The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  He made a strangled sound. "Rubbing it to . . . to restore the circulation . . . will, I think, put a premature end to this act — oh-h-h-h — Amy — Amy, I think I must ask you not to do that."

  "Do what?"

  "What you're doing . . ."

  "You don't want me to rub it, then?"

  "It's not that I don't want you to, it's that I'm about to crack a tooth with the force with which I'm clamping my jaws shut. Please . . . I am not strong enough to hold out against such . . . such sweet torment, I swear, I am not . . ."

  "What happens if your strength gives out?" she asked, cupping her hand around his hot flesh and exploring the tip with her thumb. "What happens if you just let yourself go?"

  "Amy . . . I want to make this special for you . . . magical . . . last time it was rushed, desperate, over too quickly. If you —" he groaned beneath her ruthless caresses and, shutting his eyes, let his head droop sideways against the wall, his teeth bared with the effort it took to control himself —"if you show me just a little mercy, I can make this last much longer . . . much longer indeed."

  Amy, learning for the first time that a simple touch could bring him to this, learning for the first time the extent of her own feminine power over this strong and virile man and revelling in the use of it, had no intention of stopping — or showing him any mercy whatsoever. She went right on rubbing him. "But we have all night, Charles," she said with false innocence. "And you did say I could touch you, anywhere."

  "I . . . think perhaps that I . . . that I. . . ."

  She ran her fingers down the hard, hot length of him, caressed the twin sacs nestled in their bed of wiry hair, lifted them gently in her hand.

  "That you what?"

  "That I . . . that I . . . 'sdeath, I don't know."

  Amy, stroking him with her fingers, sucked in her lips against threatening laughter. She was making him mindless, and she loved this magical hold over him. But even as she secretly rejoiced, she knew that down there beneath her petticoats, and high up between the junction of her thighs, she was feeling awfully hot and tingly as well, and that part of her ached with a prurient fire that wanted only to be filled by him, and filled soon. But they had all night. They really did. And now she lightly squeezed the velvety knob of flesh until his entire body was rigid and tense, his cheek pressed against the wall behind him, and a muscle was quivering in his jaw.

  "I . . . I don't know — 'struth, I cannot take much more of this," he groaned. "God help me, I cannot!"

  "Then I think you should just stop fighting it and let come what may."

  He nearly choked.

  "Just sit back and let me touch you, Charles. I know you enjoy it. You know I'm enjoying it. Besides, you did say I could seduce you, so for just once in your life, stop trying to control a situation and just let what happens, happen."

  He had drawn his leg up once more; she pushed it gently off to the side, running her fingers up the inside of his thigh, and now Charles squeezed his eyes, his fists, his jaw shut in a last, Herculean effort to resist that which she was pushing him towards —

  "Amy —"

  And felt her warm little fingers caressing his damp and throbbing tip.

  With a hoarse cry, he felt the barrier of his self-control break, and a second later, his seed was pulsing out of him, leaving him gasping and shocked and completely mortified that he had not been able to stop himself. His eyes opened, and, flinging an arm across his feverishly hot brow, he looked up at Amy, who was gazing down at him with an expression of satisfaction and amusement.

  "You were right," she quipped. "You certainly do like being touched."

  He swore and shut his eyes.

  She lay down beside him, facing him with her weight on one elbow. He felt her playing with a lock of his hair, felt her lips brushing his temple, his cheek, his neck. Her hair was glassy-smooth against his arm, his neck. He could smell the soft fragrance of her skin, the muskiness of his own desire, and he could feel the blood returning to his member, could feel himself rallying once more.

  "Good God," he said, half surprised, half grateful, as he opened his eyes.

  "That was fun, Charles."

  "Probably more so for me than it was for you."

  "Oh, I don't know about that!"

  "You were not offended?"

  "Of course not. Should I have been?"

  "No," he said, pensively. "No, you should not have been. I think you are a very . . . a very bold and intuitive lover, Amy. I daresay I like that in you."

  "It was fun, to make you lose control like that. I felt so — so powerful!"

  He raised his brows, amused by her innocence, the wicked delight she'd found in her discovery. "Yes, well. A woman's feminine power will make her the victor every time, when it comes to testing the strength between the sexes."

  Her hand traced little circles atop his belly, every so often roving down into the curling bed of hair from which his manhood sprang and was, even now, starting to harden once again.

  He reached out and caught her hand.

  "Oh, Charles," she giggled, kissing the base of his throat. "Let me make you all confused again, let me make you lose control, let me touch and love and stroke you."

  In one fluid motion, he rolled over onto his side, pushing her down on her back as he went. "No, Amy," he murmured, arranging her long, heavy tresses in the straw around her head. "It is my turn to touch and love and stroke you."

  "But —"

  "Shhh," he said, and silenced her with his mouth.

  Amy had no wish to fight him, none at all. Her eyes slipped shut as his mouth came down upon hers, and with a little sigh, she slid her fingers around his nape and up into his hair, cupping the back of his head, holding him to her as though she'd never let him go, and meeting his kiss with fervent, building passion. She kicked her shoes off, first one, then the other. His tongue slipped out, running along the soft swell of her bottom lip once, twice, before coaxing her mouth apart and slipping inside. She met it with her own, first shyly, then with increasing eagerness to return these most intimate caresses. She felt the gentle touch of his hand against her cheek, her jaw, now moving down to slowly pull her neckerchief out from beneath her stays, slowly pull it off her neck altogether, until deliciously cool air swept against her collarbone, the top of her chest, the pushed-up swell of her breasts. She moaned, her body quivering with anticipation. Already, his big, warm hand covered her breast, his fingers lightly caressing it and the nipple that had gone hard beneath stays and shift.

  "Charles," she gasped, breaking away.

  He merely smiled wickedly down at her. "Ah. This is vengeance of the sweetest sort, I think." And then, kissing her once again, he opened her jacket, unlaced her stays, and pulled both garments from her trembling body, leaving them both on the straw behind her. Beneath the thin cotton glaze of her shift, her breasts were tight, heavy and aching with need, on fire everywhere the fabric touched them.

  Oh, touch me, Charles, please touch me!

  "The shift too?" she whispered, staring up at him.

  He smiled down at her. "The shift, too."

  She sat up, and he pulled the loose, sheer undergarment over her head, exposing her naked breasts to his warm gaze, then putting his hands on them, all over them, while Amy sighed with pleasure and felt everything below her waist beginning to melt.

  "The petticoats too, my dear."

  "Everything?"

  "Everything."

  He untied both the heavy outerpetticoats of wool, and the softer underpetticoats of linen, pulling them off and spreading them out in the straw. Then, with an easy strength, he scooped her up and into his lap, cradling her shoulders against his right arm and caressing, kneading, firing her breasts with the other hand.

  She shut her eyes, feeling his lips brushing her hairline, the sensuous drag of his fingers combing and pulling all the way down through her hair. "You are the most exotically beautiful woman I have ever met," he whispered against her forehead. "Don't ever leave me, Am
y. I beg of you, never leave me."

  "I couldn't Charles, not even if I wanted to."

  And then he was kissing her lashes, the bridge of her nose, and finally, her mouth once more. He lifted her slightly beneath the shoulders, putting an arch in her body, bringing her breasts shamelessly up toward his mouth; a moment later he was hefting one of them in his hand and drawing a taut, swollen nipple up into his mouth.

  Amy squirmed and sighed with pleasure.

  He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "My dear Amy. I am pleased to see that I'm not the only one who enjoys being touched."

  "Oh, no, Charles. You're not the only one at all."

  His hand left her breast, moved down her bare stomach, just grazed the top edge of her feminine curls, came slowly back up.

  Teasing her.

  "Oh . . ."

  He brought her a little higher, readjusting her so that her shoulders were cradled in his right arm and her legs, still in their stockings and garters, were draped over his left thigh. She wore nothing else. Nothing.

  Oh, oh dear . . .

  Back down went his warm, broad hand again, this time moving out over her silken mound, just skirting the damp, aching center of her, skimming out over one inner thigh and gently pushing it aside. Amy shuddered.

  "Does that please you, Amy?"

  "Yes. Oh yes, Charles!"

  "Shall I continue?"

  "Yes!" she moaned breathlessly.

  His hand still caressing her leg, he untied the garter, hooked his forefinger beneath the top of her stocking, and slowly peeled it all the way down her leg.

  Slowly, gently, peeled off the other one.

  Amy, completely bare of clothing, was now trembling so violently she couldn't keep still, and it had nothing to do with cold. "Charles, please . . ."

  His eyes heavy-lidded with passion, he bent his head, drawing her nipple up into his mouth once again and suckling it with a strong, steady pressure that soon had Amy moaning in wanton, feverish delight. She felt his hand moving back down her belly, down to the drenched, silken curls of her femininity — through them. And still he suckled her nipple. Her head began to writhe against his arm, damp tendrils of hair to cling to her brow, her cheeks, her throat. Oh. Oh, she could not bear this! Her head fell back, lifting her breasts all the higher, and as his fingers slid between her legs, the coiled, building heat there burned with a restless ache and she squirmed, trying to relieve the pressure, trying to seek relief.

  "Charles . . . these feelings . . . is this what I brought to you?" she managed, with what little air she was able to bring into her lungs. "This prickly heat, this unbearable thing that feels like pain but is not, this . . . oh!"

  He raised his head, dragging his mouth across to the other breast, his fingers still moving through her damp, feminine curls, now finding the soft folds and gently parting them. "Yes, Amy, it is indeed. Get used to it, dearest, because I plan to ensure that you experience these feelings on a very frequent basis." And with that, he drew the other nipple into his mouth, slid his fingers between the hot flesh that guarded her femininity, and with his thumb, began stroking the velvety softness.

  "Oh . . . oh, Charles," she gasped, and involuntarily tried to close her legs against this sweet, but not unwelcome invasion.

  "No, Amy. Open for me," he murmured, coaxing her thighs apart, his big hand deliciously hot against her skin. He raised his head, gazing down at her flushed face before turning to look at his own fingers where they touched and stroked and kneaded her. "I want to look at you, as you have looked at me. I want to touch you, as you have touched me. I want to rub you, as you have rubbed me —"

  She sucked her lip between her teeth and heard a strange noise that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a gasp, coming from her own throat as he slowly kneaded the soft petals of her womanhood between his fingers —

  "And by God, I want to taste you."

  "Taste me?"

  He lifted her from his lap, and in the next moment, he'd placed her on the petticoats spread out in the straw, and his hands were lifting her bottom and his jaw was rough against her inner thighs and his mouth, his lips, his tongue, were there —

  "Charles!"

  He buried his face in her equally hot curls, kissing her hard and deep and open-mouthed. She felt his lips moving against her, and now his tongue — his tongue! — slipping out to press here, there, to begin a long, slow, torturous stroke, over and over and over again, that caused her head to whip back and forth, and her hand to claw madly at the straw, and a sobbing, whimpering cry to rip from her throat even as she began to thrash in mindless frenzy with the sensations that were rushing down on her. He held her thighs wide, never letting up with that long, slow, licking stroke, and as Amy began to convulse with the first waves of pleasure, he pressed his tongue against a hidden button of flesh, and her world blew apart.

  She bucked and writhed, but still he held her against his mouth, until she was wailing and clawing and moaning like some rabid creature brought in from the wild. He brought her toward her peak once more, patiently, skillfully — and then, when she was nearly over the edge, when he, too, was breathing hard and shaking with need, he covered her with his body, and, clearing the wild, damp tangle of hair from her face, kissed her madly even as he drove himself to the hilt inside her.

  He came with an explosion that tore her name from his throat, that drove his seed up into her womb and caused her to climax with such force that her convulsions wrung every last bit of strength from his body. And afterwards, long after the last tremors finally quieted and she lay depleted beneath him, Charles eased himself out of her, covered her with his coat and a possessive arm and, fell, exhausted, into sleep beside her.

  Chapter 23

  Charles awoke shortly before dawn.

  They had both put their clothes back on during the night, though Amy hadn't bothered with her stays. Now she was snuggled against him, still asleep and shivering beneath his frock. Charles got to his knees, slid his arms beneath her slight body, and picked her up. She never woke. With his free hand he collected her stays and then, holding her close to his chest, he carried her out of the stable and across the still-dark lawn toward the castle.

  He saw the great, iron-banded medieval door looming out of the darkness, and, knowing there would be a footman stationed just beyond it in the Great Hall, decided against going in via that route. He did not want Amy to be the subject of servants' gossip. Instead, he followed the castle's silent, looming walls and, hoping he wouldn't run into Juliet, entered via the servant's entrance.

  Amy stirred as he began carrying her up the stairs.

  "Mmmmm. . . . Charles?"

  "Go back to sleep, poppet," he murmured, pulling her long fall of hair up over his arm so that he wouldn't trip over it. His shoes made little sound on the stairs and as he emerged onto the top floor, he paused for a moment to listen. The house was quiet, and far down the end of the West Corridor, where tired, dwindling sconces painted the ancient stone walls in flickering shades of gold, he saw a servant dozing in a chair. Cradling Amy to his chest, he continued on, past the austere portraits of his ancestors, his feet moving silently over priceless carpets, until he finally reached the Blue Bedroom.

  He carried her inside. She sighed and clung to him as he peeled back the covers and gently lay her down in the bed, stripping her down to her shift. As he caught sight of her dusky areolas just beneath the gauzy fabric, the nipples still pert and pebbled, he felt himself growing hard once more. Chastising himself for his lusty thoughts, he brought the covers up so as to cut off the sight from his prurient gaze. It was all he could do not to join her in that huge bed, but he would not, he could not. Ruefully, he touched her hair, leaned down to kiss her cheek, and, after putting another log on the fire, strode from the room, gently closing the door behind him.

  Beyond the castle's great leaded windows, it was starting to grow light. He could just see the copper beeches, their branches tossing a bit in the wind, beginning to take sha
pe, and a few jackdaws flying about the ancient stone gatehouse that guarded the moat. Beyond, the downs, sugared with frost and standing in silent, timeless dignity, tumbled down and away toward the village of Ravenscombe, still cloaked in mist at this early hour. Charles turned from the window, went to his own rooms to freshen up, and then headed downstairs, intending to sit in the dining room and have an hour or two to himself before everyone else rose.

  An hour or two to prepare himself for the inevitable meeting with his family —

  And Juliet.

  But as he pushed open the great double door, he saw that there was someone already in the dining room. A solitary figure, still wrapped in shadowy gloom, sat at the table, his arm stretched out before him, a goblet of pale amber liquid held loosely in his hand, into which he was gazing. He glanced up at Charles, who had paused just inside the door.

  "Charles. Come in."

  Charles, caught in emotions he could not understand, and did not know how to address, almost made an excuse and retreated. "Hello, brother," he finally said, trying for lightness in the hopes that Gareth would not discern his sudden, and unreasonable, nervousness. If ever there was a time he wanted to flee, it was now. Instead, he directed a pointed glance at Gareth's goblet, thinking that Lucien had been dead wrong about him, and that Gareth was as dissolute as ever. "Bit early to be getting soused, isn't it?"

  The Wild One looked at the glass in his hand. "Apple juice."

  Charles flushed, feeling suddenly very small. "Oh."

  "Though she calls it cider."

  "I am familiar with it."

  Gareth gave an unsure little laugh. "The things those Yankees drink . . ."

  "Yes. If you think that's vile, you should try their ribwort tea some time. Damnable stuff, that."

  "I think I'll stick with our fine China blends."

  Charles ventured into the room — and saw then that Gareth was not alone. Cradled in his left arm and smiling adoringly up at him was the little girl he'd glimpsed last night, the little girl that he, Charles, had sired — and who would grow up calling Gareth "Papa" instead of him.