by Joanna Shupe
She curled her fingers around him, surprised at the smooth feel. For something so hard his penis felt like velvet in her hand. She moved her fingers, sliding him through her palm. He gave a swift intake of breath, his big body shuddering. “More,” he signed. “Please.”
The quiet directions in his language emboldened her. She liked learning how to better speak to him with her hands, and he seemed to sign almost automatically, as if he were so far gone with desire he could not help himself. It made her less awkward about her own unclothed state and inexperience. “Keep signing. Tell me what you want.”
He blinked at her, his chest heaving. “But . . .”
“Even if I cannot understand. Just talk to me.”
His hands moved quickly then. She could not decipher the signs but continued to stroke his shaft with both hands, watching his reaction to see what he liked as she explored every part of him. The root, the underside, the tip . . . She did it by feel to keep her gaze on his hands and face. He was fascinating, lids screwed shut during her teasing, still talking to her.
Oliver shuddered and gasped. Suddenly, he caught her hand. “Please, no more. I am too close.”
Pressing her hand to the bed, he rolled to partially cover her, his mouth finding hers. He kissed her desperately, as if he was nearing the end of his rope, and she loved it. She could feel the slickness between her thighs, an emptiness deep inside her. Despite her earlier release she was eager for him, eager for more.
“Tell me what you want,” he said against her mouth then pressed up on his elbows to see her face. “I am trying to go slowly but I cannot last much longer. Tell me, my lovely wife.”
Under no circumstances could she bring herself to actually voice her desires aloud . . . so she showed him instead. Distracting him with a kiss, she rocked her hips against his, along the length of his shaft. Oliver gave quick intake of breath and his hands tightened. “Oh, Christ. Do that again.”
She eagerly complied, the delicious pressure causing streaks of electricity all along her legs. On the next roll, however, it became clear this was not enough for either of them. He groaned. “God. I want to thrust inside you, but I do not wish to hurt—”
She loved that he thought of her comfort first, that he would not rut like a mindless animal in heat. It gave her the courage to continue, to slide her legs apart and make room for him there. He shifted to line their hips together, the hard ridge of his shaft pressed between them. Without even knowing what she was doing, she angled her hips, asking for more. He lined the tip at her entrance and slowly pushed the head inside, panting against her mouth, his eyes screwed shut. Once there, he did not move, merely waited for her to take the lead.
Wrapping her leg more firmly about him, she shifted until the heavy weight of him slid in a little farther. Her body accommodated his length, the stretch of her inner tissues both foreign and thrilling. The pressure increased as he continued filling her, slowly and steadily, his forehead resting on hers, the sound of their breathing echoing around them. Finally, their hips joined, Oliver deep inside her.
She clutched his shoulders and marveled at the fullness, the way he was now a part of her. Oliver let out a moan, the tendons in his throat standing out in sharp relief. “You are so tight. I feel as though I might die if I do not hurry this along. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, and it was the truth. There had been no pain, only pressure, and she was now burning with the desperate need for movement.
“Thank God.” He rose up over her and planted his knees between her legs, his weight supported by his arms. Then he withdrew slightly only to push forward, the head of his shaft dragging over her inner walls.
“Oh,” she breathed, her toes curling with the shock of it.
His fingers threaded through hers, their palms pressed together, his gaze locked on hers as he thrust once more. “Christ, you are beautiful.”
She closed her eyes, too delirious to keep them focused. He drove deep and her body trembled, heat and fire licking through her veins. Then he lifted one of her knees, stretching her open farther, and began to move fiercely, the thick length of him spearing her. She could not think, could not speak except in low moans as he worked himself in and out of her channel. It was even better than what he had done with his mouth—and that had been nothing short of life altering.
His thumb pressed between her legs, working the tiny nub with familiar magic, and her legs soon trembled as the sensation built to a fever pitch. White-hot excitement built and built . . . until it crested, tossing her about like a wave. She shouted his name, dimly aware that Oliver had sped up, his hips now slapping against hers. Just as she regained her equilibrium, he gripped her tighter as his hips stuttered. He suddenly withdrew, his hand stroking his shaft twice before he ejaculated onto the bedclothes.
When he stopped shaking, he sagged on top of her, dropping down and crushing her into the mattress. She wrapped her arms around his sweaty back, liking this quiet moment of shared intimacy with no words necessary. Not even the weight of him bothered her. She liked supporting him, caring for him, and her heart expanded in her chest.
Oh. Was she falling in love with her husband?
There was no time to ponder that problem because Oliver began dropping kisses on her chest and throat. She had no idea if he was trying to reassure her or show his gratitude, but either way she adored him for it. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she cradled him close.
When he reached her mouth, he kissed her softly, gently, with a tenderness that stole her breath. “Stay with me tonight.”
“Here?” she asked when he had pulled back enough to see her lips.
He nodded. “I want you next to me. In my bed. Where you belong.”
She bit her lip, so filled with happiness that she could not prevent herself from grinning. “I’d like that.”
The next morning, Oliver was in his workshop when Christina strolled by the glass, bundled in her new black coat and thick black hat, headed toward the gardens. He smothered the insane desire to drag her inside the greenhouse and make love to her once again.
Last night was her first time. Let the woman catch her breath, for Christ’s sake.
She gave him a blinding smile and lifted her hand in greeting. He waved, his lips curling at the sight. God, how had he become so fortunate? She was breathtaking. And the way she’d responded in bed . . . His cock jumped in his clothing at just the memory.
Should he send a groom to accompany her? He did not care for the idea of her mother reappearing and accosting Christina again. She was his wife and he needed to protect her from those charlatans. Keep her safe. Never have her want for another thing in her life.
Before he could decide, a footman shuffled from the house, bundled up and trailing Christina. God bless Gill. The old man knew Oliver so well. He lifted his hand to the footman, giving him an approving nod.
Time passed as he tweaked his new device. It was almost ready. One of the main issues continued to be the battery. He had been using a lead-acid battery but the thing was heavy and unwieldy for everyday use. Nickel, however, showed the most promise for a new type of battery, one that would be smaller and last longer. An improved power source was key in ensuring his hearing device would reach the largest number of people. Based on his latest tests, he should be ready to apply for a patent in a month or so.
Apollo jumped up, alerting Oliver to someone’s presence just before the door opened. He expected to find his wife, but Gill was there instead. The man’s face was paler than usual, the lines around his mouth more pronounced. “Sir, you have a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Milton.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. Why was his cousin here? Frank must have informed Milton of his reduced allowance. “Where is he?”
“In your study, sir.”
“Sarah has not seen him, has she?” He wanted to keep his sister as far away from their cousin as possible.
“No, sir. She is still in her chambers.”
“Good. See that she stays there until Milton departs.”
Once inside the house, he made his way to the study, Gill not far behind. The door was ajar so he slipped inside, drawing in a deep breath for fortitude.
Milton stood when he saw Oliver. “Good morning, cousin.” He was outfitted in a loud green check suit so flashy it actually hurt Oliver’s eyes.
Oliver signed to Gill, who translated for Milton. “What do you want, Milton? If it is about the alpaca farm I have not changed my mind.”
“Now, listen. I was contacted by your lawyer and he led me to believe you are reducing my monthly allowance.”
“That is correct. I have been much too generous with you, apparently.”
Milton’s neck flushed a dull red. “Generous? You are mad.”
“No, merely wise to your schemes. Had you honestly thought Frank would not check with me before handing over a sum like that?”
His cousin appeared stunned but quickly recovered, adopting an air of indignation. “I do not see the problem. You can well afford the investment and I am your family. Perhaps I should help to manage more of our family’s—”
Oliver started signing, not even waiting for that ridiculous suggestion to finish. “Absolutely not,” Gill said, his eyes trained on Oliver’s hands. “Even if you had not tried to swindle me for five thousand dollars I would never trust you with the family finances. All you have done is squander your own wealth over the years.”
“That is because you are miserly with my funds. Your father cheated my father out of his rightful share of the money and now you are doing the same with me!”
Oliver rubbed his brow tiredly. When would Milton accept the truth?
Thomas Hawkes and his brother, Milton’s father, had started a trading company during the war. The work had been dangerous and not highly profitable, especially once the blockades were put in place. Milton’s father backed out, opting to open a dry goods store on Duane Street to provide for his growing family.
With only a wife and one child, Thomas had decided to embark on a risk. He went to England, bought war materials, and resold them to the Union army. When that turned a profit, he began investing in various businesses, such as real estate, railroads, and steel. His profits doubled every year once the war ended.
So no, Milton was not entitled to any of the Hawkes fortune.
Oliver signed, “Your father gave up his rights to the family business long before my father turned it profitable. The money was never yours, Milton.”
“That is not true.”
It was absolutely true but there was no arguing with Milton. God knew Oliver had tried. “If you continue to disagree with me, I shall reduce your monthly stipend by half instead of just ten percent.”
“Half! How dare you. The money I already receive is barely enough to live on. How am I supposed to get by with even less?”
“I could not say,” Oliver signed. “Perhaps you should stop gambling or cut your mistress loose. Doing both would save you a considerable sum each month. All I know is that your lifestyle and the money to maintain it are no longer my problem.”
Milton’s eyes nearly bulged from his skull, his lips white with rage. “You think you are so clever, sitting here in your giant house and tinkering on your inane inventions. You do not hear what everyone says about you, the names they call you. I have always defended you, told them they were wrong about Oliver Hawkes. What a fool I was to believe family meant something to you. What will happen, I wonder, when I stop defending you? Do you think you will finally be committed to one of those asylums?”
First outright thievery and now blackmail? For God’s sake . . . “If anyone is starting those rumors it is you. You should know one thing, however. Even if something happens to me, my wife shall control the money in the family’s interest—not you.” He had not yet changed his will, but Milton needn’t know that.
“Yes, your wife,” Milton said with a sneer. “I have done some digging into your wife. Meek little thing, is she not? If you were not around I suspect she’d need advice, some guidance on how to best oversee the Hawkes fortune.”
“Perhaps,” Gill translated. “But that guidance won’t be provided by you. Now get the hell out of my house, Milton. Any further communication between us may go through my attorney.”
Milton huffed, his body vibrating in outrage. “This is not over.” Jaw tight, he spun and stormed out of the study.
Gill hurried after Oliver’s cousin and Oliver scrubbed his face with both hands. Milton was the lowest form of human being. A spineless worm who felt entitled to a fortune he had no right to claim. Christ, he needed a bath after that meeting.
Or, maybe he would find his wife and see if he could persuade her to join him upstairs for a “nap.” A smile tugging at his lips, he thrust his hands in his pockets and sauntered outside.
Chapter Fifteen
Christina’s fingers were numb from the cold. Normally she went straight to her apartments after a walk but this morning she needed the extra warmth. The kitchens were hot this time of day, with food preparation well under way, so she headed there. Perhaps she could sneak a cup of hot tea to cradle in her hands to boot.
A small stone courtyard sat behind the kitchens, lined with pots for herbs and produce come summer. She entered through the heavy back door. Heavenly smells assaulted her, nearly causing her to stumble. Roasted chicken, bread, cinnamon . . . it was like a feast for her senses. Her stomach grumbled.
When she stepped into the kitchen, activity seemed to freeze, all eyes swinging her way. The undivided attention caused her pulse to race. Suddenly, she regretted not slipping into the house and going up to her room. “Good morning,” she forced out, hoping they would ignore her and resume their normal duties.
Her eye caught on a small table and chairs off to the side and she noticed Sarah sitting there. Sarah’s dark curls were piled on her head and she sipped from a china teacup. Christina came closer. “Good morning. May I join you?”
“Hello, Lady Christina,” Oliver’s sister said. “Please, sit. You look cold.”
“I am.” Christina lowered herself into one of the empty chairs. “And just Christina will do. I love your dress.” Made of green cotton, the garment was adorned with lots of lace and ruffles.
Sarah frowned at the compliment. “It’s babyish, which is why I wanted Oliver to take me shopping. None of the other girls at school wear dresses like this.”
The dress seemed appropriate for the girl’s age. “What sort of dresses do you want to wear?”
“Something sophisticated. Like what you wear.”
Christina did not bother to point out the obvious, that she was almost ten years Sarah’s senior. A maid set a cup and saucer on the table in front of Christina. She reached for the pot to pour herself tea. “When you are my age, after your debut, I am certain he will buy you whatever you wish.”
“Doubtful,” Sarah mumbled. “Oliver never cares about what I want. He always thinks he is right.”
Christina had no idea how to respond. Negotiating sibling squabbles was far outside her realm of expertise. “What is school like?”
“It is mostly fun. I have lots of friends and my marks are high. I like visiting here and seeing my brother, but there is never much to do. That is why I am so relieved he has finally married.”
Christina was happy to have Sarah’s approval but she did not follow the reasoning behind it. “Because you want him to do more?”
“No. I mean, yes. That would be nice, but I do not expect him to change. I meant you.” Sarah raised her brows meaningfully. “You and I shall become good friends. We will travel all over the city together.”
Christina’s heart sank. Oliver’s sister wanted a friend, a companion here in New York. She had no idea that Christina was not suited for this role at all. Still, Christina hated to disappoint her. “I . . . I suppose someday we might.”
Gill arrived. “Miss Sarah, Mr. Harris awaits you in the stables.”
&n
bsp; Christina latched on to the new topic, anything to evade discussions of exploring the city. “That sounds like fun. You like horses, do you?”
“Oh, yes,” Sarah answered. “I plan to have a whole stable of them when I grow up. Would you like to come with me? I will show you my favorite one.”
She cleared her throat. “I am actually afraid of horses.”
“You are?” Sarah’s eyes went wide.
“Yes, ever since I can remember.”
“Were you thrown as a little girl?”
“No, nothing as terrible as that. I just never learned how to ride and the animals are quite big.”
“I could teach you,” Sarah said, her voice full of confidence.
“Miss Sarah,” Gill said gently. “I believe the cook has carrots and apples set aside for the horses. Perhaps you would take them?”
“Oh, yes. They love those.” The girl stood up from the table and raced to the other side of the kitchen.
Gill studied Christina’s face. “If you care to escape now, madam, I am happy to give the young girl an excuse on your behalf.”
“No need. I do not mind her exuberance. She is so different than I was at her age.” Or now, for that matter. Christina never would have invited an adult to come to the stables with her or dared to ask personal questions of a near stranger. It was refreshing to see a girl being raised to speak her mind and act confidently. How much of that was Oliver’s influence? “I have enjoyed spending time with her.”
Gill gave a brisk nod. “Mr. Hawkes is fond of his sister but has always been a good deal older. I am certain she will like having another young woman around.”
Christina looked over at where Sarah and the cook were standing. Something Sarah said made the cook laugh. “I have no doubt I shall like having her around as well.”
Oliver finally found Christina in the last place he expected. When a footman told him his wife was in the kitchens, Oliver thought he had read the man’s words incorrectly. Sure enough, however, when he went below she was there, sitting at a small table and talking to his sister.
