by Nan Ryan
Sabella melted, surrendering to the masterful mouth moving on hers, the deep-probing fire-lick of his tongue. She reasoned that it was a good thing he could draw a response from her, could make her pulses leap and her skin tingle.
Since the holy Virgin Mary was the only woman on record who had ever conceived without first being with a man, she had to let Burt make love to her.
Over and over again.
She couldn’t conceive, couldn’t give birth to his son without it, so she was thankful that he was an experienced, irresistible lover. Amazingly enough, after only a few savagely compelling kisses, passion and need swamped her and she made no effort to stop him when Burt began undressing her.
He was, she dreamily decided, surely the best of any man alive at undressing a woman. Moments after their first kiss, he had adroitly stripped her of every scrap of her clothing. And he had done it with such casual skill, his hands sweeping her clothes away while his mouth never left hers.
The two of them had not moved from the parlor, still sat there comfortably on the gray velvet sofa. Idly wondering if she were a shameless wanton at heart, Sabella smiled when finally Burt rose and carried her back to the bedroom. In seconds he was as naked as she and they were together on the big, soft bed.
Beneath her, the sheets of pale silver were cool and silky. Above her, flesh of deep bronze was hot and smooth. A marvelous sensation. The tickling, tantalizing texture of cool slippery silk against her bare back and buttocks and long legs. The pressing, pleasing feel of hot hard muscle against her breast and stomach and thighs.
Her arms looped around Burt’s neck, her legs apart, knees bent, bare feet flat on the mattress, Sabella lay in that comfortable bed languidly lifting her pelvis to meet the slow sexual roll and thrust of Burt’s.
At some point in the languorous lovemaking, Sabella became vaguely aware that their warm, joined bodies were bathed in a rosy gold hue. Curious, she turned her head slowly on the pillow and a foolish little smile immediately touched her lips.
The last bloodred rays of the dying September sun streamed in through the clear glass windows, washing over them and everything in the room.
At that moment in time it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should be shamelessly lying here naked, intimately mating while the heavy black drapes, meant to ensure privacy, were completely open. Even the wide expanse of glass which served as the room’s rear wall was undraped. Through it she could clearly see the silver-railed observation deck and the tracks and terrain beyond.
It seemed quite natural, as well, that as they moved together like perfectly fitted, well-oiled machines, the train moved. The slow, steady click-clacking of the wheels on the tracks, the gently swaying motion of the wide Pullman car somehow added to the rising sensual pleasure.
As the lovers moved together in a kind of lazy, flowing motion, the train struggled to slowly, doggedly climb a long, steep hill. The powerful locomotive’s engine finally managed to reach the incline’s summit.
And start down.
The rolling train swiftly began to pick up speed. So did the naked lovers. The constant clicking of the wheels on the tracks quickened to a lively, grinding rhythm. The cadence of the lovers’ heartbeats speeded to match it. With the train’s sudden acceleration, the cars shifted and swayed and danced crazily on the tracks. With the lovers’ abrupt change of pace, their bodies ground and undulated and tossed savagely on the bed.
The marvelous machinery of the train worked perfectly. The powerful pistons sliding and pushing against pressure; the greased thrusting cylinder moving in and out of the cylindrical vessel. The equally marvelous mechanism of the mating humans worked on much the same principle. Burt’s powerful erection sliding and pushing against pressure; the glistening, driving tumescence moving in and out of Sabella’s tightly sheathing flesh.
Speed and pressure continuing to increase, both train and lovers raced out of control. It was a wild, exhilarating ride until …
At last the train reached a low, flat valley and the lovers reached a lofty, splendid peak. The train’s whistle sounded a long, loud blast at the exact moment a scream of ecstasy escaped Sabella’s parted lips. A deep, shuddering groan from Burt blended into the strange chorus.
Their mingled heartbeats slowing to the rhythm of the wheels turning on the track, the lovers lay spent, unmoving, their bodies still joined, little lingering shudders buffeting them.
Sabella’s weak arms fell tiredly away from Burt’s back. She sighed softly and with great effort turned her head slightly on the pillow.
The sun was completely gone. Twilight had cast the gently rolling bedroom into deep, concealing shadow. Recalling how the sun had shone on them when first they began making love, and how it had seemed so natural, so right, Sabella now felt her face grow warm with shame.
“Burt,” she said softly.
“Hmmmm,” he murmured, his mouth and nose buried in the pillow.
“The drapes are open. Do you suppose anyone saw us?”
A low, deep chuckle. Then tiredly, happily, “Baby, I don’t much care.”
Twenty-Six
A BOTTLE OF AMONTILLADO, imported during George Washington’s first administration, sat almost empty on one of the onyx tables. Near it were two stemmed glasses, one carelessly turned over, a few drops of the precious wine spilled on the table’s polished surface.
Beside the overturned glass was a bowl of ripe, red strawberries along with small silver vats of sour cream and powdered sugar for dipping. A large, succulent berry, generously dunked in the thick sour cream, then rolled in the confectioner’s sugar, lay half eaten and forgotten beside the bowl.
A bonbon, carelessly plucked from a carefully constructed pyramid of the fine Belgian candies, had met with a similar fate. A couple of bites had been taken from the chocolate shell and nut-filled fondant center, then discarded.
Fragrant ivory rose petals from an enormous bouquet in a tall crystal vase, lay scattered about on the onyx table. Those delicate petals made a clearly defined path from the vase past the wineglasses, around the berry bowl, alongside the bonbon dish to table’s edge.
Directly below lay a few petals on the deep plush carpet, their stark whiteness leaving a distinct trail across the rug’s wine nap. A very short trail which led to the bed. There, dozens of the velvety white petals were sprinkled over the large bed’s gray silk sheets, matching comforter, and fluffy pillows.
And on the naked pair lying amidst the petals.
A low-burning light from one of the gray-shaded lamps cast the palest of illumination over the peacefully sleeping Sabella and the equally peaceful, but wide-awake Burt.
Too happy to sleep, Burt lay on his side, head on his folded arm, contentedly watching his beautiful wife slumber in their bed.
It was nearing three a.m. and Burt was very tired, but the day had been so memorable, he didn’t want it to end. He wanted to hold on to it, to stretch it out, to make the sweetness last and last. So he lay there looking at his bride, knowing that he was the luckiest man alive.
His gray eyes never leaving her lovely face, he smiled, recalling the highlights of the day. The mad dash to the rail spur. The lovemaking at sunset. The long bath together afterward. Dinner delayed until ten o’clock. Lingering at the table until well past midnight.
Gravitating to the bedroom where the wine and berries and chocolates awaited and the bed, as if by magic, had been changed. Fresh sheets of silver-gray silk were inviting, the top one folded back with the matching comforter.
After a couple of glasses of the vintage amontillado and a couple of dozen kisses, he had been able to persuade his shy bride to shed her robe. Promising not to make love to her again, assuring her they would only relax together in their big comfortable bed, he got her to agree.
But she hastily covered herself with the sheet, snatching it up over her breasts and tucking it tightly under her arms. Burt followed suit, pulling the sheet up to his waist. With their backs supported against mounds of do
wny pillows resting against the tall headboard, they drank more wine, fed each other berries and chocolates, and laughed and talked.
At his gentle urging, Sabella disclosed more about her family and the hard times they had known.
“… and when I was two years old, my father was in a riding accident. The horse fell on him, crushing both his legs.”
“Jesus, baby, what an awful tragedy.”
“He was left so badly crippled, he never rode again,” Sabella continued. “But Carmelita and her husband, Victor, were such good friends—family really—they allowed us to stay on in our little adobe on their small ranch. But then those terrible droughts of the middle sixties came and the once profitable Rivera ranch became debt-ridden wasteland. The Riveras had no choice, they were forced to sell.”
“So you and your parents were … ?”
“Forced to move. My mother supported the three of us with a succession of low-paying, backbreaking jobs.” Sabella paused, and shook her head sadly. “My father was a proud Spaniard. He loved my mother so much it broke his heart to see her have to work so hard. He felt useless, as if he were no longer a man. He withered away and died.”
“I’m so sorry, Sabella.”
“My mother struggled on for my sake, but she was a frail, delicate woman who hadn’t been raised to work like a plow horse. Tired, beaten, she followed my father to the grave ten years after he died.”
She fell silent then, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the stack of pillows.
“Sweetheart,” Burt promised, touched by the sad tale, “I’ll make it all up to you. You’ll have all the things your poor mother never had. I swear it.”
“I know,” Sabella murmured, her eyes narrowing slightly in the shadows, “I know.”
“Here, darlin’, I’ve poured us another glass of wine.”
Her eyes opened, she smiled at him, and they drank more of the amontillado.
And they must have, Burt reflected now, gotten a little looped because before long the covering sheet had fallen away and then was finally kicked to the foot of the bed and no one had objected.
He had plucked one of the long-stemmed ivory roses from its crystal vase and handed it to Sabella. She thanked him, lifted the blossom to her face, and inhaled deeply of its sweet fragrance.
Then she touched the rose to his chest and it tickled. He took it out of her hand and tickled her with it. She shrieked and scrambled away, moving to the far edge of the mattress. He followed. She leaped off the bed and circled it with him in hot pursuit. Laughing and teasing each other, they romped naked around the room until they were completely out of breath.
Squealing and kicking at him, Sabella tiredly collapsed on the bed. She fell over onto her back, her bare feet dangling over the mattress’s edge, her arms as well as her unbound hair flung up around her head. Burt stood just above, his dark chest heaving, the half shattered rose poised and ready in his hand.
“No … don’t … tickle … me anymore … ” she begged, giggling, her eyes tightly shut, her diaphragm jerking spasmodically.
The sight of her lying there below him, giggling and naked and beautiful, stole the laughter from him. He was tempted to toss the rose away, drop to his knees before her, push her legs apart, and show her another way of loving. Afraid it might shock her, he curbed his hunger.
“I won’t tickle you anymore, sweetheart,” he said, and plucking a petal from the rose, dropping it onto her quivering belly.
He pulled another petal from the rose, released it. It fluttered down and came to rest on her left thigh. Sabella opened her eyes, smiled, and lifted her hand to him. He took it. She pulled him down onto the bed beside her, pushed him over on his back, plucked a petal from the rose he still held, and dropped it onto his chest.
And that became a new game for them to play.
They sprinkled petals on each other and all across the bed. One by one the ivory petals were plucked and dropped on flesh and on silk. It took a long time for every last petal of the four dozen ivory roses to be scattered.
When finally the foolish game was finished, Sabella yawned sleepily and murmured truthfully, “I can no longer hold my eyes open, Burt.”
“It’s been a long day,” he whispered, nodding. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
“Mmmmm,” she managed, sighed heavily, and was sound asleep.
That had been an hour ago.
For the past hour now he had lain and just stared at her, glad she was his. In slumber she looked much younger than her twenty-five years. Framed by an abundance of glorious golden hair, her beautiful face had the sweet innocence of a child. The dark sweeping lashes resting on high-boned cheeks. The small, perfectly shaped nose. The soft, luscious lips were slightly parted to reveal even white teeth.
Slowly his admiring gaze left the exquisite, childlike face, moved down, and he exhaled raggedly, slowly.
This was no child’s body.
Stretched out like a lovely, tempting offering fashioned solely for his carnal pleasure, she was woman incarnate. Bare beautiful breasts with large satiny nipples were firm and full and rounded even with her lying on her back. Jutting proudly, they seemed to be silently inviting him to bend his head and kiss them.
Directly below the tempting breasts, delicate ribs shown one by one beneath the flawless golden-tan flesh. The waist was small, the stomach so flat it was almost concave. Flaring feminine hips met strong, perfectly sculpted thighs. And then those long, shapely legs with their slim ankles.
Even the feet were pretty. Small and narrow, the instep high, the heel soft, the toes cute, the second toe longer than the great toe.
Didn’t that mean she was going to be the boss?
Everything about her was so exquisite Burt pensively wished that he could have her painted as she was now—naked, asleep, totally vulnerable and totally beautiful. He promptly dismissed the idea when he considered an artist seeing her exposed. Unless he learned to paint one day, this appealing picture would have to hang only inside his head.
Burt’s foolish smile widened as he noted the rose petals tangled in his wife’s golden hair and clinging to her golden-tan skin. His gaze touched a petal resting in the hollow just below her collarbone, moved on to another which was stuck to the undercurve of her left breast. A couple of the petals concealed the small indentation of her navel, and one rested at the top edge of the triangle of pale golden curls between her thighs.
His gaze stopping, resting there, Burt’s wide smile widened even more. He scooped some loose petals off the silken sheet. Casting a quick glance at Sabella’s sleeping face, he carefully turned onto his stomach and slid down the mattress until his torso was beside her hips.
Playing, entertaining himself, he very slowly, very carefully worked to cover the crisp blond curls and treasure they concealed with the white rose petals. As an artist at his canvas, he gave free rein to his imagination, placing each individual petal with a craftsman’s keen eye, creating a veritable masterpiece with his talented hands and her beautiful body.
In no particular hurry to complete his rare work of living art, he was rigid in picking just the right petal for just the right spot. And like a true temperamental artist, he became frustrated and gritted his teeth in annoyance if a carefully chosen petal refused to be just as he placed it.
His narrow-eyed focus never straying from his masterpiece in the making, Burt happily labored, lost in a world of his own making.
The sleeping woman upon whom he so painstakingly worked was deep in a dream. A mysterious dream. A shameful dream of erotic delight. So real was the dream she felt herself stirring with intense pleasure to the masterful touch of dark, lean hands on her bare, tingling flesh.
Her dark eyes slowly opening, Sabella was unsure if this were a dream or if it were real. She lay unmoving, groggy, neither fully awake nor fully asleep. Her gaze was drawn down to the dark head leaning over her. Her eyes widened as she watched the tanned hands placing rose petals on her flesh with the sure, gentle touch
of a surgeon.
Surely she was still in a dream. And yet it seemed so real. She wondered at the strange ritual he was engaging in with her, was not sure what he was doing. All she knew was that if felt so good she didn’t want him to stop. If she were awake, she wouldn’t let him know.
While he played a secretive, solitary game, Sabella played one of her own. She pretended to be fast asleep in order to enjoy her own secret pleasure.
Forcing herself to continue to he perfectly still, Sabella watched, fascinated, from barely slitted eyes as Burt unhurriedly positioned rose petals over her groin and between her slightly parted thighs. She told herself she should be shocked at his obvious pleasure in engaging in this strange clandestine exercise. But who was she to cast stones? If he were depraved, then so was she because she found the erotic game highly enjoyable.
It was both flattering and arousing for a man to be so enamored he would pay this kind of foolish, but strangely sweet homage to a sleeping woman. Sabella felt as if she were some kind of goddess he had placed on a pedestal and that he was worshipping her with the rose petals.
She desperately wanted to sigh and stretch, but she didn’t dare spoil the delicious game. It was agony-ecstasy to he there while his hands and the petals touched her tingling flesh. She stood it as long as possible, then softly spoke his name.
“Burt.”
He looked up at her, and there was so much love and passion in his eyes, it took her breath away.
“Love me, Sabella,” he whispered hoarsely. Quickly he shifted and was between her legs, the carefully placed rose petals crushed between their pressing bodies. “Please, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Oh, yes.”
Twenty-Seven
THE CAREFREE JOURNEY ON board the luxurious Silver Lining set the tone for the entire honeymoon trip. When the train arrived in San Francisco, a hired carriage was waiting to whisk the golden couple out of the depot and to their hotel.
