You Belong to My Heart

by Nan Ryan

  “That isn’t all. She was holding your arm. I saw her. Where did she want you to go?”

  Clay felt himself flush, said sheepishly, “To the summerhouse.”

  “The summerhouse?” Mary Ellen’s voice lifted and her perfectly arched brows shot up.

  “Shhhh.” Clay frowned. “Not so loud.”

  “But the summerhouse!” she lamented. “That’s our spot, yours and mine. You would go there with her?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t. And I didn’t.”

  “But you thought about it. You considered going—”

  “If I did,” he cut in, “it was because you were in Daniel Lawton’s arms when Brandy suggested we go down there. You danced four times with Lawton, and you smiled and simpered and allowed him to hold you too close.” His silver eyes had turned frosty.

  Mary Ellen’s feet stopped moving. She quit dancing. She stared at his dark unhappy face and was swamped with overwhelming feelings of love and affection for him. Longing to throw her arms around him and kiss him and keep on kissing him forever, she put her hands atop his shoulders, rose on tiptoe, and whispered into his ear, “I can’t stand Daniel Lawton. He’s spoiled, arrogant, and boring.”

  She pulled back a little, looked up at Clay. Unconvinced, he said, “He’s also rich, handsome, and educated.”

  “I don’t care if he’s—”

  “Mary Ellen, the guests are starting to leave now,” John Thomas Preble interrupted them. “Mind your manners and come bid them good night.”

  A half hour later John Thomas Preble closed the heavy front doors. The last of the guests had finally departed. Only Clay remained.

  John Thomas turned and said, “Son, it’s late. Time you went on home now.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Preble.”

  “I told Sam to bring the brougham around,” said John Thomas. “He’ll drive you home.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  “Mary Ellen”—her father turned to her—“say good night to Clay and then get on up to bed.”

  “I will, Papa,” she said. And stayed where she was.

  “Well, good night, children.” John Thomas Preble, yawning sleepily, climbed the stairs to join his wife, who had already retired to their suite.

  Neither Clay nor Mary Ellen made a move until they heard the door to the master suite open, then close. Even then a full thirty seconds elapsed before Mary Ellen tiptoed over to Clay and whispered, “I’ll walk you to the carriage.”

  He nodded.

  Outside, a full white moon floated in and out of some high, scattered clouds. Down on the river a steamer sounded its whistle. Katydids and frogs croaked a loud summer chorus. The hot, sultry air had cooled, and a pleasant breeze blew out of the south.

  The young in-love pair sauntered slowly toward the waiting carriage, Mary Ellen’s golden head on Clay’s shoulder, her hand firmly enclosed in his.

  Harnessed to the big brougham, the matching blacks snorted and blew. One lifted his hoof and pawed at the pebbled drive. The trappings jingled. Old Sam sat atop the box, his white hair shining in the summer moonlight.

  He saw the children approaching the carriage, gave them a wide, toothless grin. Then, when they stood directly below, he thoughtfully turned his head, looked away.

  Clay and Mary Ellen smiled. They knew the faithful Preble driver had turned his head so they could steal a good-night kiss.

  “Bless his dear old heart,” said Mary Ellen, turning to face Clay.

  “He’s one in a million,” said Clay, and wrapped his arms her.

  They kissed there in the moonlight beside the waiting carriage. Once, twice, three times they kissed, until finally Clay tore his burning lips from Mary Ellen’s and said raggedly, “I better go.”

  “I don’t want you to go.” She sighed, pressing her slender body against his tall, slim frame. “I wish you never had to leave me.”

  Inhaling deeply, he felt his senses reel, assailed by the faint perfume of her golden-white hair. “Me too, me too,” he whispered as his hands glided down her back to settle on her hips.

  “You’ll come see me tomorrow?” she asked, and laid her head on his shoulder, her face turned in.

  “You know I will.”

  “I’ll have the cooks pack a hamper with party leftovers. We’ll go for a picnic.”

  Clay’s heart started to pound. “And a swim?”

  “And a swim,” she said, and pressed her lips to his tanned throat.

  Clay Knight shuddered.

  7

  THE PICNIC HAMPER SAT untouched on the grassy riverbank. A protective red-and-white cloth remained tucked neatly over the specially prepared lunch. The varied delicacies filling the heavy wicker basket held no interest for the young pair, whose only real hunger was for each other.

  The minute they left Longwood behind, hurriedly descended the bluffs, and reached their secret concealed cove on the river, Clay dropped the hamper to the grassy bank. He turned to Mary Ellen. His eyes a warm smoky gray, he reached out, curled his tanned fingers around the back of her neck, and drew her to him.

  He stepped in closer.

  He lowered his head, and his dark face descended slowly to hers. He paused, his mouth hovering a scant inch above her own. Softly, seriously, he said, “From the minute I left you last night I have waited for this minute. Kiss me, Mary. Kiss me and make me know you love me as much as I love you.”

  Mary Ellen’s hands lifted, clasped his rib cage. She put out the tip of her tongue and wet her lips. Then she lifted her mouth to his and kissed him. Clay sighed with pleasure when her warm, soft lips settled sweetly on his. His hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, he held her securely to him as she kissed him.

  The tip of Mary Ellen’s tongue slid slowly, tantalizingly, along the seam of his full lips. He sighed deeply, shifted his weight slightly, and opened his mouth to her. Her tongue penetrated and did all the wonderful teasing, tempting things to the sensitive insides of his mouth he’d taught her.

  Clay’s heart pounded. His pulse raced. He pulled her closer, bent a-knee, and wedged it between her legs. Through the barrier of their clothes, Mary Ellen instinctively rubbed herself against the hardness of his lean thigh.

  Clay’s hands moved, went to her buttocks. He cupped her bottom, lifted her a little to fit more fully against him, and felt her pelvis immediately start to grind insistently up and down against his leg.

  By the time that first long, openmouthed kiss finally ended, both of them were as hot as the blistering June sun.

  Out of breath, trembling with emotion, Clay tore his heated lips from hers. His heavy-lidded silver eyes were glazed with passion. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with the forceful pounding of his heart. His tanned throat glistened with perspiration in his open-collared white shirt.

  Mary Ellen was just as affected. Her breath was short, her legs were weak. She sagged against Clay, her hands gripping his biceps, her forehead resting against his chin.

  When he could speak, Clay said, “There was a time, not so long ago, when it took us hours to get this worked up. Now with just one kiss we’re—” He stopped speaking, inhaled with effort.

  “I know,” she agreed breathlessly. “Clay…oh, Clay.”

  For an interminable time they stood as they were, just holding each other, weak with passion but fighting the inevitable.

  “Let’s take a swim,” Clay said at last, knowing that a swim would do little good. Nothing could cool his ardor for this beautiful girl he adored. “We need a cooling swim.”

  “Yes,” she said weakly, “a swim’s just what we need.”

  Clay released her. Both took a couple of steps backward, moving away from each other. But neither turned away. They continued to face each other as Mary Ellen’s pale fingers went to the tiny buttons going down the center front of her lilac summer dress. Clay’s tanned hands went to the buttons of his white shirt. Watching each other closely, they began to undress.

  His shirt open, the long tails yanked outside
his trousers, Clay paused, bent from the waist, took off his shoes and socks. Her dress open to the waist, Mary Ellen crouched down and removed her shoes and stockings. Then she straightened and smiled at Clay.

  Her eyes lingered on the growth of dense black hair covering Clay’s dark chest when he shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it carelessly to the ground. Clay stared unblinkingly when Mary Ellen pulled up her full-skirted lilac dress. When it came off over her head, she released it. The colorful garment mushroomed to the grassy bank below.

  Clay’s hands went to the waistband of his beige cotton trousers. Mary Ellen’s nervous fingers went to the tape of her long, lacy petticoats. Clay unbuttoned his fly, shoved his pants to the ground, stepped out of them, and kicked them away. Mary Ellen yanked the tape of her full petticoats, pushed them impatiently to the ground, stepped out of them, and kicked them aside.

  Now both were stripped down to their underwear. An awkward moment passed, and Mary Ellen made a move toward the water.

  “Wait,” Clay said, stopping her. He came to her, placed gentle hands on her bare upper arms, and looked into her dark eyes. “You know I love you, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I know you love me.”

  “And you trust me?” Again she nodded. He said, “Then let me undress you, Mary. Please.”

  She smiled nervously. “I am undressed, Clay.”

  “No, I mean all the way. Take everything off.” He held his breath, waited.

  Mary Ellen hesitated, swallowed hard, but finally nodded her golden head. And then she stood obediently still while Clay’s tanned hands went to the tiny hooks going down the center of her batiste camisole. When the camisole was open to her waist, he slowly pushed it apart and down her arms. And released it. The wispy garment whispered to the grass at their feet.

  His eyes caressing her bare, pink-tipped breasts, he found the opening at the waistband of her pantalets. It came undone. He sank to one knee before Mary Ellen and gently urged the lace-trimmed underpants over her hips. When the pantalets plunged downward until they were below her naval, Mary Ellen’s breath caught in her throat and she automatically grabbed at the swiftly vanishing underwear. Suddenly shy, uncertain, she was hesitant to let go of the undergarment and of her innate modesty.

  “No,” Clay scolded gently, “don’t stop me, sweetheart. Not now. Move your hands. Let me finish.”

  Mary Ellen reluctantly moved her hands away. He leaned to her, brushed his warm mouth to the shadowed hollow beneath her left hipbone. Mary Ellen winced, and an involuntary shiver of excitement surged through her near naked body.

  The silky jet black hair of his head ruffling against her bare sensitive stomach, Clay said, his lips moving against her pale flesh, “Just this once, Mary. Let me undress you completely. Let me hold you naked in my arms for this one time. That’s all. Just once. Then I’ll never ask again.”

  Mary Ellen’s dark eyes slid closed and her fingertips danced nervously atop his bare brown shoulders as Clay’s hands dragged down the pantalets. She felt the fabric’s softness slip over her buttocks, slide down her tensed thighs, fall from her knees to her ankles. Felt Clay’s strong fingers encircle her left ankle, lift her foot to free it of the garment. He did the same thing with her right foot.

  Mary Ellen didn’t dare open her eyes. She was now totally naked. Her face burned like fire, and she suddenly wondered if he would find her ugly. All the breath left her body when, still on his knees before her, Clay’s arms come around her and he laid his cheek against her bare belly.

  Mary Ellen’s eyes flew open. She looked down on the dear dark head bent to her, released a soft whimper of pent-up emotion, grabbed handfuls of his midnight hair, and pressed his handsome face closer.

  Once again, for a long silent moment they stayed just as they were. She standing naked in the sunlight, her hands in his hair, her eyes shining with love and excitement. He kneeling before her in his white linen underwear, his hot cheek laid against her flat stomach, the restless flutter of his long thick eyelashes tickling her sensitive flesh.

  Young and naive though she was, Mary Ellen knew that right now, right here, this minute, on this sweltering Sunday afternoon, she had measureless power over Clay Knight. For the first time she perceived fully the fierce intensity of his total devotion. With a flash of stunning clarity, she understood that he not only loved and desired her, he idolized her, would do anything for her.

  Anything at all.

  She knew beyond a doubt that if she commanded him to stay on his knees and worship at her feet, he would do it. She knew as well that if she forbade him to touch her, he would obey. The newfound knowledge filled Mary Ellen with a mixture of great joy and greater fear.

  Even naked as she was now, she knew she was as safe as a helpless infant in Clay’s care.

  If she wanted to be safe.

  If that safety were forfeited, if Clay made love to her here by the river today, she would have no one to blame but herself. Clay would never take advantage of her; that’s how much he loved her.

  As if he knew what was going through her mind, Clay’s dark head slowly lifted. He looked up at her, and there was so much love and tenderness shining from the depths his beautiful silver eyes, she would have given him anything he asked for.

  He said softly, “I love you more than anyone or anything on this earth. I want you so much I hurt, but I won’t lay a hand on you if you don’t want me to.”

  Trusting him, wanting him, loving him with all her young heart, she said, “Make love to me, Clay.”

  “Mary. My sweet Mary,” he murmured. He cupped her hips with his hands and drew her down to kneel before him.

  Clay put his arms around her, gathered her into his close embrace, and kissed her. When their lips separated, he said, “I’m a virgin just as you are, sweetheart.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, and meant it.

  “Me, too. But I don’t know how to love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

  “We’ll learn together,” she told him sweetly, “just as we learned to kiss.”

  And so they did.

  Clay reached around Mary Ellen, tugged the red-and-white tablecloth off the picnic hamper, and spread it out on the grass. They lay down on the cloth. Mary Ellen stretched out on her back, Clay lay on his side, turned to her, his weight supported on an elbow. There in the hot, blinding June sunlight they kissed and touched and murmured sweet words of love.

  Neither was quite sure when Clay’s white linen underwear came off; all they knew was that it was twice as thrilling to kiss and hold each other close when he was as naked as she.

  As hot and excited as he was, Clay was nervous, anxious. More afraid than he’d ever been in his life. He wanted desperately to please Mary, to give her great pleasure, but he wasn’t at all comfortable that he knew how. He kissed her, and while his lips were on hers, his dark hand cupped a soft pale breast, his fingertips plucked gently at the budding crest.

  As unschooled as Mary to the ways of love, he was terrified he would hurt her. At the same time he was so aroused, he felt as if he couldn’t wait another moment to take her completely. Cautioning himself to slow down, to take his time for Mary’s sake, he kept kissing her, caressing her.

  Mary Ellen clung to Clay, stirred by his heated kisses, tingling to the gentle touch of his hands, thrilled by the heavy hardness pulsing against her bare belly. She began to undulate against him, and Clay sensed she was as ready as he.

  He lifted his dark head, gazed into her passion-bright eyes. “Mary, are you…”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  Clay kissed her again. And as he kissed her his hand swept down over her stomach, raked softly, gently, through the crisp white-blond curls, and went between her legs. Mary Ellen’s eyes closed when, with only his middle finger, he touched her. Clay’s mouth lifted from hers, and he watched her beautiful face as he caressed her, his finger slipping and sliding easily in the silky wetness flowing from her.

 
; Mary Ellen’s back arched. She gasped and squirmed with pleasure, her eyes shut tightly, her face aflame. And she wondered if it would feel as good to him if she touched him the way he was touching her.

  Her eyes opened and she looked up at Clay. She said, “I want to touch you, Clay.”

  Afraid he would explode in involuntary climax if she touched him, he said, “No, Mary, I—”

  “Yes,” she insisted, pushed his hand away, and rolled to a sitting position. “I want to make you feel good.”

  Clay gave in, stretched out on his back, and watched with in-held breath as Mary shyly wrapped her fingers around his thrusting masculinity. She held him very gently, as if afraid she would break him. Awed by the feel, the size, of him, she quickly warmed to this new exercise in lovemaking, letting her fingers slide slowly up and down the length of him.

  Clay suffered silently in sweet agony.

  His heart hammered, and beads of perspiration dotted his lip and hairline and pooled in the hollow of his throat. He wanted to give her ample opportunity to explore and play to her heart’s content, but his body couldn’t stand it. Abruptly he tore her hand away, rolled up from the ground, and pressed her onto her back.

  Anxiously he moved between her pale thighs and urged her legs wider apart. Then, murmuring, “I love you, Mary,” he thrust swiftly into her. She winced in shock and pain. He felt the tearing, the tightness, and knew he was hurting her. Yet he couldn’t stop, no matter how badly he wanted to.

  It was as if the hard, throbbing flesh he’d buried deep inside her had a mind all its own. It completely ignored the tears spilling from Mary’s eyes and her obvious torture. It ignored his own silent commands to pull out and inflict no more pain on her. It would not listen. Controlling him completely, it kept pounding swiftly, deeply, into her soft wet warmth until a great explosion of heat ended its forceful aggression.

  Clay groaned loudly in his ecstasy, and Mary Ellen, watching his dark, contorted face, wondered if she were hurting him.

  He collapsed atop her and immediately began telling her how sorry he was he’d hurt her, how he’d make it up to her.