by Cheryl Holt
Gradually, her pulse slowed, her hips stilled, and she finally queried, "Are we finished?"
"For now." His fingers roamed across her arms, her thighs. "Are you all right?"
"No," she answered honestly. "I don't believe I am."
He kissed her pert nose; then, sighing with regret, he tucked her aggrieved breasts into the bodice of her dress.
"I feel so wonderful," she said, "but so terrible at the same time."
'That's because we quit before I took you as far as you could go." Her brow wrinkled in question. "Remember? There is a peak of pleasure that one attains."
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"We didn't get there?" she inquired with genuine surprise.
"No."
"How could there be more? How does one stand it?"
"With the right person, it just keeps getting better and better." He understood that he was talking about the future assignations they would have. They were so attuned that each meeting would outdistance the next in terms of satisfaction. "My peak comes when I spill my seed."
"You ... didn't?"
"No," he replied again, but oh, how he'd longed to! His balls were aching, his cock dripping with his sexual juice and awaiting the slightest indication that it could finish what had been so precipitously started. With a half dozen thrusts, he could be relieved of his suffering.
He guided her to the placard of his trousers, and her eyes sparkled with awe when she discovered how enlarged he was. "There is a definite . . . ending . . ." he explained through gritted teeth, barely able to tolerate her touch. " 'Tis much more dramatic. You'd have no doubt if I had discharged my seed."
"But you want me?"
"How could I not?"
She stroked across his front, and he felt like a lad again, equipped to ejaculate at the drop of a hat. When he caught himself seriously contemplating whether he should climax inside his trousers like a callow boy, he hastily removed her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the middle. "I desire you too much. 'Tis painful, right now, for me to withstand your caress."
"Pained . . . yes, that's exactly how I feel. 'Tis not pleasant at all."
He laughed softly. "It will be pleasant. Just not today."
"You can't mean to leave me like this!"
Charmed by her physical distress, he laughed again. "I'm intentionally sending you home edgy and incomplete. When you return on Monday, you'll be ready."
"For what?"
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"If you still wish to proceed, I shall show you how orgasm happens for a woman." Boldly, he dropped his palm to her crotch, driving against her through her skirts. "I will slide my fingers under your gown and tease your feminine center. Perhaps I will kiss you there, as well. I will caress you until you reach your peak. The petit mort. ..."
" 'Tis called the little death?" She shuddered. "Why such a dreadful name?"
"You'll see."
"What if I. .." Despite all they'd just endured, she had the grace to blush. "What if I can't achieve this pinnacle?"
"Trust me, love. You are a passionate woman, and I am a skilled, gifted lover. We'll get you there without any problem."
"Are you certain?"
"Never more so "
He stared into her extraordinary emerald eyes, and she unflinchingly held his gaze. More had occurred than the simple act of his feasting at her breast. They had crossed a bridge, or arrived at a milestone, or rounded a bend, and she regarded him with such a deep, abiding affection that he was shaken to his very core.
Needing to steady his universe, he took both her hands in his own and clasped them tightly. "We're going to stop now, so that we can both think on this."
"I don't need to think. This is exactly what I want. You are exactly what I want."
"Still," he cautioned, "you must be absolutely sure." Though she insisted verbally that she was prepared to completely capitulate, he wasn't convinced that she actually realized how intimate events would grow to be. Sucking at her breast was one thing. Sucking between her legs was quite another. "If you show up here on Monday, there will be no retreat...."
"I won't change my mind," she pledged. "Why can't we finish now?"
Her smile was so lovely that his breath hitched. How did she do that? Just a look knocked him off balance. "Be-
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cause," he explained patiently, "we passed so much time conversing that I don't have sufficient opportunity left to love you properly. Besides, you should be hot and bothered for the next four days. When we meet again, your enjoyment—and mine—will be much more profound."
"Cad," she complained prettily. "I hate waiting till Monday."
"It will be here before you know it."
"Easy for you to say. ..."
"Not hardly." He pressed his provoked phallus against the blunt frame of the sofa, finding little ease and comprehending, disgustedly, that darkness would have him stalking the corridors of Lady Carrington's home, searching for another unfamiliar woman who would deliver only ungratifying relief. To what low level would Abby's esteem plunge if she ever learned what a weak man he truly was in his private hours?
Refusing to peer too closely at his less-than-stellar personal attributes, he changed the subject. "On Monday"— he bent forward and whispered naughtily—"I aim to have your breasts bared for the entire afternoon."
"James!" Her startled brows rose. "As if I would!"
"Naked breasts arouse me," he casually responded without pausing to think how his words sounded to her untried ear. "I enjoy the view with all my lovers."
"Don't expect me to act like your other women," she chided. "And I don't care to have you referring to your past behavior with them or to have you lumping me in the middle of such a vulgar group."
Over the years, he'd had many partners hint at possessive intentions, and he'd always shrugged them off, believing that any woman who allied herself with him was a fool. Yet with Abby, he didn't shy away at the allusion to emotional ownership. Where she was concerned, he would constantly be covering new ground, and he had to be content to see where events would lead him.
Still, old habits were difficult to break, and he heard himself saying crudely, "Get used to it."
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"I shan't."
He stood, adjusting his bulging cock and rubbing his sore balls as she watched with avid interest, and he wondered how he would walk down the street in such a severe condition.
"Until Monday, then," he said, but he couldn't make his feet budge. He observed her for a lengthy moment.
"I don't want you to leave," she finally commented.
Her utterance transmitted a minimal amount of fortitude, and he turned toward the door. Best to go while he still had the mettle to depart. But as he reached for the knob, her voice caused him to hesitate, and he glanced over his shoulder.
"James?"
"Yes?" Appearing eminently appeased, she was still casually reposed on the sofa, her hair a mess, her dress askew, her lips swollen and moist, her cheeks flushed.
"Thank you. For everything. . . ."
There was no answer he could bestow. The pleasure, such as it was, had been all his. He quickly strode down the stairs before he could choose to remain.
CHAPTER
NINE
Abigail rested against the seat of the barouche, letting the sway of the carriage and the clomp of the horses relax her, even as her mind whirled in unceasing circles. Luckily, she was behind the driver and facing backward, so she wasn't forced to smile and wave at the approaching traffic. She could travel along silently, stewing and mulling her predicament without numerous interruptions from the passersby.
It was a perfect spring day for a ride in the park. The sun was shining, the sky overwhelmingly blue, the air crisp in temperature. She could smell fertile earth and the flowers that would soon be sprouting in the various beds, making one think that summer might be just around the corner. Yet she could find no contentment in the balmy weather.
E
dward Stevens sat next to her, with his son Charles and Caroline directly across. As she'd deduced from their three previous outings, her decision to accompany the two Stevens gentlemen was a huge mistake. Charles was a fun-loving, charming boy, and Edward a graceful, interesting man, but she winced when either of them glanced in her direction, and she was repeatedly forced to confront the mirror image of James. His resemblance to both his male relatives was uncanny, giving evidence of the strong Stevens bloodline.
Though only half-siblings, Charles and James looked enough alike to be ... well, brothers. With their dark hair and handsome features, they were a matched pair, the only difference being that Charles was ten years younger, so his face and physique still held a hint of boyishness.
Had Charles ever met James, and if so, what had he thought of his dashing, unrestrained older brother? Did Charles consider him to be, as Abigail did, the most exotic, fascinating, astonishing person ever?
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How she wished she could mention his name in the assembled company! James seemed to be a chimera floating above them, overshadowing every word spoken and every idea discussed. Each time Edward or Charles turned his head, she caught herself staring, openmouthed, at the impressions of James she could witness in their every move.
Pondering James—the only theme upon which she cared to dwell—was a mistake, for her traitorous body reacted violently whenever her ramblings strayed his way. Her pulse raced, her cheeks blushed, and she continually shifted against the squab, trying to ferret out a pose in which her clothing didn't seem so tight. She desperately needed to loosen the bindings of her feminine contraptions and shed some of her garments in order to cool her heated skin.
She couldn't prevent herself from remembering the feel of his mouth at her breast, the tug of his lips against her nipple. The action had drawn at something deep inside, at the very center of her womanhood that caused her to ache in new and previously undiscovered sites. The tender tips were aggravated and raw, and despite how soft the chemise she wore, they remained irritatingly enlarged, and they rubbed against her dresses, making her constantly aware of their disturbed condition.
Desire was an interesting emotion, she'd discovered. She'd be utterly content to abstain from food, water, sleep—any sustenance at all—in order to enjoy the physical ecstasy James offered. It couldn't possibly be healthy to crave something this stridently, and she wondered if she just might go mad from such rigorous wanting.
As the days slipped endlessly by, her lust for him should have begun to wane, yet it was growing by leaps and bounds as each passing minute took her nearer to the time when she'd meet with him again.
By his own admission, he'd deliberately put her in this distraught, wretched state. He'd said it would increase her level of anticipation, but as far as she could tell, all he'd done was leave her miserable, uneasy, and downright
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grouchy from all the disconcerting effects he'd initiated but hadn't seen fit to assuage.
She longed to kill him!
He wasn't the one who had to pass an afternoon and evening with Edward and Charles Stevens. How was she supposed to politely converse with his father and half-brother when she'd gleaned so many of his secrets? No woman of gentle breeding should have to suffer through such torment! She knew how he appeared when he was angry, how his eyes glittered with mischief when he pointed out his bad habits. For pity's sake, but she knew the shape and size of his erection when he was aroused!
The rat! It wasn't fair that he'd left her in such untenable straits, and she couldn't help speculating as to where he was at that very instant, what he was doing and if, by any chance, he might be sustaining some of the same palpable anguish. Oh, how she hoped he was!
But in case he'd been unaffected, she intended to rectify the situation at the earliest opportunity. She planned to learn all he could teach, then she'd practice the wicked techniques on his fabulous, willing toirso until he spent every single second of their separate hours pining away as she currently was.
She wasn't certain what she'd expected through her relationship with James, but this yearning was a fire that burned hotter and brighter, recklessly blazing out of control. The intensity of it was now so strong that she imagined lunacy would overtake her in the end. She hoped the caretakers at Bedlam would have an extra bed available when she was ready to check in!
The road curved around the far side of the lake, and Charles saw several of his friends, with young ladies on their arms, feeding the ducks. The driver pulled to a halt, and Caroline and Charles descended to join the boisterous group. Abigail stayed in the barouche with Edward, acting like an aged grandmother long past her prime, who could only watch as the youngsters talked and laughed.
"They're getting on famously," Edward noted of Caro-
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line and Charles as soon as the pair was out of earshot.
"Yes, they certainly are."
"Has Caroline pronounced any sentiments?"
"She says he's very sweet. How about Charles?"
"The same." He smiled and leaned back. "Perhaps we'll wind up as relations before this is concluded."
"Perhaps, we will," she concurred, smiling in return, even though she postulated that an eventual marriage between Caroline and Charles would be the very worst thing that could happen.
Being in such close proximity to the man who had sired James, and who reminded her of him in so many ways, was insanity. If she was forever gazing into his father's eyes, the passion James stirred couldn't possibly abate, her deranged tendencies would never cease, and for the rest of her days she'd forlornly stare at Edward, waiting to catch the occasional glimpse of James that managed to shine through.
Bedlam was drawing nearer every second!
"I feel ancient," Edward remarked wistfully, "as though I'm on the shelf while all of the children court and mingle."
"I was just thinking the same."
"Why don't you join them?" He gestured toward the water. "You don't have to tarry here with me. I rather like my own company; I'm used to it."
"I never could." She was slightly flustered and wasn't sure why. "I'm old enough that I could almost be a mother to some of those boys."
"Abigail, you're only twenty-five," he broached succinctly as he chuckled. Then, much too casually, he inquired, "How come you never married?"
"Good question." She shrugged, cogitating, as she often did anymore, how she'd settled for her present existence.
"What's the matter with your brother that he never located a husband for you?"
" 'Tis not his fault," she answered cautiously. "I never really asked for one."
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"I'd always deemed that a grand marriage was what all young ladies desired."
"Previously, I'd have agreed with you. I was engaged once, when I was seventeen, but he passed away shortly after, and then, I don't know ... I guess the idea never occurred to me." She tried to recall that period, but it seemed so long ago, as though it had never really transpired. "I was happy in the country, raising Caroline, but..." How could she explain her increasing discontent and dissatisfaction with every facet of her life?
"But she's grown now, so what about you? What are your plans?" The question was the same one with which Margaret kept prodding her, and it dropped like a blacksmith's anvil into the space separating them. "You've been making the rounds with Caroline. Has some fortunate fellow managed to capture your fancy?"
It was the consummate opportunity to disclose some of the more tame aspects of her goings-on with James. They were totally alone, and from what she'd been able to discern about Edward, she suspected that he would welcome the chance to discuss one of his other sons. Yet she couldn't bring herself to allude to James in even the vaguest fashion, and her lack of nerve left her ashamed.
Suddenly Edward lurched forward, narrowing his focus and peering down the road that was filled with horses and all manner of vehicles. He studied the fashionable
crowd intensely, obviously searching for someone in particular, but eventually he sprawled back.
"What is it?" she asked gently.
"I thought I saw someone ... I..." Terribly despondent, he shook his head. " 'Tis not important; I'm sure it wasn't he...."
"Of whom do you speak?" Had he espied James? What would it be like to encounter him on the busy thoroughfare? Would they acknowledge one another? Would Edward introduce them? What could she possibly say if they crossed paths in such a public place?
"He is my ... well..." Edward stopped himself.
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"You can confide in me," she nudged kindly. "T promise I won't be shocked."
"No"—he carefully assessed her—"I don't imagine you would be." He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, his gaze still scanning the crush of people. "I have two other children, besides those I had with my wife."
"I know you do; 'tis hardly a secret." She was immensely relieved that he'd yanked the topic out into the open in such a frank manner. "See?" She grinned and twirled herself back and forth so that he could observe how she'd survived the admission unscathed. "I'm not shocked in the least."
"I'm delighted," he revealed. "I've always had to act as though they don't exist, so I've never been able to talk about them widi anyone. But of late, they've been weighing so heavily...."
Abigail was torn. It wasn't appropriate for her to hear any confessions regarding his bastard sons or the mother who had birthed them. Yet she was dying to learn any small tidbit he chose to impart. She relished the prospect of ascertaining more of the factors that had shaped James into such a hard, unattached man.
"Who did you presume that you saw?" she queried.
"Michael," he responded quietly. "I thought I saw Michael."
She couldn't decide if she was glad or disappointed that it hadn't been James. "But you didn't?"
"No. At least, I don't believe so. He's twenty-eight this year, but I've only seen him on a handful of occasions, and then only at a distance." Appearing lonely and melancholy about the entire affair, he sighed mournfully. "I'm sure I'm boring you. This can't be a subject that would hold your interest."
