was your wedding, madam?"

  The query was lightly hurled, but his wasn't an idle question. With him, they never were. There was a lost little boy lurking at his core who desperately sought approval, though she'd never disclose that she pictured him as being so vulnerable.

  "Everything I'd hoped for and more," she responded honestly. She lifted up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth. "Thank you."

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  "You're welcome."

  "I like your friends."

  "I don't have many," he broached as though it was a crime.

  "You're just choosy."

  "No. I admit it's the beast in me. I scare people off."

  "Without a doubt," she chuckled, "but not me."

  "Aren't I the lucky one?" The opinion was voiced with much more sentiment than he'd meant to show.

  "Yes, you are," she admonished, and she intended to regularly remind him just how fortunate he was. "Is everyone gone?" she inquired, though she knew they were.

  "Yes, praise be." Breathtaking and magnificent, he smiled down at her. "I thought I'd never get you alone."

  "Poor baby," she crooned. "Were you pining away?"

  "All day."

  The gentle admission incited profound emotion. How she loved this man and always would! Since he could be rude, overbearing, and pushy, there was no accounting for it, but who could ever rationalize why two people belonged together?

  Occasionally, they discussed their novel connection in the dark of night, when shadows made it comfortable for Michael to confess what was in his heart. Why had they met? From where did this impression of abiding affinity emanate? Early on, she'd sensed it, and since her arrival in London, it had flourished anew.

  How would it burgeon as time progressed? What would they feel in a month? In six?

  She looked down the road, through their middle years and beyond, and she could behold him by her side, the radiant center of her fife. The notion brought such exultation and contentment that a few blasted tears sprang to her eyes, and she tamped them down, refusing to exhibit an uncontrollable, maudlin rush that would likely leave her foolishly blubbering.

  "I'm ready to drink that champagne now." She clasped his hand and led him into the bedchamber.

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  "Will you be naked while we are?"

  "Is that how you'd like me to be?"

  "Eternally."

  "You're insatiable."

  "Only since you stumbled into my life."

  "Liar." She laughed, proceeding to the table laden with food and drink. "I saw how you misbehaved before I came along."

  "And you'll never let me forget, will you?"

  "Maybe in forty or fifty years."

  While she tracked his every move, he opened the champagne and filled one glass, then toasted her. "Here's hoping it'll be that long. Or even longer."

  "Here's hoping," she echoed.

  "I love you."

  Not a man to bandy about the word love, it was only the second instance he'd proclaimed himself, and her heart skidded with felicity and bliss. "I love you, too. I always will."

  He tendered the glass so she could take a sip, and he twisted it so he could drink from the same spot on the rim. Then, startling her, he gripped an arm around her waist, and hauled her next to him. Using the stem of the goblet, he pushed down her towel, baring a breast, and she hitched a breath as he dribbled cold champagne across the extended tip, inducing it to pucker even further.

  Leaning down, he laved it clean with his tongue, soaked it again, then dropped to his knees and indulged, slowly and exhaustively sucking at her. She adored how his lips toiled, how he dabbled and played. Her womb stirred, her thighs flexed; between her legs, she was moist and inclined to dally.

  Sifting her fingers through his hair, she let it fall across her chest. Huddled there over her bosom, he looked sublime, and she rested her hand on his neck, imploring him, urging him on.

  Inevitably, he pulled away, and he peered up at her, more wicked and dangerous than usual. He grabbed her

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  buttocks and spurred her nearer, burying his face in her stomach, inhaling her essence. "You make me so hard."

  "Good.I'

  'i better have that bath. Or I'll never get it done."

  "Would you like me to wash you?"

  "Wench!" he chided, grinning, but he abruptly sobered. "Actually, I don't think so. I need a few minutes to myself." Mystified, confused, he asked, "Am I crazy?"

  "No. It's been quite a day."

  "Yes, it has." Briefly, it appeared that he might ex
pound, but as she'd discovered, his revelations were saved for the wee hours. "You don't mind?" he probed.

  "Go on." She assisted him to his feet and waved him toward the door, snatching a kiss as he passed by.

  As he went about his business, she tended to her own, slipping into black stockings and mules, a sheer black robe. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she liked what she saw and decided to don nothing more. A hint of her nipples was defined through the thin fabric, and the middle of her torso was visible, showing her cushion of woman's hair, and a flash of smooth thigh, that added highlight and intrigue to the seductiveness.

  On their bed, she fluffed the pillows, then reclined. The door to the dressing room was ajar, and she caught sporadic glimpses of Michael leaned back, his arms balanced on the edges of the tub. The familiarity of his motions should have been soothing—the water lapping, the washcloth rubbing over his skin—and she shut her eyes but couldn't calm herself.

  Craving distraction, she picked up the portfolio of illustrations Abigail had given her. Avidly, she perused each picture, lingering over his various nude positions, assessing the width of his shoulders, the tuck of his waist, the curve of his rear. The representations were so lifelike; she felt she could jump into the drawings and tarry with him at will.

  One, in particular, was mesmerizing. Spread out on a daybed, an arm casually bent behind his head, he was aroused, his phallus elongated and potent, and his fist was

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  loosely clutched around it. Arrogant, imperious, intent on gratification, he focused resolutely, his body strained, as though he was expecting a lover who would eagerly service him in any fashion he demanded.

  Had a woman been present when the picture was sketched? The notion had her recalling the other instances when she'd seen him engaged in ribald behavior, and she couldn't refrain from recollecting how riveting they had been. How improper. How utterly dirilling and wanton. Perfect musings, for the perfect wedding night.

  Michael was climbing out of the tub, drying himself. "You're awfully quiet in there," he mentioned. "Are you all right?"

  She couldn't help smiling. "I'm just doing a little light reading."

  "I've got plans for you, so don't become too engrossed."

  "Too late." She ran the tip of her finger across die shape of his cock-. It was an odd tactile sensation, as if she was really touching him, and it made her completely wild to experience the genuine article.

  What was it about nudity, about indecency and vice, that had such a stunning effect on her character? There was something so marvelously inappropriate about studying displays that she oughtn't to witness, or espying scenes she was never meant to view. Once she encountered a licentious spectacle, she couldn't prevent herself from wanting to see more.

  "My goodness ..." Just as he set foot in the room, she flipped to the next portrait—a bodily profile that flawlessly outlined his jutting cock. "I'd always heard that things like this went on in Paris, but I never believed any of the stories."

  "What about Paris?" He filled another glass of champagne, then approached the bed, savoring the sparkling liquid. "I grew up there, remember?"

  "Oh, yes. I remember."

  "I'd like to take you visiting sometime, when the national upset is ended."

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  Garbed only in a towel, swathed at the waist, his eyes were tinted to a more absorbing shade. Smelling clean and manly, like soap and heat, his skin was damp, the tips of his hair curly from the steamy water. His crotch bulging deliciously, he was sin and iniquity swaddled in a dark blue package.

  "What do you have there?" he inquired.

  "A belated wedding gift from Abigail." She examined him carefully. "Turn sideways, would you?"

  Unsuspecting, he complied without pondering her request.

  "Drop your towel."

  He started to, then stopped, the peculiarity sinking in. "Why?"

  Endeavoring to keep a straight face, she glanced at the drawing, then dragged her torrid attention to those private parts that never ceased to intrigue and captivate her. "You've matured well over the past decade, but ] want to compare."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Just then, he detected her treasure, and she prankishly shoved the stack under her hip, striving to hide it but not succeeding. Giggling, she scooted across the bed, but he leapt onto the mattress and pinned her down before she could escape. His hips pressed into her, his cock swelling ample and solid against her leg.

  "Let me see!"

  "No."

  Playfully, he wrestled her prize into the open and, when he yanked it from her, there was no doubt that he recognized it for what it was. For once, he was rendered speechless. Mortified, too. A red flush initiated down low and swept up his chest and onto his cheeks.

  He was aghast. "Where did you get these?"

  "From Abigail."

  Issuing a strangled groan, he rolled off her and onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. Chagrined, he stared toward the ceiling for a lengthy interval, then his elbow

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  rose, and he peeked out at her. "Did she look at them?"

  "Only number six." Snuggling over his chest, she hauled his arm away, and kissed him. "She thinks you have a cute bottom."

  That strangled wail recurred, "James will murder me if he finds out. You'll be a widow."

  "So I gather." She winked. "Your unique male beauty will remain Abigail's and my special secret."

  "I'll never be able to go to supper at their house again. She'll constantly be assessing my rear."

  "Probably." Considering his recurrent, dubious antics with women, it was charming that he could be so easily embarrassed. "You're very sexy in these. Young, too. You realize that we older women are extremely fascinated by younger men, don't you?"

  "I've created a monster." As this was not the initial circumstance in which he'd made the point, he sighed. Resigned, he spun on top of her, trapping her to the mattress once more. "What will you do with them?"

  "I guess I'll have them framed and hung in my boudoir, so I can gaze at them whenever I'm in the mood."

  "Jezebel." He dipped under her chin and nipped at her nape. "Strumpet."

  "You know how much I like to watch." She batted her lashes. "I learned from the master."

  "And I suppose that's another topic of which I'll never hear the end."

  "Maybe in forty or fifty years," she repeated.

  "How wonderful"—he smiled at her, the power of it dazzling to behold—"to have you whispering in my ear all that time."

  He took the collection and laid it on die stand next to the bed. Then, he rotated across the mattress, bringing her with him until she was on top. Her sex hovering eagerly over his, she braced herself on one arm, staring down at him as he sprawled against the white bedcoverings.

  His mat of alluring chest hair begged to be stroked, causing her nerves to quiver and tingle. His tempting mouth—

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  that had simply been made for kissing—enticed her to sample. During their wrestling, his towel had come free, and his nether regions were exposed, cajoling her to look, to taste, to touch.

  "Who needs to watch," he indicated, "when you can enjoy the real thing for yourself?" Taking her hand, he stroked it across the pebbled bump of his nipple.

  "My thoughts exactly."

  Stretching and purring like a contented cat. she splayed her fingers and rubbed in slow circles, feeling his heart thundering beneath her palm.

  Suddenly ablaze, expectant, and wild with her desire for him, she tugged off her robe and tossed it on the floor.

  "What do I need to do?"

  CHERYL HOLT is a lawyer, novelist, and mom who lives on the Oregon coast. Her varied employment history includes public school teacher, mediator, cook, bartender, lobbyist, musician, and political activist. A graduate of the University of Wyoming College of Law, she worked as a law clerk for the Attorney General of Color
ado and Wyoming. Later, she served as a deputy district attorney in metro-Denver. Her second book, My Only Love, was nominated by Romantic Times magazine mentor a Reviewer's Choice Award. Her novella, "Meg's Secret Admirer," was chosen as the Best Novella of 2000 by the National Readers' Choice Awards. Total Surrender is her seventh novel.

  You can visit her Web site at www.cherylholt.com or write her al cherylholt@seasurf.net.