Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  This would be her first sexual relationship, and he the first man who'd ever showered her with any genuine attention. As a virgin and spinster, she couldn't be aware of how a carnal association might seem like something else, something more. She would become fond of him, might even love him when they were through, but her feelings would have no bearing on what he elected to do with Penelope.

  "I can't make you any promises," he warned.

  T know. You've been very blunt—from the beginning."

  "If Lavinia strolled in this very second and caught us, it wouldn't matter to me. Your reputation would be destroyed, and she could shout and demand reparation, but I couldn't marry you—my responsibilities lie elsewhere."

  "I realize that. I'm not seeking anything from you. I don't want anything from you. Just let me have tonight. Please. Don't send me away. I can't go."

  She was content to give all, with no guarantees, and the notion bothered him enormously.

  He wanted her to care! He wanted her to at least pretend—here at the outset—that he was important to her. She had him feeling as if he were merely a tool, an empty vessel she would use to assuage her loneliness, and stupidly, he yearned to be so much more.

  Her poise and resignation had him angry, both at her and at himself. But how could he decline to seize what he so urgently craved?

  He tugged off her robe, then undid the tiny buttons at the front of her nightgown. The bodice flopped loose, supplying him with a hint of the paradise hidden beneath.

  'Take it off," he ordered.

  "All the way?"

  "Yes."

  He wanted her to comprehend that this was her choice and her doing—rather than his own. It was a pathetic attempt to mollify his nagging conscience, but he wouldn't be deterred, nor would he lament.

  She didn't hesitate. Bravely, she faced him, and as she grabbed the neckline and jerked it to her waist, only the slight blush on her cheeks betrayed any discomfort.

  "No regrets, Margaret."

  "No, none, at all."

  He captured her mouth in a hot and hungry kiss. She joined in, having abandoned all restraint. She was eager to participate, and he planned to take full advantage.

  He dipped to her breasts, and he suckled and played, nursing at one, then the other as he yanked her nightgown down and off and pitched it on the floor. She was naked, her glorious body splayed beneath him. He settled himself between her thighs, his naughty fingers slithering down to cup her, then slide inside. She was so tight, so wet, and he eased her open, exploring, stretching her for what was to come.

  "I want to show you something," he murmured.

  "What?"

  "It may seem strange at first, but let me do it." "You may try whatever you wish," she assented. "I'm happy to allow it."

  "It will feel very, very good." "I'm sure it will."

  He nibbled down her stomach, and she writhed and giggled as he tormented and teased. She didn't recognize his destination until he arrived at her womanly hair, and as he spread her nether lips, she tensed, but didn't resist.

  He licked her with his tongue, and she arched up and tried to squirm away, but he wouldn't release her.

  "What are you doing?" she gasped.

  "I'm making love to you—but differently from before."

  "You said I'd like it."

  "You will."

  "I don't."

  He chuckled. "Relax, Margaret. Let me pleasure you." "It doesn't feel pleasurable." "It will. I promise."

  He reached for her breasts, pinching the nipples, as he continued his work down below. The contact was electrifying, and she arched up again, struggling to buck him off.

  "Oh, do stop, Jordan! I'm begging you!" "Just another minute." "I can't stand it." "Almost there."

  She was at the edge, and he jabbed once, twice, and she came in a rush. Sensation swept her away as she soared to the heavens, then down, and as she quieted, he was meandering up her torso.

  He'd never had a paramour who was so easy to arouse, and he was enchanted. His only regret was that he wouldn't have more time to teach her, to enjoy her.

  He initiated another stormy kiss, and as she tasted the tang of her sex on his lips, she groaned with delight.

  "I can't believe I let you do that to me."

  "I'm a shameless rogue. I admit it, but you're not exactly a timid virgin." He smiled at her, thinking he'd never witnessed a more lovely sight. "You know, most men agree that it's exceedingly difficult to bring a female to orgasm."

  "They do?"

  "But not you."

  "What are you implying?"

  He leaned in and whispered, "You may be a gentlewoman, but you possess the soul of a harlot."

  She swatted at him with the pillow, but he laughed and tugged it away. Their gazes locked, the interlude growing even more intimate.

  "I want to see you naked," she said. "I'm curious."

  "Oh, Margaret..."

  "You've seen me and touched me."

  "I'm afraid to let you."

  "Afraid? You?"

  "If I remove my drawers, I'm scared about what might happen."

  "Have I asked you to restrain yourself?"

  "No, and therein lies the problem. One of us needs to keep a level head."

  "Why?"

  Why indeed? "Because passion can spiral out of control, and once the genie's out of the bottle, we can't shove him back in."

  "Please, Jordan. I want it."

  "Sweet Jesu!" he muttered. "Those eyes! When you look at me like that, I can't refuse you."

  Without warning, she squeezed his nipple, much as he did to hers, and he flinched.

  She yanked away. "Have I hurt you?"

  "No, it feels splendid."

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "May I do it again?"

  "Of course. When we're here like this, anything is allowed."

  Tentative, then more bold, she took both of his nipples and twirled them, the motion excruciating but superb. "Would you like it if I sucked on them, too?" "Oh, yes."

  She riffled through his chest hair and latched onto his breast. As she teased with teeth and tongue, his air rushed out in a whoosh.

  He shifted and stretched out, then guided her hand into his drawers.

  Her expression was filled with surprise and a great deal of interest. "What is this? What is it called?"

  "It has many names: a phallus, a cock."

  She was stroking him, judging weight and girth, and he moaned in anguish.

  "For what is it used?"

  "For mating—and for pleasure."

  She scowled. "I don't understand."

  He reached down and probed her sheath. "I would push it inside you—"

  "Inside?"

  "Yes, as I've been doing with my fingers. It feels very good."

  She flopped onto her back. "Show me what you mean."

  "No."

  "Why?"

  So many whys! "Because there is a thin piece of skin here, and if I entered you, I would tear it." "So?"

  "It can't be repaired, so later on, if you decided to wed, your husband would know that you'd lain with another."

  She scoffed. "We've discussed this before: I'll never marry."

  "You can't predict what the future might hold." Oddly, he was unnerved to talk about her marital prospects. He didn't like picturing her with another man, didn't like the idea of another man enjoying what Jordan was quickly coming to consider his own.

  "Trust me: I shall never wed. So show me!"

  "I could make you pregnant."

  "How?"

  "After I penetrated you, I would flex and flex, and it creates a friction that is very stimulating. It causes a white cream to erupt from the end. The cream contains my seed, and it can plant a babe."

  "You're joking."

  "No."

  She was still stroking him in a seductive rhythm, so conversation was becoming more and more difficult. He couldn't concentrate on her words. There was only her hand and its ince
ssant tempo.

  "I want to see it," she insisted.

  "No."

  "I'm not listening to you anymore."

  She growled with exasperation, and before he could stop her, she'd bared him for her inspection.

  "Oh my," she breathed, glancing down. "Would you look at that? It's so big."

  "It can be."

  "I'm confused about how it fits into me."

  "I'll demonstrate someday—but not today."

  He was in agony, a driving need sweeping over him like no other he'd ever experienced. He yearned to throw her down, to take her and be done with it, but he wasn't ready to steal her chastity, and she definitely wasn't ready to surrender it.

  She scooted down to have a better view, to ogle and fondle, and the sight of her—perched at his crotch, her ruby lips inches away—was his ultimate undoing.

  He dragged her up the bed, and she frowned as if he'd gone mad, when in a way he had. He was mad with lust.

  "What is it?"

  "I have to come," he ground out.

  "What should I do?"

  "Hold me tight."

  "Like this?"

  "Yes, just like that."

  He pulled her close, his cock pressed to the soft skin of her belly. Then he thrust again and again, and he let go, flying high, thinking the sensation might never end. Finally, he arrived at the peak and floated down. His body relaxing, his mind reeling, he shuddered to a halt.

  He was quiet, wondering what to say. It was her initial encounter with male desire, yet he'd behaved like an unschooled ass, and he hated that he might have to explain or defend.

  He simply wanted her to leave so that he could regroup and figure out how they should carry on.

  But no, he mused, scowling. He didn't want her to leave. He wanted her to stay; he wanted her to stay forever.

  He rippled with dread. What was happening to him? He was as flustered as a lad after his first orgasm. Why did she have such a disturbing effect?

  At recognizing his frantic mood he chuckled and forced himself to calm. Yes, he'd been extra titillated but only because he'd recently suffered a dearth of feminine companionship. He'd been loaded like a gun, prepared to fire, so it had been easy for her to prime the pump. It didn't mean anything more than that.

  He smiled at her, relieved when she smiled in return.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  "Why would you have? I'm not made of glass."

  "No, you're not."

  "I'm still a virgin, aren't I?"

  "Yes."

  "How frustrating you are!"

  She sighed and clasped his phallus again, and even though he'd just come as if there were no tomorrow, his unruly rod leapt to life.

  He slapped away her questing fingers, unable to believe he could respond so soon and so vehemently.

  "Good Lord, but you're insatiable. Let me catch my breath, would you?"

  She grinned, as he rose and proceeded to the dressing room to fetch a washing cloth.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I thought I should clean us up."

  "Well, hurry back," she commanded. "I'm tired of waiting for you to get on with it."

  He shook his head, curious as to what he'd set in motion. How fast and how furiously would it spin out of control? Where would they all be at the conclusion?

  He couldn't bear to imagine.

  Chapter Eleven

  I believe I'll call it a night." Anne faked a yawn and stood, desperate to escape the parlor and the small group that was engaged in after-supper conversation. There was such an unpleasant undercurrent of intrigue and scheming that if she didn't flee—immediately—she just might start screaming and never stop.

  Mrs. Gray and her daughter were hissing like a pair of venomous snakes, while Jordan and Charles were trading barbs, not able to conceal their hostility. Charles was stirring the pot by flirting with both women, which outraged everyone for differing reasons. Jordan was disgusted by it, Mrs. Gray was jealous, and as for Penelope, she acted as if whatever attention Charles paid her, it wasn't as much as she deserved.

  Mr. Mason was off in the corner, observing all and wondering about the festering animosities.

  It was the first time Anne had seen him since her embarrassing, drunken advance, and though she'd tried to ignore him, she couldn't help how her gaze kept stealing in his direction.

  She couldn't imagine how low his opinion must be. She persuaded herself that it was all Charles's fault, that his obnoxious philandering had driven her to the very dark, very handsome Mr. Mason, but she wasn't a trollop, and she had no idea what had spurred her to such indecent conduct.

  Until she'd knelt in front of Mason and unbuttoned his trousers, Charles had been her only lover. She'd been a virgin when she'd initially succumbed, and in all the years after, she'd never so much as glanced at another man. Her reckless mood hadn't abated, though, and she didn't like it that Mason was so close by and such an easy target at which to steer her misbehavior. With the slightest provocation, she would seduce him again, and the discovery was extremely unnerving.

  She couldn't remain in his company, and she peered around the room, but no one had heard her declaration that she was off to bed. With so many plots hatching, she was invisible, which was fine by her. They could taunt and conspire all night, but she didn't have to watch.

  She moved toward the door, pausing next to where Charles was seated on the sofa, and she whispered, "Will you be needing me later?"

  Though he strove to mask it, he peeked at Mrs. Gray. "No, I'm quite tired myself. I'll see you in the morning."

  She departed, refusing to be upset or shocked. If he wanted to consort with Mrs. Gray, if he could make a play for the daughter while he was fucking the mother, what was it to Anne?

  Still, it galled to be faced with such hard evidence of his infidelity. Had he ever cared about her? Had he ever cared about anyone but himself?

  She didn't have to answer the question. She was fully aware of how much she'd given, how much he'd taken, and how little she had left.

  She walked down the hall and out onto the verandah. It was beginning to rain and sprinkles dotted her hair and dress. She tarried, calming herself, enjoying the respite; then she wandered into the garden and down the winding path. For a thrilling moment, she pondered whether she should keep on walking and never come back.

  How long would it take for Charles to realize she was missing?

  At the edge of the trees, she halted and turned to scrutinize the mansion. To her amazement, Mr. Mason stepped out the rear door. Clearly following her, he studied the grounds, trying to see where she'd gone, and he espied her lurking in the shadows.

  Behind her, the gazebo beckoned, the fights from the house reflecting off the lake. With a nod to him, she went to it and waited on the stairs as he slowly and deliberately marched toward her. As he neared, she panicked and rushed into the decorative building.

  What was she doing? Was she planning to tryst again? Was this really what she wanted? She didn't think so, so what was the matter with her? Why couldn't she get her roiling emotions under control?

  He arrived, and they stared and stared. Arms braced at his sides, he inspected her from head to toe.

  "Why?" he ultimately asked.

  "Why what?"

  "Why did you have sex with me the other evening?"

  "Why not?" she blithely responded, as if she frequently trifled with strange men.

  He narrowed his focus, assessing, contemplating. "You're not a whore."

  "I am," she insisted.

  "No, you're not, so I can't figure you out."

  "What's to figure? I wanted to. I'm not some timid country Miss. I'm an adult woman, and I can do as I please."

  He reached out and caressed her breast, and she let him. She didn't pull away, didn't clout at his hand, or huff with indignation. Her nipple leapt to attention.

  "You like having sex, don't you?"

  "Yes," she baldly admitted.<
br />
  Anymore, she wasn't too keen on having Charles as her partner, but the act itself was always agreeable, and she wouldn't deny her base disposition. If Mr. Mason didn't like it, he could jump off a cliff.

  "Are you truly Lord Kettering's mistress?"

  "Of course, I am. Why would you suppose I travel with him?"

  "What would he say if he learned what you'd done with me?"

  "I suspect he'd beat me, then toss me out without a penny."

  "Then why did you proceed? Why risk so much?"

  "I don't know."

  "I want to do it again."

  "So do I."

  She couldn't believe the words had slipped from her mouth. Was she mad? She'd heard that women occasionally lost their mental faculties as they aged, so perhaps her advanced years were causing her to become deranged.

  T like it rough and hard," he stated. T don't want to holdback."

  "You can do it however you wish. I don't mind."

  She felt wild, as if she were about to be hurled into an abyss. She grabbed for the waistband of his trousers, and she drew him to her, delighted by his erection.

  "Are you and Mrs. Gray lovers?" she queried.

  "Yes."

  "For how long now?"

  "We commenced shortly after her husband passed away—although I've been fond of her since we were Children."

  "You never dared to commit adultery?"

  "No, never."

  "How noble of you."

  "Isn't it though?" Oddly, he added, "We're to be married soon." "Really?" "Yes."

  Mrs. Gray was so conniving and vicious, while he was straightforward and open. They were a peculiar match. "Do you imagine she'll make you happy?"

  "Very."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." He didn't appear too certain.

  "Why are you telling me about her?"

  "I'd presumed myself an honorable man, but I am betrothed to her, yet ready to fornicate with you, which means that my integrity is more questionable than I'd fathomed. I can make you no promises, so you shouldn't have any misconceptions about the sort of man I am." His smile was grim. "As I shall have none about the sort of woman you are."

  "What would Mrs. Gray do if she found out about us?"

  "She'd pitch a screaming fit."

  "She's smitten by Lord Kettering."

  "Yes, she is."

  Anne could see the tension in his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. "And how would you react if she slept with him?"