Love Lessons

by Cheryl Holt

  He hated that she read him so effortlessly, that she noticed so much about him, because such inherent enlightenment came from a strong, abiding regard of the type he shared solely with his mother and brother. They were the only two people with whom he'd ever been close, and they were apt to uncover his thoughts before he grasped them himself, and he was discomfited to have her doing it, too.

  "Yes," he lied. "I was merely wondering how you're feeling."

  "Rather overwhelmed."

  "I expect you are." He smiled, relishing the way she relaxed against him after such a short association, her level of comfort far out of proportion to what it should be. " 'Tis difficult to describe what occurs."

  "I can see that now." She stretched and purred like a contented kitten.

  "And as you grow accustomed to my touch, the passion will overtake you quicker and easier." Suddenly he was terrified that, if he wasn't careful, he'd start babbling like a love-struck moron, unable to stop himself from confessing how different this affair was for him, how much she varied from his past paramours, how .much he treasured those contrasts.

  He didn't want to talk! He didn't want to discuss what had just transpired! He simply wanted to purge himself of these inexplicable urges and wrongful impulses.

  So he kissed her. Madly. Passionately. His lips, tongue, teeth, sparred with hers in a torrid dance that frazzled his intellect and stretched his tattered nerves to the breaking

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  point. He couldn't help but hope that if he persisted long enough, thoroughly enough, some of these disturbing responses would abate.

  While he played with her mouth, her hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, down his back, until she boldly found his buttocks and spurred him closer. He burned with an out-of-control fire, as his hips began thrusting, and their attempts at joining were so furious he could barely discern that fabric was serving as a barrier.

  He set himself to her breasts, fondling and pinching at the swollen, raw nipples until she was panting and writhing anew, then he burrowed under her chin and traced a sizzling trail down her neck, her bosom, until he was sucking against her once more.

  "James .. ." She sighed on a ragged breath. "James ... no, I can't go there again."

  "You will, just for me," he declared, his own breathing unsteady, his voice sounding as though it belonged to someone else.

  His lips closed over the extended tip, and her back arched, even as her legs were spreading to welcome him. He accepted her invitation, sinking his fingers to her moist folds, and as he continued to labor at her breasts, he tugged her drawers down her thighs, over her ankles.

  Finally, she was naked, and he scorchingly scrutinized every luscious detail.

  Her skin was creamy smooth, her stomach flat, her shape curvaceously tempting, the hair decorating her mound a cushy pile of blond. She was flawless, radiant, enchanting, and for now she was his and his alone, to do with as he pleased.

  He moved over her, covering her with his body. "You are so beautiful," he murmured through gritted teeth. "Made for fucking. Made for me. God, I want you. . . ."

  At a perilous crossroads, he desperately needed to focus on something besides his heedless drive for alleviation at all costs.

  He edged his cock away from the cushion of her sex,

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  and he kissed down her stomach, flicking into her navel, along the tender, lower part of her abdomen. Her stomach muscles clenched with each movement. Then his enthusiastic tongue found her pussy, and he dipped inside, parting her, sampling her wet, blazing center.

  "James, I can't. . . . I'm not ready...." She tried to protest, but her body recognized what it craved, and her legs widened farther.

  He paused, raising up from his precarious perch. "You trust me, don't you?"

  "You know I do."

  "Then lie back and close your eyes. Don't think!" He threw her earlier command back at her. "Just feel." Refusing to be denied, he licked across her clit, slowly and scrupulously torturing her with every blasted second of the outrageous caress.

  "Oh, my Lord. . . ." She fell against the pillows. Her fingers clasped the bedcovers, as he buried himself in the sweet haven.

  She smelled like heaven; she tasted better. Her individual musk was an aroma that cast its wily spell, an irresistible bewitchment that only he could detect. He meticulously explored, examining, experimenting, revering, probing her inner depths until her desire flared once again, spiraling in her quest for surcease from torment.

  Resolved to show no mercy, he tunneled his hands under her knees and reached for her breasts, manipulating them roughly while his tongue settled on her, the force of his contact burgeoning in proportion to how strenuously she grappled for release. When he had her entire being crying out for emancipation from anguish, he sucked at her clit, instantly throwing her into her second orgasm.

  From the cry that erupted, and the tension that coursed through her, it was obviously ten times more powerful than the first. She fought to escape the conflagration, but he had her pinned in place, luxuriating in the chance to ride out the storm with her.

  Gradually, the potent sensations relented, her muscles

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  relaxed, she eased against the mattress, and he kissed up her stomach, her cleavage, until he was stretched out along her side.

  "How do you do that?" she asked, gasping.

  Teasingly, he inquired, "I take it you're satisfied with my performance?"

  "I'm not saying." She elbowed him in the ribs. "Not when you're already much too sure of yourself in these situations."

  "I'm very good at what I do."

  "Oh, you arrogant man!" she scolded, but she was laughing. She shifted around. "If you ever decide to indulge yourself in such a fashion again, and I am mad enough to contend I don't want you to, I expect you to ignore me. I demand that you have your way with me."

  "As you wish, my dear lady."

  Daringly, she took his hand and placed it, palm down, between her breasts, where even now, long after the event had ended, he could still sense her elevated pulse. "My heart may quit beating."

  "I doubt that." He chuckled. "Only the very aged, or infirm, ever expire from carnal joy."

  She made as if to sit up, but her limbs wouldn't cooperate. "My bones have turned to mush. I can't move."

  "You don't have to." He turned her and spooned himself along her backside, one arm under her head, the other across her waist. "Just rest for a few minutes."

  Being cruel without realizing it, she cuddled her shapely ass against his groin, and his erect phallus cried out in misery. Holding her tightly, he wallowed in a single, languid flex against the cleft of her bottom. Then he clenched his teeth and strove to focus his mind on somewhere far away.

  "You're still hard." She sounded surprised.

  "Very much so." She endeavored to roll over, but he wouldn't let her. In his stressed condition, he couldn't bear any searching assessment.

  After a lengthy silence, she said, "This wasn't very enjoyable for you, was it?"

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  A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest. "Love," he murmured in her ear, "if it had been any more enjoyable, I'd have died from the doing."

  "But you—"

  "Ssh," he quieted her. " 'Tis no matter."

  " 'Tis to me."

  She finally had her way, rotating just enough to look him in the eye. As he'd suspected, her astute appraisal made him feel like a deer trapped in the carriage lamp. Too much bald emotion showed on his face.

  Solemnly, she stated, "I don't like that your experience was distinct from mine. You gave me so much gratification, but I gave you none in return."

  "My gratification came from yours."

  "But you would have liked it more if you'd spilled your seed. Am I correct?"

  "I'm fine, Abby," he lied, even as his cock throbbed, his balls ached.

  "I'd like to learn how to please you," she said earnestly. "You could teach me
. There must be some method of bringing you comfort......"

  He stole a quick kiss then returned her to her side. "We'll talk about it."

  "Maybe at our next meeting?"

  "Perhaps. . . ." He intentionally let the discussion die away. While he would love nothing more to be in her hands, in her mouth, he simply didn't know what might happen if he dropped his trousers. Without a doubt, he'd come like an eager lad, but was she ready for such an event? Was he?

  "I'm so tired. . . ." She stifled a yawn.

  "Close your eyes. I'll watch the clock."

  "I need to be home by five."

  "Plenty of time. I'll wake you."

  "Promise?" she asked, but sleep was promptly taking her.

  "Promise . .." he whispered.

  He cradled her loosely, kissing her shoulder while strok-

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  ing leisurely up and down her hip. With the ebb of passion, the air had cooled, and he pulled one of the blankets over them, wrapping them together in a warm cocoon. Completely at ease, she nestled closer, and his untended, inflated phallus reacted urgently.

  Poor fellow, he reflected. There'd be no relief in this room. But later......

  Instantly he suffered his usual wave of loathing. How could he contemplate his lurid midnight wanderings while she rested in his arms? But considering his unrelieved predicament, what other choice did he have but to seek out some type of mitigation? Quite frankly, he couldn't carry on in the plagued condition she readily inspired.

  Declining to dwell on the negative, he denied himself any opportunity to ruminate on his disgusting character— or lack of it—switching instead to the miraculousness of the present. He was holding her while she slumbered!

  As he listened to her slow, steady breathing, he endeavored to recall if he'd ever lain next to a sleeping woman before. Never with his young wife, certainly. She had insisted on separate bedrooms, and he'd eagerly agreed. The few occasions he'd visited her for marital intercourse, he'd left immediately after, longing to be gone as much as she desired his absence. With his host of other lovers, he always departed shortly after the sexual games had ended merely because he refused to impart the wrong impression by generating the type of intimacy that sleeping together would prompt.

  So ... holding a sleeping woman—make that a sleeping Abby—was a novel experience, one that he was hastily discovering to be most enchanting. She smelled like flowers and soap, like sweat and sex, and he toyed with the soft strands of her hair, the smooth expanse of her naked skin.

  She stirred and mumbled something that sounded very much like, ". . . love you, James .. ."

  Though he wasn't entirely certain that was what she'd said, he pretended it was. At her drowsy words, his heartbeat surged with excitement, and he kissed behind her neck

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  as he mourned a response she could never hear. "Love you, too, Abby."

  Much too swiftly, the hour of five approached, and he could tarry no longer. While he wished he could awaken her with languid embraces, he was still overly titillated, and if he attempted any bed play, they'd never manage to leave on time. With the greatest effort, he forced himself to his feet, and when she sensed his exit, a pretty frown wrinkled her brow.

  Already, he mused, she's used to lying next to me. The perception was as disturbing as it was exhilarating. How he yearned for the freedom to share a bed with her whenever the spirit moved him!

  Even as the disgraceful idea spiraled through his head, he was shaking it away. What foolishness was overtaking him? He had to get a handle on all these fractious flights of fancy before they caused him to do something reckless, something dangerous.

  Silently, he dressed, then tiptoed to the bed and eased down beside her. "Abby ..." he called, but he had to speak her name over and over before she roused.

  "Oh, I was sound asleep. . . ." Her gaze settled on him, fully clothed and prepared to go. 'Time already?"

  "Yes, love." She stretched, and the blanket fell to her waist. Her blond hair was scattered across the pillows, her nipples were beaded into taut peaks, her breasts were marked with abrasions from the stubble of his beard. All in all, she appeared to have been very well loved.

  "I don't want to leave just yet."

  Neither do /, he brooded, but he bit his tongue to keep from saying so. No use lingering. "You mustn't be late, or others will wonder where you've been."

  "I suppose," she said dejectedly.

  Without the least hint of modesty, she sat up and tossed the covers aside, swinging her legs over the edge. Strange, but it seemed as though they'd participated in this kind of moment after a thousand times before. There was no reason for embarrassment or reticence, and surprisingly, he suf-

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  fered no urge to rush out the door as he usually did after spending an afternoon with a lover. Despite the risks, he appreciated the chance to dawdle.

  Lifting her hands high, she groaned as her sore muscles protested. The sight of her—breasts swinging, back arched—was more than one mortal man should be required to behold. His abused phallus refilled and became painfully erect once again.

  "Let's get you arranged," he said, preferring to have her various charms thoroughly hidden before she drove him mad.

  "Where are my things?" She looked lost and confused, much like a young child just awakened from a nap.

  Oh, but she was lovely. Too lovely for the likes of him. He searched through the blankets and found her drawers. "Here," he said, passing them to her.

  She remained unmoving, then smiled up at him and chuckled. "You've cast a spell over me, Mr. Stevens. My arms won't do what I tell them."

  "I'll assist you." He knelt before her and slipped the underwear over her toes. "Up you go," he ordered, helping her to stand. He tugged them to her hips, then tied the string at the front, but not without pausing to kiss her stomach.

  She rifled her fingers through his hair, and it was such a familiar, loving gesture that he glanced up into her eyes, startled at the depth of affection and adoration he observed. For once, he didn't shy away; he let her devotion wash over him like a gentle rain, then he forced the tenderness to conclude by reaching for her chemise.

  Stockings and garters were next, and as he secured them, he queried, "Are all your undergarments white in color?"

  "Yes."

  "Who sews them?" She blushed at the impertinent question, which was absurd in light of what they'd just accomplished.

  "A woman in the village back home."

  'The tone is too pale on you."

  As she'd never previously had occasion to undress for

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  a man, he was an utter cad to be complaining about what she was wearing under her clothes, especially when she'd had no prior reason for worrying about seductive disrobing. From what he'd viewed so far, her unmentionables were well crafted and attractive enough in a drab, functional sort of way, but when they were alone, he intended that she be at her most captivating. After a little practice, she'd begin to comprehend just how refreshing the appropriate intimate apparel could be.

  "Your skin demands shades that are more striking- That will enhance your hair and eyes. Dark green. Bright red. Perhaps black. I'll think on it and order some things for you. Expect a package."

  "James Stevens! Absolutely not! I'll not have you sending me undergarments!"

  "No one will know," he asserted, "and I'm afraid I'm going to insist."

  She gave him a hard stare. "You certainly can be bossy, and I'm not at all sure I like it. Besides, why are you so determined to shower me with new underwear?"

  He chuckled and ran a thumb across her bottom lip. "Simply because it would make me happy."

  "Oh...."

  "You have the build for the most scandalous attire, so you should outfit yourself in the most provocative styles."

  She placed an affectionate hand on his cheek, then sighed, giving in, accepting his guidance in the matter. "As you wish. I shal
l anticipate receiving something quite shocking."

  He assisted her with the remainder of her ensemble, watching and rendering aid as he'd never done with another lover, for he'd never previously had the inclination. Finally, she was ready. Only then did the appointment become awkward, for neither of them could bear to part. Just that quickly, just that easily, they'd grown used to each other's company. Separation was inconceivable, the stretch of time till their next meeting looming like an eternity.

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  Abby stared at him for a long moment, then admitted, "I'll miss you."

  He prevented himself from responding inanely by smiling and stealing a swift kiss. "The time will pass rapidly"— although he hardly believed it would. He was already wondering how he'd fill his days. And his nights.

  "I've been thinking . . ." she said.

  Though she'd started assuredly, she couldn't complete the sentence, so he nudged her a tad. "About what?"

  "Well, we're scheduled to meet again on Thursday, but on Friday . . ."

  "What about Friday?" Hope surged to the fore.

  "My family will be out of Town. They're leaving around noon, and they won't be back until Saturday evening. There's a party to attend just out of the city—some acquaintance of Jerald's—but I'm not going, so . . ."

  "You could get away," he finished for her. "We could spend the entire night together."

  "Yes."

  He felt like a man who had fallen overboard and was about to be rescued. Wasn't this what he'd coveted? An occasion where he could have her, guide her, teach her? Love her? But even as she threw him a rope, his more rational side was imploring caution. One of them had to keep their teeming relationship under control. He couldn't discipline himself for that many uninterrupted hours, so she'd very likely wind up surrendering her virginity.

  Did she care? Did he?

  He stepped to her and cradled her face in his hands. "Do you comprehend what you're actually suggesting?"

  "Yes. I've not been able to contemplate any other topic."

  "If we engaged in such a lengthy tryst, my masculine drives would eventually have to be assuaged."