by Jo Robertson
She seemed very eager for him not to stay, and leaving was probably best given his history with women who cloaked worldliness with a thin veneer of innocence. Like Constance, Emma sometimes behaved as though she'd amassed a wide array of sexual experience, but on an occasion her words spoke otherwise.
He should go before desire overrode his better judgment.
"I can see that you are as eager for my departure as your cook is," he said testing the waters. As he laughed, he wormed his way into the jacket, stuffing the neck cloth and waistcoat into his greatcoat pockets. "Never fear, Emma, I am on my way."
"I didn't intend to be rude," she protested weakly. He watched a delightful flush creep from the swell of her breasts through her neck to settle like an early-morning sunrise on the finely sculpted cheekbones.
He smiled while the urge to touch her strained against his common sense. "Well, at any rate, we appear to be finished with our work on the case for the moment." He tossed the heavy coat over his arm and strolled toward the marble-floored foyer.
Her voice stopped him at the front door. "We did not finish our plan for Alma's defense."
He paused, his back toward her. "I believe her actual defense is an area I must strategize myself." He turned the knob and stepped onto the landing.
The frustration in her voice halted him on the first brick step that led down to the graveled turnabout. "Malachi!"
He believed that exclamation cost a great deal of her pride, acknowledging as they did her hunger for him. She wanted him. That was clear. They were both worldly adults of a legal age. For those reasons, and his own throbbing need, he turned and crossed back over the threshold into the foyer.
Before his marriage to Constance, he'd been relatively inexperienced, but after their separation, he'd flung himself into a year-long debauchery that now shamed him. Now he satisfied his needs with the occasional widowed or unmarried women who had no expectations of him.
Why then did he hesitate to couple with Emma? She was willing and desirable. And certainly, she was no innocent.
Suddenly the long hours of work on the case exhausted him. He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed at the pain bridging his brow. He gently closed the door behind him, leaned back against it, and inspected her for several long moments.
"What do you want of me, Emma?" he asked, running a forefinger across the smooth line of her jaw.
A wild, animal attraction electrified the space between them.
She covered his hand and gestured toward the parlor. "We could talk further about Alma's case, of course." Her hips swayed gently as she led him into the room. "Or we could talk of other things."
He flung his coat on a heavy piece of furniture at odds with the blatant femininity of the rest of the décor while she crossed the foyer into the dining area. He heard the faint clink of glass against glass.
Removing his jacket and rolling down his shirt sleeves, he glanced around the room. The parlor contained a frilly sofa and matching chair covered in various pink hues splashed with muted hues of gold and brown. Heavy drapes hung at the windows and a rich wine-colored rug covered the oak floors.
Bold woman, Emma Knight, to decorate a room in colors that might clash with the rich auburn of her hair.
A curio cabinet to the eastern wall held a variety of figures, including a miniature bronze of Rodin's The Age of Bronze, the well-proportioned naked man poised with his right hand over his head to reveal the lapping musculature of his ribs and chest.
A life-size sculpture of Lorenzo Bartolini's Nymph and the Scorpion was tucked into a corner beside the archway of the door. Why wasn't he surprised that art of a naked man and woman was displayed prominently in her house?
The chair he chose was deep and comfortable, fine leather in a rich chocolate color, one that matched Emma's eyes. He sank into the soft folds and rested his head on the high back, closing his eyes.
Why in hell was he still here? Did he believe he could bed a woman like Emma Knight and then ignore her? She was beautiful and prickly and smart as hell, but he didn't love her and had no thought to marry again.
"I thought you might like brandy." She spoke from the archway and when he opened his eyes to look in her direction, he saw that she carried a tray with decanter and two snifters. She positioned herself on the sofa, laid the tray on the nearby table, and poured the amber liquor into each glass.
Malachi sighed deeply, downed the brandy quickly, and sat beside her. Emma clearly wanted him to make love to her, and unfortunately, the many reasons not to become involved with her had fled his brain at the moment.
Their hips touched as he edged closer to her and twined his fingers in her hair. He pulled out the remaining pins one by one, dropping them onto the sofa cushion.
When her rich curls splayed across his hand, he lifted them to his lips and inhaled the scent of her shampoo, her perfume, her body, and beneath it all the unmistakable odor of arousal. He trailed his fingers down her neck and across the swell of her breasts, fascinated with the vein that pulsated at her throat.
His blood thrummed through him like wildfire and his erection tightened against his trousers.
"Malachi." She moaned his name and turned her face into his hand, her breath warm and moist on his palm. Shards of craving gnawed at his self-control.
"You've done this before." He intended to form the words as a question rather than a statement, but was irrationally irritated at the thought of another man enjoying her body.
She laughed softly. "A lady never speaks of her lovers."
He groaned and reached for her again, his hands enormous round her slender waist. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, delighting in her gasp of pleasure, and delved into the sweet flesh of her mouth. He'd thought only to kiss her, to go no further this time, but once he'd begun tasting her, he couldn't stop.
His kiss deepened like a thirsty man quenching his parched need. He held the back of her head firmly as he tasted her mouth and nipped at her lips, darting his tongue in and out of her mouth in a simulation of the thrusting his body yearned to perform between her legs.
Her response was wild, uninhibited, practiced.
Thank God, she wasn't an innocent. Constance's trickery years ago had vowed him off virgins, or rather, women who passed themselves off as such in order to deceive a man into marriage.
"Touch me," she begged into his mouth. She reached for his hand and pressed it against her breast, and then worked at the fastenings that loosened his trousers. A moment later he felt the cool wrap of her fingers around him, the sure exploration of his shaft.
"Good God, woman, slowly! You'll have me finish before we've begun." His harsh breathing roared in his ears.
After a moment he stood up and tucked himself back into his pants. He poured himself another brandy, struggling a moment as propriety battled with lust. When his heart ceased to thunder in his temples and his breathing approximated normal, he turned to face her.
"Emma, this is a dangerous road we're about to travel."
Her chest heaved and her voice sounded ragged. He felt irrationally smug that he'd roused her so thoroughly. "Not so dangerous," she whispered.
"Yes," he replied with a modicum of rationality, "it is dangerous." He would not take this irrevocable action without her understanding the reality of their actions. "I am older than you by a good many years. I understand the damage that can be done to your reputation."
"And what of your reputation?"
"You know that it is different for a man than a woman."
"Yes, of course." Bitterness was heavy in her tone. "A lady is not allowed to demonstrate passion or feelings of sexuality. Another issue in which our sex is inferior to yours."
As though she needed to arm herself for battle, she poured a drink and tossed it down like a seaman. She sputtered, coughed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then tossed her mane of fire from her face. "For once women ought to come out on top."
A bawdy bark of laughter escaped him. "Yes, there'
s that." He reached for her hand and drew her close. He saw puzzlement flit crossed her face, but in the next second it was gone and he thought he imagined it.
"I'm sure I should too," she answered with a smile, pressing her body against him.
He narrowed his eyes. "Are you prepared?" He'd neglected to carry a condom with him, unprepared for the night's turn of events.
"Prepared?" she echoed.
"For contraception," he prompted. "Have you thought that what happens between us could lead to a child?"
"Don't be silly. I know what I'm doing."
He frowned and lifted her chin to examine her face. She'd gone for him straight away, taken him in her hand with a practiced motion.
She ran her hands slowly down his chest and set his pulses racing. "I'm a modern woman, Malachi, and I believe in my right to experience life to its fullest. Wouldn't you agree that ... lovemaking is one of life's greatest pleasures?"
Still holding her chin, he smoothed his thumb over her lip, watching as she opened her mouth and sucked and nipped at it. "Ah, yes, one of life's most rousing diversions," he said, feeling his cock heavy and rigid against her dress.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and ruffled her fingers through his hair. "Then let us talk less about it and act more."
He kissed her heartily before releasing her.
"I am going upstairs to my bedroom." Her voice was firm. "I should very much like you to join me there in a few moments."
When she reached the bottom step of the staircase, he uttered one last question. "Emma?"
She paused, her foot raised to step upward. "Yes?"
"Why did you say the other day that you might want to be f – made love to? Why did you use that coarse word?"
"Perhaps I wanted you to know that I could speak such an obscenity."
He nodded, for that's what he'd surmised. "Well, then, I will enjoy bedding you, Emma." He paused. "But let us be clear. I have no inkling for marriage. I will not marry you."
The words hung between them like a challenge to battle. Neither had mentioned matrimony, but Malachi wanted his intentions clear.
"I want you. God, I can't remember desiring a woman more. But we are speaking of physical pleasure, mutual physical pleasure, not a life-time commitment. If you are not clear about this, you must say so now."
She frowned, but he could not read her expression in the dim light of the stairway. "Why should I give up all that I have – my freedom and wealth – to be under the thumb of a man?" She gestured around her, arms akimbo. "I've never wanted to marry, Malachi. Why should I consider it now?"
"You must be sure, Emma. I am not a man for marriage, family, and children."
"You flatter yourself, Malachi. I want sensual experience from you, nothing more." She continued up the stairs before he could utter another word.
He stood minutes later in the lighted parlor, his brandy glass dangling from his fingers.
What in hell was he to do with a woman like that?
#
Malachi checked the time on his pocket watch, walked out onto the landing of Emma's porch, and sat in the swing around the side of the house where he'd first kissed Emma. He could see the lights wink out in the windows of the caretakers cottage some distance away. Sarah Ralston and her husband must believe he'd gone home too.
But Malachi wouldn't put it past the wily Mr. Ralston to come back and make sure.
He pushed back and forth on the swing, contemplating his position, his reputation. His lust. He thought about Emma's family, her position in the community, her reputation. Her unchecked passion.
His logic told him to leave her alone – what good could come from a liaison with such a lady, a stubborn, independent, fiery woman who'd never give him a moment's peace? But his desire – and perhaps that cold organ resting above his ribs – teased him into believing a woman like Emma could be worth disrupting his ordered life.
Until he returned to the parlor to retrieve his outer clothing, he wasn't sure what action he'd take – stay or run like hell's hounds chased him. The former was far more appealing, but the latter compellingly prudent. Never one for indecision, his vacillation between logic and desire irritated him.
Lingering between the stairs and the front door, he came upon a full-sized portrait of a young girl with riotous red curls. The painting hung at the far end of the foyer beneath the stairway's alcove and was surely young Emma around the age of twelve.
The buds that would develop into the rounded mounds of breasts that now tantalized him pushed against the thin white dress of the girl in the picture. Unsmiling, her face showed a serious expression that, even at a young age, foreshadowed curiosity mixed with defiance.
Suddenly he found himself longing to know that young Emma. Impatience rode him now and more than mere lust drove him as he dropped his coat and jacket on the settee beneath the picture, and then took the stairs two at a time to the only door ajar down the long hallway of the second floor.
When he entered, Emma faced a long bank of windows, her back to him. "You stayed," she said softly, turning to face him. Her smile was wide and lovely and radiated like sunshine.
"Yes."
His eyes raked over the light lavender robe laced with white around the wrists and hem and covering a high-necked gown. Far less of her skin showed now than with the décolletage of the dress she'd worn earlier.
Emma had planned this temptation well. She'd known how erotic removing that puritanical clothing from her body would be. Obviously his flame-haired succubus was well-practiced in the art of enticement.
When he reached for her, her hands were like ice. "Are you cold?" He wrapped his arms tightly around her, tucked her body firmly against him, and buried his face in her glorious hair. "Let me warm you."
He ran his hands vigorously up and down her arms, her back, and the firm flesh of her derriere. She arched her body against him and sighed.
God, he was so hot for her he wouldn't be able to contain himself if they didn't pace their lovemaking. He stepped back, held her at arms' length, and grinned. "I also need a moment to prepare myself. Where is the ... uh ... ?"
Her eyes looked dazed, her lips swollen as she pointed across the room.
Inside the small comfort room with adjoining flush toilet enclosure, he relieved himself. After discovering cloths stacked on a white, wooden shelf, he washed up in the porcelain basin. When he rinsed out his mouth, he discovered a tube of dental cream on the vanity. He rubbed it over his gums and rinsed again.
He scraped his hand over his heavy beard. Nothing he could do about that, though he'd hate to mar her skin with the spiky bristles. Grinning at his reflection, he imagined a vision of his head buried between her legs, his scruffy cheeks chaffing the tender flesh of her inner thighs. His cock pushed against his clothing like a rapier arising from its hilt.
He splashed cold water on his face and chest once more and waited for the erection to subside. When he felt fully in control of his lust, he dried off and put his shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned, then padded back into the bedroom on bare feet.
Emma had dimmed the lights and turned back the bed covers. She stood on the opposite side, twisting her fingers into the lavender fabric. When he crossed the room toward her and held out his hand, she clasped it eagerly. He pulled her close.
Framing her face between his hands, he stared into the deep brown eyes. "God, you are so lovely." He lowered his mouth to hers and breathed in the faint scent of brandy and cinnamon on her breath.
The kiss began tenderly, but her passion flared so quickly that he responded by plundering her mouth with his tongue, tasting the soft, moist interior. She nibbled and sucked at his lip, returning his ardor with an unexpected fervor that incited him almost beyond reason. Trailing kisses down her neck, he reached the mounds of her breast through the silky fabric and suckled the nipples until they rose to hardened peaks.
Although he wanted to rip the garment from her body, he forced himself to calm his raging libido and
slowly unbuttoned the tiny pearl fastenings holding the robe together. His large, clumsy hands trembled with eagerness, but he riveted his eyes to her face. Her expression fascinated him, both practiced and uninitiated, a cross between sultriness and innocence.
Her eyes fluttered closed. Thin blue veins shadowed her lids, framed by the blackest of short, thick lashes. With each tug of another button, a moan escaped her parted lips. He ran his tongue across her bottom lip and her eyes flew open, in such proximity to his own that he felt himself drown in the inkiness of her irises.
At last he worked the last button open and the robe fell to her feet, leaving only the high-necked gown covering her body. When he reached around her, he felt the deep plunge of her bare back down to the rounded fullness of her buttocks.
Christ, all demureness in front and decadence in back!
Chapter 14
"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?" – Macbeth
Malachi dipped his fingers beneath the fabric and kneaded the soft flesh of her bottom for a long moment while he kissed her slowly and deliberately. Her breathing hitched provocatively as he continued to stroke her with his hands and his mouth.
At the shoulders, he loosened one of the two silky ties which held the nightgown in place. The garment fell below her breast, exposing her flesh – full, soft, and firm – pale as fine porcelain and tipped with a soft, rosy peak. The sight of her bare skin mesmerized him.
He rubbed the nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it hardened to a firm nub. Then he took it into his mouth and suckled, gently at first, but when she tugged his head closer to her chest, harder.
"I can't wait," he breathed harshly against her throat.
"I want you," she panted. "God, I want you inside of me."
He untied the other ribbon and let the gown float to the floor, pooling like pastel paint at her feet. "Christ, you are beautiful," he muttered, impatient as a young buck with his first woman. Greedy to explore every naked inch of her.
Kneeling in front of her, his eyes at eye level with her chest, he trailed his fingers from her breasts, across her belly, and down her thighs. He parted her legs to dip his fingers into the flaming curls and the moist folds beneath.
