To Haveand To Hold

by Patricia Gaffney

  Her lashes fluttered closed; smiling, she pressed his fingers to her lips one by one. “I missed you. I thought you’d never come home.”

  They shared a soft kiss, slow and welcoming, and he thought about how lucky he was. Because this woman was his, and she had been waiting for him. He let his hand drift down the silky skin of her throat to the collar of her dress. “How does this unfasten?”

  Her eyes flew open. They widened in surprise, then warmed with excitement, and her smile cast a spell over him. “It . . . hooks. In the back.” And she bent her head to make it easy for him.

  “Pretty dress,” he murmured, undoing the little hooks at the nape of her neck. “Pretty lady.” Truly he had come home.

  “I thought of you all the time,” she confided in a whisper. “Of this. Sometimes . . . I feel as if my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to you.”

  “Then I must be careful to take very, very good care of it.” It wasn’t a sexual overture; he meant it literally, a kind of vow. His hands were almost reverent as he slipped the bodice of her gown over her shoulders and gently pulled her arms out of the tight sleeves. “Look at you,” he breathed, beguiled by the smooth swell of her bosom under her dainty white chemise. He ran his fingers along the ribbon at the frilly top, listening to her slow breathing. A stray sunbeam gilded her shoulder. He put his lips there, and murmured, “How lovely to touch you like this. Do you like the way the sun feels on your skin?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the breeze.”

  “Yes.”

  “And my mouth . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  She smelled like the lilac soap he’d given her for a present. He eased the shift over her shoulders so he could look at her breasts. Ah, so pretty. He told her so, kissing them softly, circling the nipples with his palms.

  She whispered, “I’m drowning,” pink-cheeked, her head angled to the side, languid as a heavy flower.

  He took a kiss from her parted lips. “Mmm, sweet,” he said, “like a sip of honey,” and she sighed, smiling, stroking his chest. “Rachel.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Make love with me now.”

  She straighted her neck. “You don’t mean here.”

  “Yes. Here, now.”

  “But what if someone sees?”

  “No one ever comes here except McCurdy, and he’s gone for the day. There, on the grass beside those tall lilies. Wouldn’t you like to lie there with me?”

  She looked at the spot he was pointing to, her fingertips on her lips, thinking it over. He was in love with her serious profile, the heavy sweep of black lashes and the strong nose, the contrast in her pretty skin of ivory and faint pink. She turned back to him and smiled. “Yes. All right,” she said, and her low voice thrummed with eagerness.

  They knelt together in the cool grass, the lilies nodding at their shoulders, yellow and coral, half closed now. The odor of flowers was everywhere and the air was as soft as a whisper, as soft as Rachel’s skin. Swallows cut through the sky over their heads; in the park, crows called from bough to bough. Sebastian unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off along with his coat, all in one fast movement, smiling at his own excitement. Rachel was slower, more deliberate. Intentionally provocative? The possibility mesmerized him.

  “Shouldn’t we leave something on?” she mused, fingering her silky chemise.

  “Leave something on?”

  “In case someone comes.”

  The idea had merit, but he wasn’t sure she’d see the point in leaving on only her stockings, or only her shoes. They’d save that erotic refinement for another time. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he challenged, holding her gaze while he unfastened his trousers. The glimmer of amusement in her eyes told him she’d caught the double entendre.

  They came together, still on their knees, clasping each other with glad, impatient hands. He tent her back, kissing her deeply, wanting the thrust of her breasts against him, the round, sleek swell of her buttocks under his hands. They fell to the grass, rolling, both of them avid and intent, locked in a possessive embrace. Her hands were everywhere on him, touching him with a new freedom, an unabashed giving and taking of pleasure that was the essence of seduction. He savored her eagerness—her gift to him; it made all of his to her seem paltry in comparison.

  She pulled him down, urging him with her body, inviting him without shyness. “Now I’m home,” he said when he came into her at last, and she said, “Welcome,” and neither of them smiled at the sentimentality of that, because they felt it too deeply, meant it too literally.

  Wordless, they moved together. The pleasure was raw and shocking, and she was with him, so close, they could’ve been one. Deep kisses, slow, passionate touching. This time, he promised her, holding her tight, giving her the best of himself. This time, darling.

  But she couldn’t let go. Her body was striving, straining for the release she couldn’t allow it. “Give in,” he coaxed, stroking her shallowly, listening to her sighs for clues to her pleasure. She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell him, so he had to ask—“Do you like this? And this?”

  At length he rested, his muscles taut, trembling a little. He kissed her damp, tragic face. “I’m sorry,” she mourned, holding on to him. Smiling, he rolled to his side. “Sorry,” she said again.

  He sat up, eyeing her, thoughtfully stroking her stomach. She looked miserable, sheepish and disappointed. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asked her, and she nodded immediately. “Sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  He found his trousers where he’d flung them and reached into the pocket for his knife. When he opened it, her eyes went wide, not with fear but puzzlement. He grinned. “No, I’m not going to stab you. Sexual inhibition isn’t a capital offense.”

  “Is that what’s wrong with me? Sexual inhibition?”

  He bent to kiss her navel. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

  The edge of the perennial garden bordered their grassy trysting place. Leaning, Sebastian cut one white lily off at the base of its long, thin stalk, then two of its neighbors. Snipping off the tips, he laid the flowers on her breasts, and a whimsical one pointing up between her thighs. She smiled, embarrassed but amused, and he laughed for the sheer pleasure of seeing her smile. Throwing his knife aside, he began to bend the stems all along their crisp stalks, top to bottom, snapping them in half-inch segments until he had three long, whippy branches.

  “Give me your wrist.”

  She waited a beat, then slowly extended her right hand. Circling her wrist with the end of one of the stalks, he tied a loop and knotted it.

  “The other one.” Her hesitation was longer this time. Her eyes clouded with doubt. “You trust me,” he reminded her.

  She gave him her other hand.

  He made another loop, another knot, and with the third lily stalk he bound the two wrist-cuffs together.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “To make you helpless. You have too much self-control, and I’m taking it away from you.”

  He sat back on his heels, scanning what was available nearby. To his left, a thin wooden stake was holding up some tall, droopy flower, possibly a dahlia. The stake came out of the soft earth easily; he had more trouble pressing it back into the porous soil beyond Rachel’s head. But he managed, because where there was a will, there was a way.

  She watched him in rapt silence all the while, missing nothing.

  “Sit up for a second.” He took her tied wrists from her lap and kissed them, then lifted her arms over her head and slipped the juncture of her bound hands over the stake.

  “Lie down.” She obeyed, and he said, “You’re caught now. You can’t move.” Of course she could; a couple of strong yanks, and her stalk-shackles would shred to pieces. It was the symbol that counted—which was why he stopped smiling then, and why he used a
quiet, dangerously patient voice to tell her, “Don’t think of trying to get away from me, Rachel, because you can’t. You’re completely helpless. And you’re mine.”

  Her dilating pupils darkened her luminous eyes; either she believed him or she was learning very quickly to play this game. Either way, his own excitement was mounting higher with every heartbeat.

  He made himself comfortable beside her. He took note of her breathing—fast, uneven. When she licked her dry lips, he reached out and began to stroke them with his thumb, caressing the slippery insides, pressing lightly against her teeth. He found her tongue and rubbed it, just the tip, enjoying its nervous quiver.

  He’d forgotten McCurdy’s strawberries; the little pail was under his coat. He found a fat one and took a bite out of it, letting the juice spurt into his mouth. He brought the rest of the berry to Rachel’s mouth and rubbed it against her parted lips until they were the same color as the juice. “Bite,” he commanded, and her white teeth closed around the succulent fruit. Their eyes met in a frank, erotic glance. He took a sticky, juicy kiss from her mouth while he dragged the wet berry over her chin and down her throat. She stopped breathing when he circled her breast with it and then the aureole of her nipple, not touching the peak until she groaned in frustration. “What do you want?” he whispered.

  “You know . . .”

  He took pity on her and sleeked the fruit across the turgid tip of her bosom, slowly, playing an intent, luxurious game, dyeing her nipple with the purple juice. She was trying to be quiet, trying not to moan. “That’s very nice. Very tasty-looking,” he said in the detached voice—a sham, since he was anything but detached. “What do you want, Rachel?”

  “You know.”

  “You must say it.”

  She couldn’t—so he ate the strawberry and picked another, leisurely nibbled the tip, and went back to rubbing her with the slick, juicy rest of it. “What do you want?”

  “Damn it,” she burst out with a short, helpless laugh. “I want—you—to kiss me.”

  “Where?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Her arm muscles tensed and her fists clenched; she looked as impotent and incapable of escaping as he’d told her she was.

  “Where?”

  “Oh, God,” she said to the sky.

  “Where?”

  “My—breast!”

  Good thing she’d capitulated, because he couldn’t have held out much longer—he had to taste her. Bending, he tongued the sticky liquid off her hot skin, taking long, slow licks, skirting her nipple, gradually narrowing the circle. He took it suddenly, suckled it strongly, and she gave a low, hoarse cry, her body stretching, straining. He sucked harder, until she couldn’t stand any more. When he touched her between her legs, she bucked in surprise and then pressed upward with her hips, wanting more.

  He moved down over her, fluffing her soft hair with his palm, but giving her nothing, tantalizing her. He picked another berry from the pail. There were so many things he could do to her now. She was panting, her eyes slightly glazed, watching him intently. She jerked whenever he touched her.

  “What would you like now?” She rolled her head from side to side. “Tell me,” he said with manufactured menace, “or I swear I’ll tie your legs apart.”

  She gave a tortured whimper, biting her lips. “I want you.”

  “You want me to what?”

  “Please . . .”

  “Please what?”

  But she couldn’t say any of the words he’d taught her for what she wanted now.

  “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said threateningly, leaning over her until they were mouth to mouth. While he spoke, he skimmed his finger down the moist crease of her sex, making her suck in her breath through her teeth. “I want to put my cock inside you very slowly. Feel your heat. Feel you stretch and tighten around me. I want to feel the beat of your pulse deep inside. I want to see your face when you lose control—and you will lose control. And when you come, Rachel, I want to hear you cry out my name.”

  Two spots of bright pink color stained her cheeks. She couldn’t catch her breath. He rested his finger over the tight, swollen nub of her sex just to let her know he knew where it was. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to touch me,” she ground out through her teeth. “There. Now. Do it.”

  He smiled. “Yes,” he said, and began to make gentle, insistent circles around her little kernel, listening to her choked-off cries. “Don’t move. Don’t think of moving. You’re at my mercy, and I don’t have any mercy. And I’m not going to stop.”

  His gruff threats changed gradually until he was grating love words in her ear and saying, “Now. Now. Now,” as desperate for her release as she was. They were striving together, both panting, straining. He took her fruit-stained mouth in a rough, hungry-kiss, and when he pulled away she followed, arching up with her neck and shoulders for more, trying to bite his lips. He kissed her again, again, plunging with his tongue in time with the remorseless caress of his fingers. All at once she drew in a harsh breath and went rigid.

  He could feel the edge nearing for her as surely as if it were his edge, too. Her eyes went wide with surprise for an instant before she shut them tight, grimacing, jaws clenching to hold back a high, ragged cry. Gentling his touch, he dipped into her and felt the warm, slow pursing of her secret flesh. He had to kiss her, even though her mouth was distorted in a grimace of pure, shocking pleasure.

  His chest ached. He pressed his cheek next to hers and called her his love, his dear. By slow degrees, her body softened. He calmed her with his hand while a strange and altogether new peace stole over him. His own body throbbed with wanting her, but he lay still and watched a tear squeeze past her closed eyelashes and glide down her flushed temple into her hair. Another one followed, and he traced its path with his finger. He could smell her skin, and the crushed grass under her body, and the dying scent of flowers. He found his knife, and used it to cut her flower-stalk bonds. Her arms went limp, collapsing on the ground over her head.

  He kissed the side of her breast, her armpit, the warm skin inside her elbow. Her breathing had become deep and even; she’d stopped crying, but she wouldn’t look at him and he couldn’t quite fathom her mood. “Darling,” he said, molding her breast in his hand.

  “So . . .” she breathed. But then she said no more, and he began to think she’d only sighed.

  “What are you thinking? Talk to me.”

  She heaved another deep sigh. Of satisfaction, he hoped, but he was afraid he heard sadness in it, too. At last she turned her face to his. “Thank you,” she said.

  He smiled, trying to make her smile back. “The pleasure was mine.” The expression in her eyes troubled him. “Are you sad? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “Hurt me?” She shook her head slowly.

  “What, then?”

  “I’m not sad. How could I be?”

  She was lying, he knew it. “What do you think I’ve taken from you?”

  “Nothing. You’ve given me a beautiful gift. The most generous gift.”

  “Rachel.” He felt confused, disappointed. “I would do anything not to hurt you.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Nothing.” She turned, reaching for him. “Nothing.”

  He closed his eyes, needing her to touch him. He felt her lips brush his cheek, the warm fan of her breath. “Tell me you’re happy.”

  “I am.” She lifted her arms and slipped them around his neck.

  “Tell me . . .” Tell me you love me, he thought, but he didn’t say that. Too many lovers had said it to him, at this precise moment. He knew how cheap it was, and how easy the answer. “I wish you could talk to me,” he said instead. “I know why it’s hard for you, but I wish you could. It’s something we shall have to work on.”

  Her straight,
sweet mouth softened at the corners. “Will we work on it?”

  “Yes,” he said positively. “We will.”

  She touched his shoulder, the hollow of his throat. “I wonder for how long,” he thought she murmured. Before he could answer, she drew him down, embracing him. “I would like to tell you what that felt like—what you did to me. But I don’t have any words. I don’t think anyone could describe it.”

  “Many have tried,” he said, smiling determinedly.

  “No—hopeless—there aren’t any words. But I could show you. I’d like to show you.”

  An inkling of the cause of her wistfulness glimmered at the corners of his consciousness, but when he tried, he couldn’t catch it; like a faint, faraway star, he couldn’t see it when he looked at it directly. Her warm lips were enticing him, her hands stroking him to life. She kissed her own tears from his lips, and his mind began to shred at the edges. He would think about it later, he told himself, turning and turning with her in the sweet-smelling grass.

  XVII

  PLYMOUTH SOUND was alive with boats, so many that the dark blue water served as a mere backdrop, a recessive frame for the colorful tapestry of white sails, black masts, and bright red chimney stacks. Rachel and Sebastian were peering at the ships through side-by-side telescopes mounted on a stone wall at the end of the Hoe, a popular promenade on a headland overlooking the bay.

  “Look at that one,” Sebastian told her, pointing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Which?”

  “Just behind the second blue buoy, almost—”

  “The barkentine?”

  “Barkentine? Is that what it is?”

  “The one with three masts? Yes, I think so. If it had two, it would be a brigantine.” Straightening, she glanced at him. He was staring at her as if she’d just said something remarkable, like the names of all the constellations in alphabetical order. She smiled, shrugged. “I read an encyclopedia once. Abridged,” she added when he looked amazed. “It’s left me with a peculiar expertise in any number of obscure subjects.”