by Cheryl Holt
He ached to brand her, to mark her with this night of ardor. Though it was wrong, and he knew it to be, he had to be the one to relieve her of her maidenhood. No matter where she ended up, or with whom, he wanted her to always remember that he had been the first. "I want to make love to you. In all ways, I want to make you mine."
"Oh, James ..." she said kindly, resting a loving hand on his cheek, "I am yours in all ways. Surely, you realize that?"
His heart swelled, his body surged with desire. He came over her, covering her, pressing her down, taking her with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He moved to her neck, chest, breasts. The fabric of her outfit was still damp from where he'd suckled earlier. He slowly untied the lace at the front, baring pale, creamy flesh that was stark and arousing against the dark black. Dipping under the edge, he hunted until he found her nipple. Free of silk, skin to skin, he nipped and played.
He took the other breast. Laving it. Milking it. Squeezing and sucking until, of their own accord, her legs wid-
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ened. Her feet went around his thighs to hook behind his legs, anchoring him closer. Her cleft was exposed, shielded only by the black, and his cock stroked along it. The shiny material was tantalizingly cool, yet heated. The cloth was moistened, her desire seeping through the thin layer, imploring its removal.
"Touch me there," she pleaded. "As you did before. . . ."
With one finger, he slid under the hem, detected her core, glided inside. She was slick and saturated, dripping. "Like this?" he asked.
"Yes . . ." she groaned.
"And like this?" he asked again, two more fingers joining the first.
"James, please . . ."
He flicked across her clit. "Come for me," he ordered. "Come now." And she did, rushing into his hand, tensing as she cried out his name and squirmed in ecstasy. When she finally returned to him, he had the buttons opened on the bottom of her pantie, her privates revealed for his inspection. Her sex was weeping, her lips swollen, her curly hairs wet and slippery.
Kneeling between her smooth thighs, he bent forward and licked at her love juice, implanting it on his lips, permanently embedding her taste. He toyed with her until she was twisting and turning anew. She was distended, raw, unduly stimulated from the aftereffects of her initial orgasm, but he didn't care. He fucked her with his tongue, feeling her tension grow, her torso tightening, her cleft condensing.
He went to her clit, sucking at her. The tiny bud was already enlarged and anxious for his renewed thoroughness.
"No, James." Her agony was readily apparent. " 'Tis too soon ... I couldn't possibly . . ."
" 'Tis never too soon to do it again," he asserted. He rose, reaching for her hips, centering himself. His hand on his erect cock, he placed the tip in her dampened folds.
"Look at me!" he commanded.
"I'm not ready," she declared, appearing apprehensive,
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but he refused to give her the opportunity to change her mind. They were too far along, and he'd warned her. It had been her decision to play with this fire, and there could be no going back. He would have her!
"But you are ready, love," he advised gently, firmly. He pushed in the blunt end. Pushed farther. Partially buried, at her barrier, the slightest forward movement would have him immersed to the hilt. He paused, draped her legs over his thighs.
"I'm frightened ... of a sudden...."
"Don't be. I'll be with you " He steadied her as
sweat pooled on his brow. "Look at me," he repeated fiercely. "Keep looking at me." With that, he flexed and entered, and her cleft was so eager for him that he hardly sensed the tear, yet she strained furiously against the turbulent invasion. Her back bowed up off the bed; tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.
"It hurts," she whispered.
"Just for a moment. 'Twill abate directly."
He settled his weight, covering her again, sheathed in her narrow tunnel. Her virgin's blood and sexual flux conspired to produce an ocean of sizzling sensation. His cock floated in it, was scalded by it, begging to thrust, but he restrained himself, holding her and kissing her. Delectably, tenderly. She tasted like wine and his semen, and he molded his lips to hers so she could experience the musky tang of her sex mingled with his own.
Gradually, she accepted him. She mellowed, and her arms came around him, her fingers caressing up and down his back, his signal to recommence.
"This is our dance, my lady." He pushed in as far as he could go, pulled out, pushed in. "Let me show you the steps."
He was not solicitous of her virginal state, Probing, exploring, never sinking as deep as he needed to be, he simply could not get close enough, and she had to understand, from the very first, that this was how it would always be between them.
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They would never have the soft intercourse of new lovers, the tepid joinings, the lackluster connection or half interest in fulfillment. There would only ever be this frantic, maddening drive to completion, this desperate search for culmination that, upon release, would leave them hungry for more.
He pounded into her, his thighs slapping against her, his hips meeting hers with a frenzied desperation. They were sweating, hearts pounding, breathing labored, muscles taut, winging toward their mutual goal. He reached between them and rifled his thumb across her.
" 'Tis too much, James . .." She arched into his hand, her interior walls clenching around him. "... too much . . ."
"Yes . . . too much," he agreed. "Always too much with you." She was at the edge; so was he. "Follow me, love," he implored. "Come now......" With his torturing of her nipple, her clit, she exploded into the heavens.
"James ..." she called from a long distance. Her tight pussy was luring his seed, and it swelled to the crest in a blistering torrent, so he plunged once, again, again, then, using every ounce of his fortitude, he jerked away and spilled himself on her abdomen, his scorching come washing over her sweltering skin.
He collapsed onto her, his semen a sticky residue binding them together. The air was heavy with the aroma of sweat and sex and, as his arms went around her, her shoulders were shaking, the heat of her tears seared his chest.
"Why are you crying, love?" he asked, sampling them, kissing them away.
She was gazing up at him in awe. " 'Twas just so beau
tiful. I didn't know......"
"No, you couldn't." He smiled and rolled to the side, cuddling her close. "Ssh .. .'tis all right," he crooned. Comforting a distraught woman for the first time, he noted it to be an extraordinary circumstance.
"Hold me close," she entreated. "Don't let go."
"I won't," he avowed. "I'll never let go."
* * *
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Barbara stirred on the rigid seat of her rented hansom, rubbing at the small of her back. The lengthy night of patient observation had taken its toll, and there was no comfort to be had. She didn't have a timepiece with her so she could only guess at the hour, but with the sun so high in the sky, and commerce so fully under way, it had to be nearing nine o'clock.
Outside, the horse shook itself, rattling the carriage, and the driver murmured something to the pitiful animal. The beast was ready for the warmth of his barn, but the driver wouldn't leave until Barbara gave the word. With the money she'd slipped him earlier, he'd said he'd be happy to tarry till Christmas if need be.
She peeked toward the anonymous row house down the block. It was nondescript, no better, worse, or different than any of the others, so nothing about it provided any indication of who lived there, but if she was forced to remain for days—for weeks—she would learn the identity of the woman who was sheltered inside with James.
The previous day, she'd fussed and stewed, wondering why Madame LaFarge was late with her gift. In case James had deigned to visit, Barbara had wanted to be wearing the garment. But as the hours had passed, she'd finally comprehended that she'd been played for a fool. Clearly, there would be no
delivery from the modiste, no present from James made especially for her.
Like a silly schoolgirl, she'd stood in LaFarge's shop, so enamored with her personal success where James was concerned that she'd never imagined he could have a second lover about whom she wasn't aware.
Once the shock had worn off, she'd regrouped. She'd begun by journeying to his club, lingering outside until she observed him sneaking out the back. So intent was he on his amorous rendezvous that he'd never so much as looked over his shoulder, so the driver had easily tailed him to his destination.
After he'd covertly slipped inside, she'd hoped to also catch a glimpse of the woman who would join him, but
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when no one arrived, she gradually realized that his lover was already closeted with him, so Barbara had determined to wait them out. Torturing herself, she'd sat in the cold, dark coach, watching as a lamp was lit in an upstairs bedroom, as an occasional shadow passed the window. The torment had grown worse when die lamp had been blown out and James hadn't departed. The understanding that he was to spend the entire night with this unknown paramour, this adversary who vied for his attention, had caused her to simmer with hatred.
He had another woman! The blackguard!
Whoever she was, Barbara was seething. James had been cuddled with her now for a good share of sixteen hours! He'd come to her in the late afternoon, fucked her copiously, slept with her, and, by allowing her to pass the dawn in his arms, he'd favored her with that most precious of moments, the one Barbara had always intended to reserve for herself alone.
Some other nameless, faceless woman had awakened by his side!
He had never slept with a woman before; Barbara knew this with absolute certainty. When he stooped to selecting a lover, they went to her bed—never his own—they fucked, he went home. If his partner so much as raised the topic of his remaining, he was never interested, and any woman stupid enough to press never saw him again.
Which only meant one thing: He had formed a dangerous attachment. It was a condition Barbara simply couldn't tolerate.
"But who?" she muttered to herself, tapping a manicured nail against the cheap leather seat. "Who could it be?"
Suddenly the door to the house opened and James walked out, looking freshly groomed and neatly attired, with no visible hint that he'd just endured hours of significant debauchery. Only the light in his eyes and the spring in his step gave him away. The bastard was fairly skipping with joy.
He proceeded down the three stairs, ready to hurry away,
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but not before stopping to gaze longingly toward the upper window. His unseen partner was hiding behind the drapes, and James actually had the audacity to kiss his fingertips, then send it sailing in the direction of his new darling. At witnessing the sight, Barbara's rage was so great that she had to grip the squab, lest she jump out and accost the two of them.
Patience, she counseled. Patience and planning would see her triumphant in the end.
James left, but she didn't need to follow. She already knew how he spent his days. He'd return to the house he shared with his whore of a mother and his sleazy, wayward brother. There, he'd doze for a few hours, then he'd make his way to his club, where he'd count the previous evening's receipts.
Now she need only learn how he truly spent his nights— when he didn't spend them with her.
Many minutes later, the door opened again, and a woman emerged. Slender, petite, blond, she was dressed expensively in a fine wool cloak and fancy slippers. She fiddled with the key in the lock; then, as luck would have it, she turned toward the street. The idiotic female had her hood down, and she glanced up toward the mist that was falling. Smiling, inhaling the fresh air, she had an expression of pure bliss on her face.
Barbara stared in shock, then started to laugh. Hard, then harder.
"Abigail Weston!" she hissed. So... the straitlaced, boring spinster had taken a lover.
Barbara thought of Abigail's pompous, self-righteous brother, Jerald, with his prissy public manners and private sexual oddities. Of his wife, Margaret, with her holier-than-thou attitudes and preachy morals. Of the younger Weston sister, Caroline, the pristine little virgin who would make the grandest match of the year.
This was too good to be true!
Under all their lofty, exalted noses, Abigail was carrying on with the most despicable, deplorable of men. A thousand
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questions flew into her mind: How had they met? How had they become involved? How had this dragged on?
Even as the queries rushed past, she shook them off. None of Abigail's recent association with James mattered a whit. Only the future counted—the one she wouldn't have with him, for Barbara wouldn't permit some simpering noblewoman to ruin her chances.
What would Jerald and Margaret think once they discovered what was happening? And what would be the most delightful method of telling them?
She tapped on the roof, ready for home, where she could formulate Abigail's downfall over a hot bath.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Abigail walked through the doors of the theater house, clutching Edward Stevens's arm. The Saturday night crowd of patrons was so tightly packed into the small entrance that, if she let go, she was afraid they would become separated. Across the foyer, she could see the stairs leading up to the box seats, but being a petite person, she didn't know if she could successfully maneuver the route by herself.
She glanced over her shoulder. Charles and Caroline had been right behind them, but already they were divided by a wall of people. Through several pairs of legs, she could just make out the pink flounce on her sister's skirt. Charles was a responsible young man, however, so he'd escort Caroline safely through the crush, and they'd eventually be reunited, although Abigail could barely stand the thought of the coming sequestration in Edward's box. She was desperate for some privacy!
Had it only been a few hours earlier that she'd been with James? The difference between that private encounter and this unrestricted public spectacle was so striking that she almost couldn't believe the magical rendezvous had truly happened.
Yet it had, and she couldn't find the temerity to be sorry. Such delirious joy was meant to be indulged. She ached to shout her rapture to the world, instead of ruminating in this stifling, suffocating stillness. If she didn't soon give voice to her exhilaration, she just might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.
Couldn't everyone tell? How could they all gaze upon her and not perceive the changes?
Caroline had nearly stumbled upon her secret the prior morning, as Abigail had been reveling in the look and feel of the undergarments James had sent. Oh, how she'd been
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dying to confess her relationship with James. She was no longer an unlovable woman, a spinster, a sister, a boring female with no distinguishable life of her own.
She had been created for one purpose and one purpose alone—to love James—and she didn't want to think about anything else, or talk about anything else or do anything else but sit in her room and reminisce about the glories that had been unearthed in their hideaway.
When this last-minute invitation had arrived from Charles, asking them to attend the new play that was all the rage, how she'd yearned to stay at home. With all the excitement of a woman headed for the gallows, she'd primped and preened, preparing her person and calming her mind, but nothing could focus her on the evening of gregarious entertainment.
She had been with James! In every way imaginable, he had claimed her and taken her for his own! How could she be expected to perform these ludicrous civic functions when her entire life had been so completely disordered?
She could still smell him on her skin, taste him on her tongue, feel the whisper of his lips against her mouth, her breasts. Bruised and sore, she had scratches across her stomach, and nipples that were suckled raw, the tender skin inside her thighs abraded by his rough beard. Her cleft was in the wo
rst condition, the delicate, virginal area having received James's undivided, strenuous attention for untold numbers of couplings. With muscles cramped from all that arching and straining, several body parts cried out in agony whenever she stirred, reminding her, over and over again, of her wanton, decadent behavior.
How gratifying the experience had been! He'd incited her to the pinnacle of passion—with his hands, his tongue, his phallus—so perfectly, totally, and on so many occasions. Turning her and riding her, using, teaching, caring, he'd overwhelmed her with his body, his character, his adoration. The best episode had occurred early in the morning, when she'd wakened him slowly, toying with him and employing all the techniques he'd managed to impart. As
2l6 Cheryl Holt
he'd finally entered her, she'd been painfully inflamed, and he'd moved languidly and sweetly, the emotion flaring between them so powerfully that they'd both had tears in their eyes at the conclusion.
What was she going to do?
She abhorred all these people who insisted on socializing! Their inane chatter was driving her mad! She'd like to snap her fingers and make them disappear so that she could be alone with her thoughts and memories.
Her mind drifted back to the current task—proceeding through the crowd-—and they were temporarily stalled. A large man was blocking their path, and in order to move around him, Edward shifted them to the side. Where... they came face-to-face with James.
She inhaled sharply. In surprise. In joy. In fear.
He was immaculately attired in dress blacks, a snowy white shirt, with perfectly tied cravat. His hair had been swept off his forehead, leaving his stark beauty plain for all to witness. They stood so closely that her skirts tangled about his legs and shoes. She could behold the gold flecks in his eyes, a spot where he'd nicked himself shaving. There, just below his collar, was the edge of a bite mark she'd dispensed.
Her pulse was pounding, her breathing suddenly ragged. She'd never expected to meet him here! Like this!
