Alone … to dream about her and his longing to love her. Alone with his regret and the pain that came with it. Alone, all alone, with the shame of his cowardice.
Though Michael tried hard to master his degrading fear, arguing with it and berating himself for his poltroonery, in the end he failed, crumbling beneath his contemptible cowardice. Now loathing himself more than he’d ever loathed himself before, fervently wishing that things could be different, he opened his mouth to plead illness. As he commanded himself to meet Emily’s gaze, determined to at least be man enough to look at her as he uttered the craven he, he saw the boundless tenderness gleaming in her eyes. She loved him so very much, steadily and unconditionally, far more than he deserved to be loved.
Staring deeply into her unshuttered eyes, seeing her heart reflected in their adoring depths, he felt a sudden, savage longing to be worthy of her unstinting devotion. Damn it, he would be worthy of it! He would be the husband she wished and the man he longed to be. Bolstered by his fierce determination, Michael forced himself to smile and reply, “I feel fine, love. I was just finishing your decoction. You said that I must drink every drop, remember?”
Smiling back, she peered down into the cup. “It looks to me as if you have followed my orders splendidly.”
“I am, as always, your servant, madam,” he tossed back with an ease he was nowhere near feeling.
“Well, then?” She reached over to take the empty cup from him.
His hand tightened convulsively on the handle. As long as he held on to it, he had an excuse not to move on to the next step of the spell. When she glanced up again, shooting him a querying look, he forced himself to nod and reluctantly eased his grip.
It took her only a second to deposit the cup on the table beside the bed. That done, she again glanced at him, this time expectantly. When he merely stared back, frozen by renewed apprehension, she smiled gently and reminded him, “There is really no need for modesty, Michael. As I mentioned earlier, I saw your body this morning, all of it, and I can assure you that you have nothing whatsoever to be ashamed of. Of course, if you would rather I leave while you disrobe, I—”
“No,” he interjected, mentally reconfirming his resolution. “Stay. Please. As you also pointed out, you are my wife, which makes it quite proper for you to see me naked. Besides, it hardly serves me to be modest now when you will shortly be rubbing my body with your magic oil.” Praying that his fingers wouldn’t be clumsy in his tension, he reached up and systematically unbuttoned his nightshirt. He had just finished and had grasped the hem to lift it over his head when Emily abruptly turned away and began fumbling with the amber bottle of magical oil.
Michael paused to watch her, his eyes narrowing as he noted the hectic, almost feverish flush of her cheeks and the visible trembling of her hands as she lifted the bottle to pour the contents, a viscous green liquid, into a small bowl marked with mysterious symbols. Why, for all her show of serene self-possession, she was just as flustered as he by what they were about to do. More so, judging from her rapidly darkening cheeks.
The sudden surge of tenderness he felt at seeing her so did much to assuage his own anxiety. Easily setting aside his disquiet in his desire to soothe hers, yet sensing that she would be crushed should he mention observing it, given her brave facade, he hastily tossed off his nightshirt and lay down on his belly, wanting to spare her the sight of the more unsettling aspects of his nudity. Thus when Emily finally mustered the pluck to glance back at Michael, she saw nothing more scandalous than his bare buttocks. They were nice buttocks, true, taut and muscular, curving into impossibly long, powerful legs, but the sight was hardly enough to raise a blush, not after a lifetime spent surrounded by brothers.
Had Michael’s face not been turned toward her, Emily would have sighed her relief. She was rapidly discovering that seeing Michael naked when he was awake was a far different matter from doing so when he was unconscious. When he had lain before her that morning, inanimate and unaware, she had felt perfectly at ease feasting her gaze upon his glorious body. Indeed, though it shamed her now to admit it, she had enjoyed looking at him, her curiosity overriding her sense of propriety as she had eagerly surveyed those parts of him that were normally hidden by his trousers. But now, well, now she wasn’t quite certain where to look or how to act for fear that he might think her brazen.
Oh dear! Whatever had she been thinking to imagine that she could work this spell without dying of embarrassment?
The instant the question formed in her mind, she knew the answer: She had been thinking of Michael, of all he had suffered coupled with her own desperate desire to help him. And if this spell was anywhere near as effective as the one to banish her curse, it would not only help him, it might very well cure him.
Ordering herself to focus on the virtue of her purpose and to ignore the ripple of excitement she felt at the sight of his lovely backside, Emily somehow managed to inquire, “Are you ready, love?” amazing herself with the strength of her voice.
He smiled faintly and nodded.
“All right, then. First I must—um—anoint your forehead.” Fighting hard to keep her hands steady, she dipped her fingers into the bowl of oil, using it to sketch the healing symbol Rebecca had taught her upon Michael’s forehead as she chanted, “With the protective power of sandalwood and mint; with the purifying strength of elder; with the healing might of carnation and the gift of health from rosemary, I command this spell to work my will upon your heart, soul, and flesh.”
“Is there anything I need to say or do?” he murmured when she fell silent, gazing up at her with solemn jade eyes.
“Yes. You must close your eyes and concentrate on the motion of my hands—imagine them drawing the illness from your body.”
He nodded once, then buried his face into his pillow, waiting for her to continue. A moment later, she did.
After smoothing aside his long hair to expose his strong neck and shoulders, Emily again dipped her hands into the oil, this time allowing their heat to warm it before touching his flesh. Starting at the nape of his neck, she began massaging in the slow, deep, circular motion Rebecca had shown her, repeating the incantation she had uttered while anointing Michael’s forehead as she worked.
Taking care to oil every satiny inch of his skin, she stroked down the strong column of his neck to span the impressive breadth of his shoulders, then descended the hard granite of his arms, marveling anew at their sinewy strength. Pausing at his hands to lavish attention on each of his elegant fingers, she smoothed her way back up to his shoulders again, then traveled the muscular length of his back.
As Emily worked, now and again dipping her hands into the bowl, the heady scent of the oil mingled with the natural musk of Michael’s flesh, making her all the more aware of the blatant masculinity of the man stretched out before her. Feeling strangely tingly and effervescent all over, she allowed her gaze to wander hungrily over every sculpted inch of his magnificent physique, a delightful shiver of wanting running through her at the sight of him.
Oh, but he was beautiful, so very beautiful with his skin sheened with oil. His body gleamed sleekly in the candlelight, each powerful muscle in his back and arms defined and rippling to perfection. As for his backside—
Her pulse skittered alarmingly and a delicious shudder heated her belly as her hands slithered slickly down the hollow of his lower back to trace the lean line of his hips. Keeping her touch light and her movements rhythmic, she slowly circled up over the firm, rounded curve of his buttocks, savoring the silken sensation of his smooth flesh as she steadily moved inward. Then she dipped between them. He gasped and flinched from her touch, his muscles flexed and his buttocks clenching.
Wondering if she had unwittingly touched a bruise that she had missed during her examination that morning, one that she was now unable to see for the shadows, Emily frowned and murmured, “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Michael. Are you all right?”
Michael jerked his head once to the affirmative. Of course he had lied; he was far from all right. The fire in his loins, which had been sparked when Emily had informed him of her plans to massage him with oil, was now burning high and growing hotter with each passing moment. Gritting his teeth to steel himself against the raging inferno of his arousal, he buried his face yet deeper into the pillow, his body tensing as she resumed her unwittingly titillating ministrations.
Dear God! He didn’t know how much more of this exquisite torment he could endure. The feel of her hands moving over his body, so seductive in their gentleness and stimulating in their thoroughness, gripped at his groin with a savagery that made him long to howl with need.
As he lay there stifling his moans, her fingers again slipped between his buttocks. The raw eroticism of the resulting sensation shocked him into breathlessness. Before he could muster so much as a gasp of inflamed protest, her hands slid downward, dropping between his thighs where they lightly grazed the underside of his masculine sac. His whole body jerked in electrified response, his thighs protectively clamping together to prevent her from touching him there again.
“Michael, darling. You really must relax if the spell is to be effective,” she softly chided, slipping her fingers between his thighs again, trying to coax them apart.
He shot her a disgruntled look, wondering just how relaxed she would be if it were she lying there naked while he teased her nether regions. The picture that that particular thought invoked merely increased his lustful torment. Now mired in the molten agony of his need, Michael again pressed his face against his pillow, desperately trying to ignore the fact that Emily had somehow managed to part his legs and now caressed the sensitive inner curves of his thighs.
To his eternal gratitude she lingered there only the briefest of moments, skating over the back of his knees and massaging the ache from his seizure-strained calf muscles. By the time she reached his feet, which she manipulated in a way that he found exceedingly relaxing, he had almost mastered his lust.
“There,” she murmured with finality, giving the arch of his right foot one last stroke. “You may turn over now.”
Turn over? Michael felt his heart drop to the pit of his stomach at the mere thought. Not only did he not wish to frighten Emily with the sight of his erection, which it would most assuredly do, given her inexperience, he was alarmed by the excessive degree of his arousal. Were she to touch his sex, even inadvertently, he would most certainly spill his seed. His fear of another fit now eclipsed by the mortifying prospect of losing control, Michael remained on his belly, pretending that he hadn’t heard her request.
“Michael, you really must turn over if we are to complete the spell,” she insisted, giving him a pat. When he again failed to respond, she gently inquired, “Is this really so very difficult for you, love?”
After a beat, he reluctantly nodded.
She sighed. “Then we must stop. The last thing in the world I would ever wish to do is cause you discomfort.” Another sigh, this one sounding as if it were being ripped from the bottom of her soul. “It truly is a shame, though. The spell is said to be quite effective, and I had so hoped to help you. But if the process is too—”
“I am fine. It isn’t all that bad,” he gruffly interjected, his resolution renewed by the disappointment in her voice.
After all the trouble she had gone to to prepare the spell, the least he could do was allow her to finish it. If the unthinkable happened, well, then so be it. It would be far easier to live with the embarrassment of losing control than with the knowledge that he had disappointed Emily. Thus determined, he flipped over, not missing the way her eyes widened when she saw his arousal. Glancing down at himself, he had to admit that it did look rather fierce, straining aggressively against his belly.
Looking away again, resolved to ignore it, he nodded to Emily, his voice taut as he bid, “Please proceed.”
After a moment of hesitation, Emily did as he directed.
Heavens! she thought, stealing another glance at his manhood from beneath her lowered lashes. He hadn’t looked anywhere near as intimidating down there this morning as he did now. True, he had unconsciously hardened when she’d washed him there, but his erection had looked nothing like this one. It most certainly hadn’t jutted like that, nor had it been so very enormous. Hmmm. Was this the sort of transformation that Judith had been referring to when she had described the changes in a man’s male parts in the marriage bed as startling?
Forcing herself to look away, despite her fascination, she began lightly stroking the healing oil over Michael’s throat, working it into his flesh in the prescribed circular motion. Like his back side, the front of him was a miracle of satiny skin and tightly woven muscle, tragically marred here and there by the scars of the brutal treatments he had endured over the years. By the number of them she had noted thus far, it was apparent that he hadn’t lied when he’d claimed to have been bled from twenty-two places.
Now gazing at a particularly wicked-looking series of jaggedly healed wounds at either side of his neck, it was all she could do to resist kissing them in the tenderness of her sorrow at what he had suffered. Stoically ignoring the urge and all the others she felt as her fingers passed over scar after heartbreaking scar, Emily worked her way over his chiseled chest and down the tight grid of his belly.
Michael tensed, his body growing rigid as Emily’s hands inched nearer and nearer to his arousal. Bloody hell! It was too much, he couldn’t take much more. If she so much as brushed against him now, he would— Michael sucked in a hissing breath as she grazed the dark curls on his groin, his fingers digging hard into the mattress beneath him as he braced himself for the raw shock of her touch.
She was almost to his hardness when she abruptly skirted around it, skimming gently over his hips, her touch growing feather-light as she passed over the tender bruise on his left hip. From there she continued down his legs, not so much as nudging his masculine sac as she again caressed the inner contours of his thighs. When she advanced lower, completely bypassing his male parts, his tension began to recede. So much so, that he had actually begun to relax by the time she reached the tips of his toes.
“There now,” she murmured, drawing her hands away at last. After pausing a moment, during which she dipped them into the bowl again, she added, “I have only to rub oil on—uh—you know, and then we shall be done.”
Before Michael could open his mouth to protest, her warm, slippery hands were between his legs, gently cupping and oiling his manly sac. The feel of her fingers caressing the sensitive flesh was … incredible. So incredible that he was helpless to resist the resulting sensations. His fear of erotic stimulation now forgotten, he moaned his pleasure and spread his legs yet wider, instinctively coaxing her to continue.
To his carnal bliss she complied, intensifying his urgency until he was oblivious to everything but the exquisite sensations radiating from between his legs. So transfixed by his pleasure was he that he hadn’t the presence of mind to do more than sob his desperate need when she reached up and grasped his engorged sex.
Shocked by the thrill of her touch, he lay in stunned stillness while she anointed his shaft, his already fevered excitement mounting into a frenzy as she rubbed up his entire length and then down again, repeating the provocative motion over and over again. Gradually his hips caught the rhythm of her hand, moving by their own volition, each intensely stimulating thrust propelling him nearer and nearer to his release. In the next instance she slicked back his sheath and he lost himself.
Hoarsely screaming his rapture, he violently arched his back, tears of pleasure streaming down his cheeks as he experienced the most potent climax of his life. Held in the thrall of his release, he shuddered and thrashed for several long, delirious moments, then fell limp, utterly drained.
“Michael, oh, Michael, my poor darling! I am sorry … so very sorry!” he heard Emily cry thr
ough the haze of his passion-drugged mind.
It took several beats for his sluggish brain to note her distress and several more for it to grasp why she would sound so. When he finally did, he smiled gently and reassured her, “It is all right, love. I am fine.” And he was. Strangely enough, he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by his loss of control. How could he be when he felt so very splendid?
“What?” She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
He nodded, his smile broadening.
Shaking her head over and over again, she choked out, “I thought—that—that—”
“That I was having another seizure?” he ventured.
The head shake turned into a nod. “The way you were thrashing and—and—this”—she held out her hands, which were sticky with his seed—“I saw this on you down there”—she indicated his equally sticky sex—“when I bathed you this morning. I just assumed—”
“I know what you thought, and I am sorry that I frightened you. As for what you washed from me this morning, well”—he shrugged one shoulder—“it is quite common for men to spill their seed during the sort of fits I suffer.”
She glanced back down at her hands, looking all the more bewildered by his response. “If you didn’t have a fit, why did you spill it now?”
“What happened to me is called an orgasm, and as with a fit, a man spills his seed while in the grip of one. Unlike a fit, however, spilling it during an orgasm is an expression of pleasure. Indeed, an orgasm is one of the greatest pleasures of life, one enjoyed by both men and women.”
“Oh.” Clearly uncertain what to make of his explanation, she reached over to the table next to the bed and picked up one of the linen towels Eadon had left there earlier. Dipping it into the basin of water beside it, also courtesy of Eadon, she wiped the seed from her hands, then gently cleansed him, a process he enjoyed immensely. When she had finished, she sat beside him in silence, eyeing his now flagging sex with a strange expression. When he asked about her thoughts, she sighed and confessed, “I was just wondering how an orgasm feels.”
Bewitched Page 35
