by Lisa Berne
“There’s just one thing.”
He paused. His face was so close to her own, and she fancied she could see fire kindling again in the sapphire of his eyes. “Yes, Katherine?”
Reckless. “Are you going to kiss me like you did in the ruins of Babylon?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Good.”
“Hurry up then.”
“As you wish,” he said, and brought his mouth to hers.
In a heartbeat she could tell that it wasn’t at all like that brief salute from before. No, it was delightful: full of delight. Brimming with delight. Hugo’s mouth was hard, sure, persuasive, entrancing—all of this, and all at once. She felt her own lips parting, eagerly yielding, welcoming with a low guttural sound in her throat the warmth, the wetness of his tongue. In her mouth. In her.
My, she thought in a dim, dreamy sort of way, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s very sure. This is good. He’s good.
Very, very good . . .
One of her hands lifted, groping, found Hugo’s muscled shoulder and slid up to the sturdy column of his neck and then around to his nape, and up, into his thick short hair, gripping it, gripping him, to bring him yet closer as she kissed him back, her own tongue meeting his in wet, warm, intimate collusion.
Had she really believed that she and Germaine de la Motte had reached the height of passion with their furtive kisses?
She would have laughed but there was no time for that. “Do come here,” she muttered against his mouth, her hand sliding down, urgently, to his shoulder again, tugging at him, and obligingly he brought himself full upon her. Chest to chest. His body heavy upon hers. His—well—manhood hard against her thigh. Sublime.
“Am I crushing you?” Hugo’s voice was muffled, as he was speaking into the fat, untidy, half-loosened plait of her hair.
“No.”
“Good.” He licked at her neck, from the base of her throat up toward her jaw in a long, slow stroke, wet and sensuous, making her shiver.
“You’re cold?” he asked her.
“My God, no.”
“Good,” he repeated, and found her mouth again with his own, kissed her hard and deeply, kissed her until she was a hot puddle of wax, melting, spreading. Languorous. But still so hungry. Greedy. She could have gone on like this for much longer, perhaps an hour, perhaps all night, maybe forever, but then Hugo, without hurry, shifted again, so that he lay on his side, his body close to hers. “So, Katherine?”
Dazedly she replied, “So what?”
“Better than before?”
Now she did laugh. “Much better.”
“Excellent. And now . . .”
“Yes?” she said, breathless.
“Could you sit up for a moment?”
“Yes.” She did, and Hugo did too, and took hold of the rumpled hem of her nightgown. Politely he asked:
“May I?”
“By all means,” she answered, just as politely. She helped him by tugging the fabric from underneath her, and helped him when it got tangled up in her hair, and laughed again when finally she was rid of it and he tossed it aside without a second glance. Now she was naked, too, and felt with a galvanic, exciting shock cool air everywhere upon her bare skin. Now she was free. Her hair, she realized, had come unbound and tumbled about her face and over her shoulders in a mad nimbus of curls. She shoved them back and lay down again, turning her head to look up at Hugo with eager expectancy. She said:
“Well?”
He was silent, and in the dark intimacy of the crimson bed she watched him looking at her, saw his eyes travel from her face to her breasts, to her hips and legs and in between them. “Lovely,” Hugo said at last, his voice a little ragged. “Katherine, you’re so lovely. I can see you now.”
“See me now?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t, before. All those things on you,” was all he said, then he lay down too, he sent himself lower, trailed his tongue around the soft yielding flesh of her breast, circled the hard tip of it, and she jerked as a kind of willing thrill shot through her, voluptuous, here, there, everywhere. And then his mouth was fully upon her breast, suckling hard, even as his hand found the other, cupped and caressed it with such assurance, such cunning, that a wild flutter of pleasure sparked in the very core of her and she groaned out loud in a way Hugo seemed to like a great deal, for he gave a little laugh, and brought his hand away from her breast, let it slide in a slow deliberate movement down to her belly, playing along its gentle rounded rise, sweeping along the flaring curve of her hip and slowly, slowly, with a tantalizing lack of speed, into the soft hair, the tender, sensitive flesh between her legs, where he stroked her, suckling her still with his mouth as his fingers continued to stroke, to find the places that lit her up with fiery sensation:
“Here?” he said, his deep voice sounding softly against her ear, almost like a caress itself.
“Yes,” she gasped.
A little later: “And here?”
“Yes. But . . . oh, higher. A bit higher. Can you?”
“Yes. Like this?”
“Y-yes.”
“More?” he said softly.
“Oh, Hugo, yes . . .”
“Yes,” he said, “yes.” And then, a little later, “What about this?”
She jerked, and gasped again. “Yes. Oh, Hugo, yes.” Her breath came faster, she panted, muttered, “Oh, Hugo, please,” and he seemed to know, now, precisely what she meant, and went on stroking her and touching her, without pause, as if effortlessly, as if there was nothing else in the world he would rather be doing. And so Katherine gave herself up to the light, the joy in her body illuminating her, in every part of her; deepening, intensifying, until—just when it seemed she couldn’t contain this wild, overflowing goodness for a single second more—an ecstatic convulsion took hold of her.
Her limbs went taut, she flung back her head, and she cried out.
Chapter 10
Katherine’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. Her face framed by dark curls in what seemed to Hugo the most glorious disarray. She looked so . . .
He stared.
She looked so happy.
Seeing it made him happy also. He said, still softly:
“Well?”
She opened her eyes, deep, dark, shining, and looked up into his own. She smiled; he caught a glimpse of white teeth, pearl-like. “Well what?”
“Did I surprise you?”
“Oh, yes. But . . .”
“But?”
Katherine ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, pink against red, and Hugo remembered how he had once hungered, hopelessly, to taste her cherry-red mouth. And now he had. And would, he thought, again. He felt in himself a slow roll of pleasure and lust.
She said, “But we’re not done, are we, Hugo?”
And then he smiled too. “I hope not.”
“So now what?”
“This, if you like.” Hugo lifted himself up and over her; he was hard, and achingly ready, and gave a groan of his own when Katherine murmured, “Yes, I do like,” slid silky, fleshy thighs up and along his own legs, opening herself to him. He had just enough presence of mind to say:
“There may be some pain for you. I’m sorry.”
“A lot?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been with a virgin before.”
“I’m your first?” She seemed pleased to hear it, and gripped him more firmly with her legs. He groaned again. Christ, but he was so close, he was nearly there, inside her . . . “Yes,” he managed to reply between clenched teeth, managing, somehow, to keep himself in check.
Katherine was looking up at him, rather wonderingly, he thought. “A first time for us both, each in our own way,” she said, and he saw how onto her face came again that same look of wanting, of wildness. Rapture. Her eyes were shining like stars on a dark night. She said:
“I’m ready.”
“Thank God,” he said, with gen
uine reverence, and brought himself into her, within her, at last.
There was, at first, a resistance within her, unpleasant, sharp, a last and literal remnant of a girlhood she was glad to leave behind. Hugo was inside her now, taking her with him to a new place; filling her, moving with gentleness, carefulness, until finally the barrier was gone. Katherine shuddered, and he paused. She sensed how difficult it was for him to do that, the extraordinary self-control it required.
“Are you all right, Katherine?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I go on?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
And he began to move again.
A ribbon of thought danced across her mind. This, this, was better than any daydream, infinitely better than a fantasy. Far better than orchestrating—commandeering—the scene in her head, for here she yielded up that absolute control, here she gave herself over to Hugo, and together they were creating this . . . oh, it had to be called magic.
And then the thought was gone, just as the pain, too, went away, and there was only sensation. All newness. Hugo: she was moving in concert with Hugo, her arms around him, her breasts pressed roughly against the warm skin, the hard muscled expanse of his chest, the difference between their bodies profound—shocking—wonderful.
With a little laugh she lifted herself up to receive him yet more fully; fiercely she gripped him with her arms, with her legs. Wonderful.
Hugo was moving more quickly now. “Yes,” he said, in his deep voice a kind of beautiful harshness, the side of his face pressed hard against her, as intimate as a kiss, “oh Christ, yes—”
A thrust—a final thrust—another groan seemed wrenched from his throat. And then—he was done, he slowly withdrew from her, but only a little ways. He slid his arm underneath her shoulders and pulled her close. Willingly did she lie against him, her head just below his collarbone, both of them damp with sweat.
“Christ,” Hugo said again, still breathing rather hard, his expression, she saw, quite beatific.
She smiled. Thought, said, nothing for a little while, simply lay there. Simply being. Listening mindlessly to the steady beat of his heart. Then: “Hugo.”
“Yes, Katherine?”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Did you like it?”
“Need you ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
He drew aside a clump of long tangled curls and kissed her forehead. “Yes. I liked it. Quite a lot. But—did you?”
“Couldn’t you tell?” she asked in surprise.
“Well, I thought so. Hoped so. But I don’t believe you came?”
“Came? What does that mean?”
“You know—when I was touching you, before. You came.”
“Came,” Katherine repeated dreamily. “Such a plain little word for such a—such a large event. ‘Explosion’ might be better, but it hardly seems poetic enough.” She trailed her fingers across his shoulder and down along the hard masculine line of his sternum. Oh, the feel of him. She went on:
“On the other hand, perhaps ‘came’—‘to come’—does work, because it’s a verb, which signifies action, and also in the sense that one is transported to another plane. One comes somewhere else. Attains another state of being. Which reminds me.” She slid her hand further down, along his flat stomach, taut with muscle, then below, and heard with pleasure his indrawn breath. “Different now,” she remarked, stroking him, felt it stir. “Even though the term ‘vital parts’ is a euphemism, I must say it’s a good one.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Oh yes, it’s a compliment. So vital. What do you call it?”
“Call it?” He sounded a little startled.
“I mean what is it called, this part of you?”
“Well, the technical term is ‘penis,’ but we men tend to use more colorful language. And by ‘colorful’ I mean vulgar.”
“Like what?”
Hugo laughed. Never in his experience with women had he lain with them afterwards and talked about the vocabulary of sexual experience. Another box, a little more of Katherine, so sweetly, charmingly, revealed. “Oh, cock, prick, roger, flute, sugar stick, to name just a few.”
She laughed too. “Very colorful indeed.” And then her hand slid lower. “And these?”
A distraction, a fine one, but he was able to answer: “Testicles if you’re feeling technical. Otherwise, ballocks. Tallywags. Baubles.”
“Also colorful. Shakespeare,” Katherine said, moving her hand back up, to slide along his penis, cock, flute, whatever, “made a lot of jokes about such things.”
“Oh?” said Hugo politely, though his thoughts were, in fact, drifting elsewhere. “Like what?”
“Oh, ‘dying’ for ‘coming,’ ‘my tongue in your tail,’ ‘arise, arise,’ which, incidentally, is what you’re doing right now. Can you do it again so soon?”
“By God, yes,” he answered, turning to her. “But can you? Do you want to?”
“Yes.” Katherine slid a warm, plump thigh over his hip and brought them groin to groin. “And—” She gave a little, pleased-sounding hiss as he, in turn, ran his hand down her back and around the curves of a gloriously full bottom. “And what are some of your colorful terms for it? For the act?”
“Screw,” he promptly said, “tup, knock, dock, hump, grind, shag, wap.”
She laughed again. “That actually sounds a little poetic.”
“If you say so,” Hugo replied, and brought his mouth to hers, lightly, very lightly, nipping with his teeth at that full, tempting lower lip, that made him think of sweet juice, succulent flesh, and everything that was delicious and good in this world. She made a noise, a hum, a sigh, tightening her leg over his hip to snug him closer, said, then, in a throaty little voice, “Knock, dock, tup, hump.”
He grinned. “Now I hear the poetry.”
“The words just needed a little rearranging, that’s all. Hugo,” Katherine went on, whispering, her hand going down between them to take hold of his roger, flute, sugar stick, that was now so very hard again, “what you said before. A woman can come when a man’s inside her?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s do that.”
“Yes,” he said, “let’s,” and then there were no more words, just movement, a primal rhythm, a deep understanding between their bodies, a dance: and later, rather later, Katherine, beneath him, her hair around her in that wonderful, wanton froth of curls, said on a gasp:
“Oh, Hugo, you were right.”
“I’m glad, Kate,” he said, and kissed her hard, and then he, too, came, came with such an intense rush of pleasure that after, when he was able to think again, it occurred to him that Shakespeare might have been correct, that maybe it was a little like dying, to feel oneself all shattered to bits, albeit in a very good way, and that maybe Katherine was onto something, too, by calling it an explosion.
Interesting things, words.
He laughed, wrapped his arms around her, and fell asleep.
She dreamed. Who was that beautifully dressed, gorgeously coiffed woman, ascending with stunning grace the white marble steps to the Penhallow townhouse? She looked familiar, with her dark eyes and curly dark hair. But why did she look so worried? Why did she look so sad?
I’ve forgotten something. I’ve lost something I need.
She was flanked on both sides by admiring crowds of people, bowing and curtsying as she went past. Some even prostrated themselves before her. But she didn’t care about that, it wasn’t real.
She knocked on the townhouse door, which was made, apparently, of solid gold. The sunlight glittering on it hurt her eyes.
The door swung open, and old Mrs. Penhallow stood on the threshold.
I’ve forgotten something, but I don’t remember what it is. It’s something very important.
You’ve got to find it yourself, the old lady said, you won’t find it here, then shut the door in the young woman’s face.
Morning: a new day, filled with possibility. Hugo looked at Katherine, who slept still, curled up on her side, long dark lashes shielding her eyes, the bedclothes drawn up to her chin. He wanted to wake her, wanted to—how had she so charmingly said it?—yes: he wanted to have her again. He thought, also, that she might want to have him again. Knock, dock, tup, hump . . . By God, but last night had been—
A good word for it would be “amazing.”
He saw, however, looking at her, the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Recalled how strained, how tired she had appeared all yesterday. Let her sleep, he thought, it was very early.
Quietly Hugo got out of bed, dressed, and left their bedchamber. He was hungry. Whistling a little under his breath, he went lightly downstairs and toward the breakfast-parlor, confident that there he would find a nice, hearty meal awaiting him. He passed a servant in a hallway, said, “Good morning,” and reflected, cheerfully, that it really was. Maybe even a great one.
A gentle tapping on the door woke her, and at first Katherine had no idea where she was. Oh God, had Céleste come to wake her already? Make her go downstairs and be bored to death?
But it couldn’t be—Céleste always hung over her, saying in that sour way of hers, Wake up, mademoiselle, wake up.
So who was at the door? What bad thing had she done now?
Tap tap tap.
Katherine’s eyes flew open. Crimson bed-hangings. The high, old-fashioned bed. Not Brooke House, but Surmont Hall. Alarmed, still groggy, she called out, “What is it?”
The door opened, a maidservant came in, bobbed a curtsy. “Please, ma’am, I’m to tell you that breakfast is ready.”
Breakfast? Quickly Katherine looked over at Hugo’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there. He’d probably been gone for hours. And he’d let her sleep . . .
A warm feeling came over her then, like a wave advancing on the shore. Last night, oh, last night . . . it had been heavenly . . . And Hugo had told her she was lovely . . . and here she was, with no idea where her dowdy nightgown had gone . . . how wonderful . . .
