by Cheryl Holt
"James...." She moaned his name.
"This is what you're here for, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes...."
"Then ... look at me."
He taunted her nipple, pinching and tugging with varying degrees of tension until her own fingers became curious and answered in kind. Tentatively, she twirled through the hair on his chest. It was soft and springy, and she explored until she became courageous enough to inspect the small brown pebble of his nipple.
"Are they sensitive like mine?"
"Very."
"Would you enjoy it if I sucked against them?'
"Always."
Uncertainly, she bent forward and closed her lips around the tiny nub, and the tautness of his body was elevated to a frightening level. He granted her just a few scant seconds of examination before he called a halt.
"Don't do that just now," he warned. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, as though willing a terrible suffering to recede. "I can't tolerate any more."
"Why?"
" 'Tis extremely painful for a man to be so cocked for such a lengthy period. Your tender ministrations increase my agony a thousand percent."
"But I'm not ready to stop."
"Maybe another day...." He shuddered with harnessed passion. "I must hold myself in check. If I become too unsettled, I'll have to leave, lest I end up doing something I'll regret." Much too businesslike for her peace of mind, he stated, "Let's chat, shall we?"
"Chat? I don't want to chat!"
"Well, we're going to, my little wildcat." He chuckled.
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"You shall have to restrain yourself for a bit while I calm down."
"I've done nothing but restrain myself for the past four days!"
"You poor child," he teased, and he flashed her a smile so deadly that she was glad she was reclining when it landed on her. "Just relax and get used to having your skin bared and pressed to mine."
She stretched and shifted over his body, crossing her arms on his chest and balancing her chin on her doubled fists. "Would you at least kiss me?"
He ran his thumb along her bottom lip, but made no effort to narrow the distance between them. Ultimately, he said, "I've been pondering our relationship, and I've decided that our kissing isn't a good idea."
"What?" She bolted upright, no longer caring that her breasts were on display. His comment was the most idiotic she'd ever heard a man utter. Now that she knew what kissing him was like, kissing him was all she lived for, all she dreamed about.
"Don't misunderstand," he soothed hastily when he saw the murderous gleam in her eye. "I delight in kissing you, but it makes all this so much more ... more ..."
"If you say personal, I swear I'll strangle you," she barked nastily. "I'm lying here without my clothes, so things could hardly become more personal than this."
"All right, I won't say personal. It's just that. .. that..." He studied her intently, his gaze steady and true until he finally acknowledged, "When I kiss you, I don't want to ever quit."
"Oh, James," she sighed, "how sweet."
"And when I'm kissing you"—as he attempted to explain his silly decision, he was actually fidgeting, his cheeks flushing red—"I start to think—"
"James?"
"Yes?"
"Don't think."
She leaned forward and initiated a gentle kiss of her own
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and, as she'd hoped, he didn't hesitate to kiss her back. His mouth fit hers perfectly, and he lingered until they were both breathless.
"Perhaps I was wrong in my calculations." He gave her a contrite smile. "I'll keep on."
"You'd better."
His sapphire eyes were glowing with a disturbing intensity, and the depth of his estimation alarmed her. If he was beginning to entertain an attachment, if his emotions were becoming engaged, how would she ever hide her own? Their association had to remain cheerful and gay, or her delicate, untried heart would never survive.
"I intend"—she struggled for levity—"that you should kiss me whenever you are so inclined." She wrapped her arms around his neck, eager for more, yet he did nothing but laugh and swat her on the bottom.
"You, madam, are a natural at this." He rolled her off his torso so that she was stretched out along his side. "Have I mentioned that you'll probably be the death of me before we're through?"
"I believe so."
"Well, I mean it."
She batted her lashes, pretending to be a daring coquette. "I'll try to go easy on you."
"Not bloody likely," he muttered. He searched the mattress and found his satchel.
"I don't want to look at pictures," she complained.
"I do." He took her hand and placed it, palm down, on the center of his chest where his aggravated pulse was racing much too fast for a man who was absolutely relaxed. "I need to pace myself. You're not helping."
"I'm hardly going to worry if you're disturbed; I haven't been comfortable in days, and I've longed to kill you."
"I was hoping you were hot and bothered."
"I was, you cad!"
He tapped a playful finger against the tip of her nose, then sobered and pulled her close. "I'm serious, Abby. 'Tis difficult to explain, but a man can arrive at a point of stim-
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ulation from which he can't back away, and if I'm overly excited, I'll have to depart long before either of us is ready for me to go."
His admonition was earnest, his concern for her welfare clearly apparent, and she could only agree to be more amenable. I’ll behave myself."
"That's my girl "
"But I don't have to like it."
"No, love, you don't"
Distractedly, he flipped through the pile of drawings, past the nude renderings of himself and Lily in their various sexual poses. When he paused, she inspected the parchment he'd selected and wondered what she was seeing. It appeared to be some type of exotic flower. There was a pink center and what seemed to be petals. "What is it?"
" 'Tis the spot between a woman's legs. Her privates."
Her breasts swelled; her nipples grew rigid. She stared, then stared some more at the strange depiction. Finally, she traced across it *This is Lily?"
"Yes, but it could be most any woman." His hand locked on hers, and he guided her path. "These are the lips that protect the opening. This is the cleft where a man inserts his cock. A woman's maidenhead is hidden past the folds. Here"—he used the tip of her index finger to touch a small nub of darker skin at the top—"this is the clit. Or clitoris. 'Tis the feminine pleasure center. When a man fondles it or licks against it in just the appropriate fashion, she reaches her peak—"
"The petit mort."
"Yes. I'm going to show you today how it can be. If that is still your desire."
He turned to the next picture. Lily had reclined, her legs splayed wide. James knelt between them, his mouth and tongue on her. One of his hands was at her breast, pinching the extended end. Her back was arched, her fingers frantically gripping the edges of the daybed. Eyes closed, lips parted, there was an expression of pure bliss upon her face.
When James had first described this kind of oral ani-
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mation, she hadn't been able to imagine it, and she certainly hadn't been able to envision it as an agreeable occurrence for either party. Yet, when she saw how well the artist had captured the physical tumult, it was easy to understand why a man and woman would engage in such an act.
Their enjoyment was readily conspicuous, and surprisingly, observing the two of them inflamed her. At her womanly core, she felt sticky and moist in a manner she now associated with rising lust.
She wanted this, what Lily had encountered with James; she wanted it desperately, with an enthusiasm that went beyond rhyme or reason. As with all the previous occasions she'd reviewed the drawings, she could shut her eyes and become the female in James's arms, and she craved the opportunity to endure Lily's obvious rapture. Even if i
t meant James would do something as shocking as kiss her scandalously, she had to know what the experience was like.
"Show me," she whispered.
"Gladly,"
With a toss of his wrist, the collection of illustrations was gone. He burrowed into the pillows and hauled her over him. His legs wrapped around her own, his feet hooking behind her calves and locking her in place. The position forced her to spread and to directly expose herself to his erect phallus.
"I'm going to make love to your breasts," he announced as they dangled directly over his eager, waiting mouth, "until I have you begging me to cease."
"Never!" she insisted. "I'll never ask you to stop—"
Her breath left her lungs in a vicious swoosh as his rabid tongue deftly pulled her far inside. Nibbling, trifling, biting, he sucked greedily, and he stayed until the nipple was swollen and raw, continuing on far past the point of comfort.
Just when she decided she could bear no more, he shifted to the other nipple, giving it the same drastic attention. When he had it crimson and distended, he migrated back and forth between the two, using his fingers to stroke
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and caress until he had her squirming and writhing.
Her inner cleft wept, her womb stirred, and her carefully ingrained inhibitions detached, then fled, causing her to wish they could create a babe together. Her entire being cried out with the need, the feeling so intense that only a full-blown coupling would suffice.
Perilous, atrocious thoughts, she knew, but she cared not. At that moment, she'd have let him do anything to her, and happily joined him in the doing.
As though her body recognized the direction she must travel, her hips flexed, hoping to welcome him to her interior, though clothing barred his route. Slowly at first, then more vigorously, her pelvis drove against his, and she could relish every inch of his rigid cock, and she found herself deliriously anxious for the ecstasy he'd promised would come next.
Down below, he was busy, untying the ribbon at the waist of her drawers, then slipping inside. He feathered across her abdomen, and her stomach muscles clenched as he tangled in the cushion of hair that shielded her privates. She was wet, slick, and for a few minutes he simply rested his palm, cupping her and letting her acclimate to his familiar fondling.
As she mellowed, he slid into the folds, and one long, slender finger discovered her mysterious path. Another joined it, and she bowed up off the bed, but he held her immobile, allowing her no liberation from the brutal sensation he inflicted.
"Feel it, love," he murmured. He stroked back and forth, and her hips perfectly matched the age-old rhythm. She was melting, the flood from her center dripping onto his hand and across her thighs.
The tempo magnified. A third finger merged with the first two, and she wailed aloud at the startling maneuver. His thumb crept to the nub of her sex and sketched deliberate, piercing circles. She jumped from the impact of it, but James had her pinned down, so there was no escaping his barbaric torment.
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A strange pressure started to build deep inside, radiating out across her stomach and chest, shooting to her extremities. Her breasts were rock-hard, her nipples beyond sensation, her flesh tensed, her fingers grasping the bedcovers, her toes twisted into the mattress. She seemed to be standing at the brink of a cliff, geared to leap into space.
" 'Tis time, Abby," James advised. "Let yourself go."
With that, he increased his demands at her nipple, sucking forcefully, and the extra bit of stress pushed her over the precipice to which he'd led her. She recklessly vaulted over the crevasse that beckoned, then she was falling, shattered and flying free and unimpeded across the universe. From somewhere far off, she heard a voice crying out with an extraordinary sort of joy, and in a hazy glimmer of perception, she realized it was her own,
The surge of pleasure went on and on, until gradually, it abated. She reassembled, her muscles calmed, her frantic breathing diminished, and she was once again within the small bedchamber, cradled in James's arms. As though he knew she couldn't tolerate any more handling, he'd extracted his mouth from her breast and his hand from her genitalia. His damp fingers just grazed her lower abdomen.
She hoped he would say something, but he didn't. He simply looked at her; then, almost against his wishes, he bent down and kissed her. It was tame, almost chaste, and she kissed him in return, as she concluded that this quiet interlude following the excess of excitement was more wonderful than the raucous act itself.
Eventually, he pulled away, but he was gazing at her with an abiding fondness, almost as though he profoundly cared. Tears surged to her eyes and a few dribbled down her cheek. The aftermath was much more stirring than she'd supposed, much more special than a person could ever appreciate without having experienced it.
She was severely embarrassed by her show of emotion. Her innocence was humiliatingly conspicuous, for surely none of his other women would carry on so, and she was terrified that her bald display of sentiment would irritate
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him. Lest he storm out in a huff, she struggled to get her careening passions under control.
Offering him a watery half smile, she tried for lightness. "I'm sorry," she asserted. "You must think me a complete ninny." But as she cautiously met his eye, she saw only affection and something that had to be very close to love and, if she didn't know better, a hint of male pride that he'd reduced her to such a disconcerted state.
"I don't mind," he insisted. "All of this is very new to you. It can be overwhelming." He gently kissed her lips again, then raised one of the covers and dabbed at her cheeks, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape, then he nestled her against his chest.
With her ear pressed tightly, she listened to the steady beating of his heart, the sound soothing her tattered nerves. If she'd had any previous doubts, she had none now: She loved him, heart and soul, and always would.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
James held Abigail in his arms, while he struggled with the intimacy of the moment. Something had happened between them during the intense journey to her first orgasm, though he wasn't quite sure what. From the way she was staring at him, her eyes wide with wonder and serenity and some other indefinable emotion that looked very much like love, he could tell that she sensed it, too.
From the beginning, he'd been blatantly, masculinely aware of his physical attraction to her. But apparently he was forming a deep romantic affinity, as well. He'd imprudently believed that he could manage the assignations by having them proceed on a superficial basis. That he could merely pronounce his commands—to disrobe, to let her hair down, to bare her superb breasts—and then nonchalantly watch all, an indifferent voyeur and teacher. Little had he understood how unfeasible it would be to travel the aloof course he'd charted.
As he'd lain on the bed, immobile and apart, he'd been forced to recognize the flaw in his plan. In all his days, he'd never witnessed a sight as erotic as Abby stripping herself for his carnal perusal.
Throughout the years, he'd experienced the most arousing instances of which any man could possibly imagine. But nothing compared to Abby's blending of bravado and hesitation. Virgin and temptress, innocent yet adept, she'd casually and valiantly—yet timidly—exposed herself until he'd grown hard as stone, provoked past comprehension, needing and wanting her beyond logic or reason.
How he'd disciplined his impulses sufficiently to keep from tearing off her drawers and stealing her maidenhood was a mystery. They'd certainly come far enough to consider her virtue as completely destroyed. The knowledge
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was a lodestone around his neck, one he could hardly carry.
By allowing herself to go to completion, she'd given him her absolute faith and confidence, assured that he would lead her safely through the scary path of initial passion. As he'd suspected, she was a sensual woman, one who was unafraid of her burgeoning lust. She was eager to learn, and with a
minimum of practice, her awe and delight would turn to a feminine ability that she would wield with devastating effect. Yet he couldn't conceive of a future where she might take the skills she'd garnered and use them with another man, a lover, a husband. The very idea was unthinkable.
In the past, he'd always stridently insisted on no strings in his relationships, but after a handful of trysts with Abby, he was totally bound to her in a manner he'd never visualized. Though he hadn't perceived it about himself, he yearned for the completion and connection that he'd only ever felt with her. He caught himself fantasizing as to what it would be like to have a true wife, a family, a home, children. He'd convinced himself that he wanted no ties, but now familial attachment—to Abby—seemed to be not only a worthwhile goal, but a happenstance he couldn't live without.
An ache began in the center of his chest and worked outward. Stunned to the core, he acknowledged that he . . . he. . . loved her. That had to be it. This overpowering pathos to cherish and protect, coupled with his unceasing thoughts of her, his inability to sleep, his disrupted dreams, his frantic, raging lasciviousness made him decide that love was the only explanation.
As he'd never endured anything close, he was amused, bewildered, and apprehensive. Previously, his foremost reaction to any sort of developing entanglement was to flee at the earliest opportunity, to run fast and furiously without ever glancing back.
Astonishingly, for the first time, he didn't wish to depart; he longed to remain. Like the most immature boy, he craved the opportunity to confess his undying devotion, to
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shower her with endearments, gifts, tenderness. Mawkish words were poised on the tip of his tongue, begging for the chance to spew forth so that he could make a great fool of himself. For if he spoke of love, what then?
In her naiveté, she'd probably profess the same, and there they'd be, in a coil of ardor and emotion from which there seemed no logical retreat.
As though conscious of his weighty distress, she asked, "Are you all right?”
