by Candace Camp
She leaned closer. Her face burned with embarrassment, yet she could not seem to keep her hand from creeping out, closer and closer to him, until at last her fingertips touched the covers. With the gentlest of touches, scarcely daring even to breathe, she peeled the covers back, revealing his bare body down to his powerful thighs.
The fire in her face flamed higher. She stared, mesmerized, unable to look away. She gazed at his flat stomach, at the dips and curves of muscles, bone and skin. She looked at the thick musculature of his thighs, smooth beneath his hair-roughened skin. But, primarily, she stared at what lay between his legs: the nest of thick black hair, and the male organ that lay within it, thick and heavy. This, then, was how a man looked?
Camilla gulped. She had never quite imagined it like this. Though she would never have admitted it to another soul, she knew that she had thought about the subject several times. She was not sure exactly what she had expected, but the reality of it was different…and much more powerful.
As she watched, he made a noise in his sleep and rolled over onto his side. Her eyes were drawn to the sleek line of his hip and thigh, the curve of his buttock. Without thinking, she reached out and drew her fingertips down the smooth stretch of skin. Her fingers trembled; she was startled by the warmth of him, and by the shock of pleasure that ran up her arm at the touch.
She knew that she should draw her hand away, yet she could not. She curved her palm over his buttock, entranced by the different texture. Was all of him so different, so pleasurable to touch?
Camilla ran her hand up his side, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the frantic warning of her brain. Just for a moment, she told herself. Just this one touch. She moved upward, exploring the softness of his side, then the hard ridges of his rib cage. The skin of his chest was no longer smooth, but dotted with hair, the muscle firm underneath. Her thumb glided across the tiny bud of his nipple, and to her amazement it tightened at her touch.
She stopped, looking at the pinkish bud, remembering how her own nipple had hardened in response to him the other day. Thoughtfully she circled the button of flesh with her thumb, enjoying the response. She was unaware of the faint, sensual smile that curved her lips.
“Move your hand farther down and we shall both be smiling.” His husky voice cut through Camilla’s thoughts.
She gasped and snatched her hand back, looking up at Benedict’s face. He was watching her, his dark eyes flaming with an unholy light. Camilla’s face flooded deep crimson with humiliation, and, with a strangled cry, she turned and ran toward the door.
In an instant, he was out of the bed and running after her. He caught her before she reached the door, his arms going around her from behind.
“No. Don’t leave. Good God, you can’t leave after that!”
Camilla moaned and brought her hands up to cover her face. She knew that she would never live this down. She could not even face him again. She had done embarrassing things before in her life, but nothing like this.
“Let me go!” she cried in a low, strangled voice, pulling against his arms.
“Shh.” He buried his face in her hair, kissing her. “It’s all right. Don’t go. Don’t turn away from me.”
His breath came quickly, and there was a tremor in his low voice. He kissed her neck, and his hand began to caress her stomach. Camilla shivered, unable to hide her intense response. Even the sound of his breath excited her. She could hardly believe that she could feel this way in the midst of humiliation, and the very fact that she could respond so heatedly, so animalistically, seemed yet another embarrassment.
“I didn’t mind what you did,” Benedict told her, so close behind her that she could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest as he spoke. She could just imagine his smug smile as he went on. “Believe me, I enjoyed it.”
Camilla let out a low moan and tore away from him. She ran back to the bed and threw herself upon it, curling up into a ball, away from him. He followed. She felt the bed give beneath his weight, and he laid a hand upon her back, softly rubbing it up and down over her curved spine.
“Shh…don’t take it so to heart.” He stretched out beside her on his elbow, letting his low voice and comforting hand work their magic.
His hand curved down over her bottom, caressing the rounded fullness. He roamed over her buttocks, gliding up to the small of her back, then back down, over the curve and onto her thigh. Again and again, he caressed her while he murmured meaningless sounds of comfort. He moved around and up, sliding his hand onto her stomach, then cupping her breast. Camilla realized that at some point while he was caressing her, she had relaxed, uncurling from the tight ball she had been in, allowing his roving hand access to her front.
His skin was hot through the material of her dress; his fingertips seared the soft flesh of her breasts. He squeezed and stroked, arousing her nipples to hardened points. His hand moved above her neckline and slid inside the dress, pushing the material down and cupping the bare orb of her breast.
Camilla gasped at the delight of his rougher skin on the tender bud. He circled the pebbling nub of flesh, then lightly pinched it between his forefinger and thumb, pulling gently. Camilla could not suppress a groan at the new and delightful sensation. He slipped his other arm around her, taking both breasts in his hands and playing with them, teasing her nipples so that they elongated, pushing saucily against his fingertips.
He pulled his hands away, and she gasped at the loss, but before she could protest, he was sliding them up under her skirts. His fingers moved up the backs of her thighs and cupped the soft mounds of her buttocks. He dug into the soft flesh, and Camilla unconsciously moved her hips, inviting more. He answered by slipping one hand between her legs. Though she was still sheathed by her undergarment, he could feel the blazing heat of her body and the welcoming dampness.
Camilla moaned, embarrassed by the eager wetness that greeted him, but she could not stop herself from moving against his hand. Her nether lips felt huge and swollen, and she was literally aching to feel his touch upon her bare flesh.
“Please,” she whispered, rubbing against his fingertips. “We must not. We must stop.” Yet she knew that she could not stop, that if he pulled away from her now, she would probably scream and claw to get him back. “I cannot…”
“Don’t worry.” He curved over her, whispering into her ear and sending delightful shivers through her at the touch of his breath. “I won’t harm you. I will only pleasure you.”
Camilla drew a ragged breath. She didn’t know what he meant. But she had expended what little protest she had in her.
“Now, turn over.” He stopped the pleasurable things that he was doing and tugged on her arm, turning her over on her back. “I want to see you.” He began to unfasten her buttons, opening her dress all the way down.
Camilla lay quietly, letting him work on her clothes, and all the while her eyes traveled over his body. She was past shame now, entranced by the feel of his hands on her body. She gazed at his muscular body, at the organ that now hung huge and thrusting between his legs, far larger than it had been earlier, and she could feel herself flushing again, but this time with desire.
He undressed her, working swiftly and competently, pausing now and then to caress her hip or thigh or stomach, or to drop a kiss upon the hard bud of her nipple. Finally, he had her naked before him. He gazed down at her for a long time, his eyes taking in every inch of her body, and all the while Camilla grew hotter and hungrier for his touch, until she was almost ready to cry out.
He laid his hands over her breasts and began to caress her. He moved slowly, surely, taking his time, gliding his fingers over her sensitive skin. He lingered over the softness of her breasts and stomach and explored the hard ridges of her hip bones. Teasingly, he circled the well of her navel with his forefinger, then trailed it slowly down to the thatch of hair between her legs. Camilla’s gasp was al
most a sob, and she dug her fingers into the sheets, arching up involuntarily to meet him.
His finger delved into the slick, tender folds, opening and exploring them. All the while, he looked at her face, watching passion suffuse her features, glazing her eyes and slackening her lips. Camilla panted, digging in her heels, her body as taut as a bowstring. She was flooded with moisture, quivering with desire. Something hot and hungry coiled deep in her abdomen. She thought that she could feel no newer or greater sensation.
But then he bent and touched his tongue to her nipple, and she knew that she had been wrong. Hot and wet, his tongue flicked back and forth across the tight bud, lashing it lovingly. With each little stroke, the knot in her abdomen tightened even more. He took the nipple into the warm, wet cave of his mouth and began to suck. Camilla let out a shuddering groan. Every pull of his mouth sizzled straight down to the swollen, pulsing center of her desire, where his fingers were still busily at work.
She writhed beneath him, aching for release from the delightful torment. His mouth trailed downward. His tongue circled her navel. Camilla dug her heels into the bed, straining up against him. Benedict raised his head and looked down at her quivering, lush body. His eyes roamed slowly upward to her flushed face. He watched her intently as his thumb found the tiny hard nub at the seat of her passion and gently stroked it. Camilla moaned, shocked and amazed at this newest, even more intense, pleasure. Her body trembled, caught on the threshold of something she had never dreamed of.
Benedict smiled, and his thumb pressed harder. Camilla cried out as she tumbled over the precipice. She convulsed around him, her legs clamping together as a flush suffused her chest and neck.
Finally, with a soft sigh, she relaxed. Camilla looked up at him and smiled shyly, filled with the most complete satisfaction she had ever known. “Oh, Benedict…”
He pulled his hand away slowly, trailing it down her soft thighs. Camilla glanced down and saw his throbbing, engorged manhood. “Oh!” She looked back up at his face anxiously. “But, Benedict, aren’t you… Don’t you…?”
He smiled. “Yes. I am, and I do.” It took a great deal of effort for him to merely lean over and plant a brief kiss on her soft lips. “But don’t worry. It will be all right. I promised not to dishonor you, and I won’t. That was entirely for your pleasure.”
“Yes, but…”
“Shh.” He shook his head. “I will be all right.”
He bent and kissed her again, this time letting some of his restrained passion show, but after a long moment, he pulled away. “Now, close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“Will you stay here with me?”
He nodded. “Yes. I will stay here.”
Camilla smiled, a little fuzzily, still wrapped up in the warm cocoon of her afterglow, and obediently closed her eyes.
Benedict swallowed hard and turned away, struggling to retain control. Her innocent questions had almost been the undoing of him. He had been mad, he knew, to do what he had done. He would pay for it the rest of the evening. He should have walked away, left the room, but he had been unable to resist the temptation. But at least he had had enough strength not to take her. There had been a few moments there when he was not sure he would be able to restrain himself.
He lay back down and closed his eyes, throwing his arm across them. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, then drew another, slowly willing himself into a calmer state.
He thought about Camilla and the situation they were in. He thought about his honor and hers, and the old man in the room at the end of the hall. He thought about her foolish cousin and her loyalty, about the passion that had thrummed in him the past few days and the way she had dissolved in pleasure beneath his touch. It was a long time before he slept.
* * *
CAMILLA LAZILY DREW her needle through the fabric, stretched tight by the embroidery hoop, her mind only half attuned to her aunt’s light prattle. She had been in a dreamy state all morning. She had awakened early, feeling blissfully happy and refreshed. She had lain for a short while, looking at Benedict as he slept and wondering if she would ever again feel what she had felt the night before. Just thinking about it made her nerves start to sizzle.
Quickly she had jumped out of bed and dressed. The last thing she had wanted was for Benedict to wake up and find her mooning over him. It miffed her a little that he had been perfectly in command of his desires and emotions while being able to so completely destroy her control. Not, of course, that she had not been a very willing participant in that loss of control.
The tide had already been up, so she had not gone across to the island. Instead, she had wandered down to breakfast and then into the less formal sitting room. With her thoughts still on the night before and with nothing better to do, she had picked up a partially done embroidery of a pillowcase. Before long, Lydia joined her. Since she wanted to talk at length, as she had ever since Camilla had arrived at the Park, about Benedict’s courtship, the conversation had severely taxed Camilla’s powers of imagination.
Fortunately, Mr. Thorne had come in and distracted her aunt, saying, “Ah, if only I had the power to paint a portrait of you now, madam. A veritable Arachne.”
“But she wove, did she not, rather than sewing?” Camilla asked with great innocence. “And, if I remember correctly, she wound up as a spider.”
“A spider!” Lydia exclaimed. “Really, Mr. Thorne, I think I prefer not to be compared to a spider.”
The young man looked chagrined. “I meant the woman before the jealous goddess changed her, of course. I would rather cut my tongue out than offend you.”
“Well, I don’t really see how that would help,” Lydia protested mildly, and Camilla had to press her lips together tightly to keep from laughing out loud at the admirer’s offended expression.
Camilla returned to daydreaming as Mr. Thorne and Lydia continued to talk, primarily about acquaintances they had in common and a London Season about which Camilla knew little.
Then Benedict strolled into the room, and suddenly every nerve in Camilla’s body was awake. She wasn’t sure how she had known he was there. He had, as usual, made almost no sound, and she had been looking down at her needlework. But somehow she had sensed his presence, and she looked up to find him standing in the doorway, watching her.
A blush immediately mounted in her cheeks. “G-good morning, Benedict.”
“My dear.” He came into the room, greeting Lydia and her swain politely, then took up a seat beside Camilla on the sofa. “How are you this morning? I trust you slept well.”
Camilla’s blush deepened. “I— Uh, very well. I mean, it was good. I liked—” It seemed as if everything she said pulled her deeper into the morass of double meaning, so she stumbled to a halt.
He smiled, and Camilla’s eyes were drawn to the curve of his lips. He had a lovely smile, she thought, but even better than his smile was the way his lips felt on hers. She remembered them on her body, loving her breasts, and all other thoughts went out of her head.
“I thought today would be a perfect day for us to picnic at the old keep,” he went on.
“What?” Camilla looked up at him, her eyes as wide and startled as a doe’s.
“Keep Island,” Benedict explained. “You said that we would explore it one day, and I thought today would be ideal. We can take a picnic lunch with us.”
“Uh…” Why had he seized upon this idea? It seemed to her that he had an uncanny sense of what she would most like not to do. “But the tide is in,” she protested lamely.
“We can take a boat, can we not? I can row across so narrow a strip of water.”
“Oh, yes!” Lydia exclaimed delightedly. “That sounds like just the thing. So romantic.”
“Eating among the ruins?” Camilla countered doubtfully. “I’ve been there many times,” she told Benedict, “and it is really nothing re
markable.”
“Oh, but think of the past,” Mr. Thorne put in, obviously horrified that she did not appreciate the keep’s Gothic charms. “The heroics, the evil deeds. Dungeons and fair damsels in distress.”
“I think it was rather more drafty than exciting living there,” Camilla pointed out practically. “I don’t think there were any dungeons—or any damsels in distress, for that matter.”
“Don’t be so practical,” Benedict said cajolingly. “I have never seen it, so it seems quite interesting to me.”
Camilla realized that if she protested any more she would make everyone suspicious, so she forced a smile and said, “Yes, I suppose we could go.”
Her patient, she reminded herself, was hidden away below ground. There was no reason to think that Benedict would get a glimpse of him. Of course, there was the entrance to the cellars. If he found that, he might want to go exploring down there. But, hopefully, she could dissuade him, could convince him that the old cellars were unsafe.
She sent a note to Cook, telling her to prepare a picnic basket, and went upstairs to change into a dress more appropriate for clambering around among rocks and ruins. Carrying the basket of food, they walked down to the Park’s dock, where Camilla was relieved to see Anthony’s small boat moored. They took the rowboat and made their way across the smooth waters to the island.
Camilla dutifully led Benedict up to the ruins and showed him where the great hall and the other rooms had been. Benedict, to her dismay, seemed bent on poking his nose into every nook and cranny. Struggling to keep a smile plastered to her face, she catered to his whims, showing him around every pile of rubble. When they were in the old kitchen area, near the door down into the cellars, she was careful to keep her eyes away from the scraggly bush that hid the square wooden door in the ground behind it, and was equally careful not to appear nervous or anxious to leave.
