by Nancy Warren
She was a mystery, this woman he’d known only a few hours. Such a mystery. On the one hand he wanted to treasure the moments she remained a mystery and yet he was as anxious to discover all her secrets as a boy on Christmas morning, holding that special package from Father Christmas.
The urge to rush forward now, quickly, pulled against the desire to go slowly, take his time, savor, so there was a fine tension inside him.
When she was done with her checking and rearranging, she flipped off the lights, plunging them into darkness.
Wordlessly, they slipped through the door that led from the kitchen into the main house.
It was quiet. The soft night lights that George had installed illuminating the way for visitors who might otherwise end up lost and wandering the old pile until daybreak.
They crept by the marble bust of a Roman emperor, watched on their way by five hundred year old ancestors of George’s looking down on them in various aspects from virtuous nobility to licentiousness. He imagined the naughty ninth earl giving him a nudge-nudge-wink-wink as he made his way, with Rachel’s hand in his, through the long gallery to the guest wing.
Even the tireless Wiggins seemed to have taken himself off to bed, or perhaps was enough of the discreet, trusted servant to make himself scarce when a man took a lady who was not his wife to bed.
They didn’t speak on the way; he felt the warmth of Rachel’s hand in his, heard the slight swish of velvet as she walked.
They entered his room and he noted that the bedside lamp was on, the bed turned down. Like a good hotel, but also, he knew, the way things had been done in the Hart House for generations.
Maybe they’d had to downsize the staff, but little courtesies to guests would be one of the last things to go.
Rachel let go of his hand and gazed around, as though surprised to find herself here.
He slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back of one of the wing chairs, and switched on the fire.
She’d walked to the window. Then, obviously realizing she couldn’t distract herself with the view outside, turned.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked her. “No ice I’m afraid. But there’s,” – he looked at the bottles arranged on a silver tray -- “port, cognac, scotch.”
“No. Thank you.”
He walked over to her and did what he’d been dying to do all evening. He pulled the pins from her hair. She trembled when he touched her, but didn’t stop him, so he took his time and watched in delighted fascination as the thick curls tumbled around her shoulders. He’d imagined the hair would go on forever, all the way down her back, but no. It brushed her shoulders, thick and wild.
Pushing his hands into it, he found it silkier feeling than he’d imagined, but exactly as sexy.
He gazed down at her, eyeing the mouth he was about to kiss, his body so on fire he could barely think straight, when she said, “I think I would like a drink.”
He noted what he should have seen before. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, her posture tense.
“Of course,” he said, releasing her. “Cognac?”
“Yes, fine.”
He poured two glasses, handed her one. She didn’t sip for pleasure; he rather thought she gulped for courage.
He sat in the armchair, leaning back, letting her know in as subtle a way as he could manage that a chat and a drink was fine with him. It wouldn’t be his choice, but he tried to be philosophical. At least he’d seen her with her hair down. It was a start.
She didn’t sit, but wandered the room, touching things. Running her fingers over the bed cover.
When she finally came back to him, she put her drink down on the table. He felt he was losing her, felt he had to make a final try to keep her with him, even for nothing more than talk.
“You have lovely hands,” he said, watching them curled around her glass.
She laughed. “No, I don’t.” She stuffed them out of sight, at her sides.
He reached for her wrist and she let him bring it closer. “I noticed at dinner. You were the only woman not wearing nail lacquer.”
“That’s because I don’t like to draw attention to my least attractive feature.”
“But they’re lovely.” He smoothed the fingers onto his palm and she let him. “These are the hands of an artist.”
“You’re nuts. They’re burned, scarred, banged up by years in kitchens.”
He stroked her fingers. “A warrior’s hands, then.”
“More so than an artist’s.”
“Well, I think you are a little of both.”
He brought her wrist up to his mouth and kissed it, loving the smooth, soft feel of her skin, the skip of her pulse beneath his lips.
He noticed a white scar with a line of x’s emerging from the base of her thumb. He traced it with the tip of his fingertip and felt a quiver run through her. “What happened there?”
“I was in a hurry. Tried to core an apple with a carving knife and the apple broke. I don’t recommend it. I think I had seven stitches.”
“So noted,” he said and kissed the line of x’s.
“Is this one a burn?” He traced the discolored, puckered shininess on the side of her hand.
“Yes,” she said, her voice growing husky. “Industrial oven accident.”
He touched his tongue to the mark.
Chapter 6
He’s making love to my hands, Rachel thought in amazement, my ugly, scarred, chef’s hands.
Jack was bent over her, studying her like a very sexy palm reader. His hair was short, but thick. She glimpsed the back of his neck, the pale skin corded with muscle. She felt the warmth coming off his body, smelled the clean, somehow English scent of him.
“These are your war wounds. Honorably acquired and therefore, beautiful.” He kissed the misshapen nail on her left hand and she told him without being asked about the time she’d slammed it in the restaurant fridge. She watched him bending over her hands, so intent on her. So interested. Amazement washed over her along with a wash of lust that left her weak-kneed.
Sex in her marriage had been about getting to the main event as fast as possible, reaching orgasm and going to sleep. She thought she and Cal must have had the most time-efficient marriage bed in the state of California. She’d got to the point where she could slide a batch of cookies or muffins in the oven and go have sex. They’d both have their climax, Cal would be snoring and she’d be back in the kitchen with minutes left before the oven timer chimed.
Cal hadn’t been much for experimentation in bed -- he’d found what worked and stuck with it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t felt the same about marriage in general.
Now, here she was, with a man who considered her scarred hands worthy of kissing. His tongue touched her fingertips and heat traveled through her body. When his lips brushed her palm, warm and slightly damp, she wanted to whimper. She started to tremble, deep inside. She’d been on the verge of leaving, thinking she was crazy to throw herself into bed with this man she’d only met a few hours ago.
But he’d seduced her by making love to that part of her that was the most accomplished and the least attractive. And, somehow, she knew, that a man who took this much time over a woman’s palm was not going to beat a batch of cookies to the finish.
“If this was a movie,” she said, “some schmaltzy music would play right now and I’d say, ‘come with me to bed.’”
“Have you been with anyone since your husband?” he asked her softly.
Her hand jerked within his grasp. “That’s pretty personal.”
“So is what we’re about to do.”
She blew out a breath. He let go of her hands but not of her, tracing the curve of her waist until his palms rested lightly on her hips. She liked the warm feeling of connection between them while he looked up with those wonderful serious, but not serious eyes.
And looking back at him she found she needed the truth between them. “Yes. I really needed to get the taste of Cal out of my system, frankly.” She shrugg
ed, dropping her gaze to the ancient table where their barely-touched drinks sat side by side. “It was quick and clinical.”
“Sounds rather like mouthwash.”
She thought back to the shortest affair of her life. “More like washing my own mouth out with soap.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
She looked down at him, felt the warmth of his hands against her hip, felt breathless with the anticipation that a man who could appreciate and find beauty in her hands, was going to be something very special in bed.
“Yes,” she said, bending over to kiss him. “I do.”
His hands were back in her hair, and he kissed her with such enthusiasm that she lost her balance and tumbled onto his lap.
He tasted like the cognac; complex, rich and fiery.
His fingers played in her hair, rubbed her scalp until she wanted to purr, then he began to undress her.
Conscious that she was wearing borrowed feathers and Max might not appreciate them being tossed all over the floor, she rose and backed slowly away, slipping the velvet jacket from her shoulders. It wasn’t going to be easy or natural to perform a stripper routine in this style of clothing, but she figured she’d give it her best, and if he thought it was odd that she stopped to hang each piece up neatly, she hoped he’d merely think it was part of her act, one more way of increasing his anticipation of seeing her naked.
Gack. She sucked in her stomach on the thought. If he thought her scarred, burned and banged up hands were a turn on, he was going to flip at her flabby abs and I-stand-on-my-feet-all-day-in-a-kitchen sturdy legs.
She got the jacket hung up neatly, and before she could turn back to him, she felt his hands on her, tracing her ribs, stroking up to cup her breasts. The feeling was so exquisite that she forgot to worry that her boobs had gained weight along with the rest of her when her life went to hell.
He didn’t seem to be all that put off by the expanse of flesh now cupped in his palms, in fact, judging from the contented sounds he was making and the very definite hardness pressing against her hip, he was a big boob kind of guy.
He undid her buttons and peeled the blouse off her, then, as she was getting ready to rescue Max’s peasant blouse, he leaned past her and hung it neatly.
Her skirt soon hung beside it.
There was something surprisingly fun about undressing and hanging each other’s clothes. “I feel like your personal butler,” she said, as she hung his dress shirt.
“If I had a butler as gorgeous as you, I’d never leave my room.”
She slid his trousers off, liking the sight of muscular, furry legs. He was such an elegant looking man, that it was a surprise to find thigh muscles thick and athletic. “You play sports?”
“Used to. Now George and Arthur and I are in a football league for sorry old timers who can’t give up.”
“It’s good that you keep in shape,” she said, trying not to stare at another thick muscle that appeared in excellent shape. He was a boxer man, which didn’t surprise her. But they were maroon silk. She sighed.
Who would have thought, even a year ago, that she’d find herself in an honest-to-God earl’s historic mansion, with a sexy Brit staring down at her with that particular combination of sweetness and oh, that so very English word, naughtiness. Excitement skittered through her and she thought she might be getting over her long running black mood.
“I am absolutely delighted that I decided to come down today,” he said.
She rose, close enough that a lot of her brushed a lot of him as she made her way to standing. “And I am very happy that you invaded my kitchen today,” she admitted.
He kissed her. She thought she could go on kissing him forever. He was possibly the best kisser she’d ever known. Before she’d decided to her satisfaction that he was, in fact, the best kisser she’d ever had, her breasts felt a little breezy and she realized he’d dispensed with her bra. Rather swiftly and subtly.
His hands were on her, squeezing gently, touching her nipples as though they were both fragile and precious, so the throb of desire began to build.
He lifted one, then the other, to his mouth. There was enough there, that they easily reached.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, in a soft, reverent tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such amazing breasts.”
And from feeling fat and out of shape, she suddenly felt like a voluptuous earth mother, womanly and Bring it on, baby, sexy.
She’d always loved sex, was almost embarrassingly responsive, but with him she felt it all as a gift.
She fell back on the bed, free-falling as though into a pool, letting her arms reach above her head. When she hit the mattress, she felt her breasts bounce with the impact, felt a little bit of jiggling where she’d really prefer no jiggle be, but her soon-to-be-lover seemed mesmerized with her body.
He stripped her of her panties in one smooth move and then stared down at her.
Somehow, his expression told her that he liked what he saw. She started to get up so she could return the favor and remove his boxers, but he stopped her with a gesture. “No, don’t move. Don’t move a muscle.”
How could she not feel seductive and special when he couldn’t tear his eyes away? When he ripped off his boxers without looking once at what he was doing?
She looked though, oh, and looked some more. He was gorgeous. Fit, tough, toned, and with his body so evidently eager for her that she began to melt.
When he climbed onto the bed, she felt she would go mad if he didn’t touch her, didn’t kiss her, didn’t take her, and now.
But he surprised her, kissing her sweetly, as though he had all the time in eternity to do nothing but kiss her.
As her passion built, she moved closer, pressing herself against him for the pleasure of feeling her skin against his. He was so warm, his skin silky smooth in places, hair roughened in others.
She’d never in her life felt worshipped, but tonight she did. He looked at her the way he’d looked at the Rembrandt, his favorite in George’s collection, he’d told her.
He tasted her the way he’d tasted her food, with eager anticipation, then slow savoring, followed by delighted satisfaction.
He played at her breasts, kissing and licking them until she felt they were swelling with the excitement that filled her. She began twisting as heat built within her. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, yes, Oh, please.” She didn’t even know what she was murmuring as he continued to toy at her breasts. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know…
“Wait,” she cried, but it was already too late. The wave seemed to begin at the soles of her feet and to roll upward, taking everything along for the ride.
“Am I hurting you?” he raised his head, first in concern, then with a smug grin as he saw the state she was in.
He went back to her breasts, in spite of her breathless suggestion that he come inside her. He didn’t seem to hear her, and then suddenly it didn’t matter, it was too late, and the world began to tremble, her body began to spasm, and she cried out as an orgasm shook her.
He stayed with her through the major quake and the aftershocks, then came back up to kiss her mouth, holding her as her heart slowed.
“I’ve heard about women like you,” he said. “Always wanted to meet one.”
She groaned, torn between embarrassment and satisfaction. “It’s been a while,” she said, “I had a lot of pent-up horniness.”
“Don’t ever apologize for enjoying yourself in bed.” He announced it like a lesson.
And she was feeling good enough that she opened her eyes wide. “Is that a rule?”
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “Jack Flynt’s rules for living. Rule number one.”
She felt a little lazy, a lot turned on and wild to see what was next on the agenda. “What’s rule number two?”
“Ah,” he said, kissing his way down the underside of her breasts, to her belly. “Jack Flynt’s rule number two is to extract the maximum pleasure from a woman.�
�� He nibbled her belly until she giggled helplessly. “To find every one of her weak spots and exploit them shamelessly.”
He nudged her thighs apart and the restlessness increased again. If he was going to do what she thought he was going to do, it was her absolute favorite thing on earth. But she’d already come once, surely he’d want to…
“Oh,” she cried, as he put his mouth on her and began to remind her why this was her absolute favorite thing in the world. He kissed her intimately, savoring her with his mouth the way he’d enjoyed her food earlier.
She wanted to hold back, to take the time to enjoy and luxuriate in the exquisite experience of his mouth on her, but he was stroking her, swirling his tongue over and around her hot button and she knew she couldn’t last. When she began to thrash, she felt the beginnings of delight take her, and suddenly, he changed his technique, now he was light, stroking with little touches like butterfly wings that only teased, keeping her hovering over the peak but not giving her enough momentum to fly.
“Oh, oh, that’s so good,” she moaned, her head thrown back, feeling a drop of sweat roll between her breasts.
He spread her wide and she didn’t care, she didn’t care that her thighs were built for stamina not bathing suit modeling, and that she had too much lust as well as too much of everything else. She let him look. Let him touch, feel, taste.
Every second he kept her on the edge was agony, and yet the most intense pleasure. She couldn’t hold on, couldn’t float this high without bursting into flame, and still he controlled her, holding her airborne, but not quite setting her free.
It seemed to go on forever; her heart stuttered, her breath caught, her body grew tenser and then, when she thought she would absolutely expire from the sweet torture of those feather-light touches, he gripped her hips, holding her in place and tongued her with deep, strong strokes. If he hadn’t held her, she was certain she’d have hit the ceiling as he took her over the edge, letting her soar, staying with her until she was spent.
