by Ladd,Ashley
This time she held herself off until she felt him ready to come, then let her liquid release and soak him as he spurted into her. When she fell forward this time his hands came around to caress her back and shoulders. His lips traced tender kisses across her forehead, and he crooned soothing words to her.
But always, when they crawled into bed to sleep, Holly lay cradled in Michael’s arms, the position of his hand on her a definite Keep Off sign. There were no restrictions during play time, but when it was over, she was all his.
More than once Holly wanted to ask him if this meant their relationship was truly permanent, but she bit her tongue. Time enough for that when they were back in Denver.
On the last night everyone seemed more intense than usual, the imminent conclusion to their week of high-flying, supercharged sex and unbelievable eroticism kept them all in a state of perpetual arousal. They had all climaxed at least twice. Now Holly was on the bed face down, wrists cuffed and attached by a thong to the headboard, the spreader bar holding her legs wide. Duncan had just applied a liberal amount of oil into her pussy. Tonight she would take two cocks in there while the third man fucked her mouth.
When Michael looked at her, he saw the dark excitement shining in her eyes and kissed her so hard he stole her breath. He had insisted on being one of the two men, and now he helped Duncan finish preparing her.
Holly clenched her hands as Michael’s shaft worked its way into her, and he rolled his hips, seating himself to the balls. Then he leaned forward to make room for Jim who crouched down behind him. One tiny movement at a time, Jim pressed into the waiting vagina, his oiled shaft sliding tightly against Michael’s.
“Breathe, honey” Michael said when Holly tensed. “Breathe so you can relax.”
She tried to take deep breaths but she felt so full she didn’t think she could do it. Then Duncan released the thong, sat cross-legged at her head and cupped her cheeks in his hands, guiding her mouth to his penis. He nodded at the two men behind her who began moving slowly, together, stretching her unbelievably. Impossibly.
And she stopped thinking.
It was all sensation. The friction in her mouth. In her cunt. Everywhere. Her body was on fire. Heat sparked through her everywhere. That dark spiral of need uncoiled again, unwinding its way through her, grabbing every nerve ending and muscle.
When their orgasms hit them all it was more cataclysmic than any they’d experienced all week. They shook and shuddered in a jerky rhythm, cries filling the air, hands grasping and clutching, Holly’s cunt milking the two shafts filling her while she hollowed her cheeks to suck the last bit of cum from Duncan.
When it was over no one wanted to move, but Jim and Michael forced themselves to crawl away from Holly, knowing they were too heavy for her. She lay there totally limp, unable to move a muscle. The room was redolent with the scents of the blazing fire, Scotch, musk and sex. Holly wondered if she could bottle it and sell it. They’d make a fortune.
“Well, kids,” Duncan said at last. “Michael and Holly have an early plane to catch so I guess we should try to get at least a little sleep.”
Jim lay back against the pillows, his cock limp against his thigh, his body completely spent but a smile on his face. “I have to say thanks for inviting me here this week.” He shifted position and groaned slightly. “It was great seeing you guys again. And Holly, my darling, it was more than a treat getting to know you.”
“You, too, Jim.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “All of you.”
“Ah, sweet cheeks, you make me blush. Well. I hope we can do it again. Soon.”
Duncan looked at Michael. “I’m game. What about you two?”
Michael dragged himself off the bed and managed to stand up. “Maybe. But I have something to ask Holly first, and you can both be witnesses. Then we’ll see after that.”
Holly wrinkled her brow at him. They had released the spreader and cuffs and she lay curled on her side on the bed. “Is this another surprise?”
“Mm hmm. One I hope you like. Don’t move, okay?”
“Like I could,” she chuckled weakly.
Michael disappeared into the room where they’d left their things and came out minutes later with his hands behind his back.
“Holly, my love, we’ve been together for four years. They’ve been the best four years of my life.”
Holly felt a knot in her stomach. Was he saying goodbye to her? Passing her off to one of his friends here? No, Michael had more class than that.
“Mine, too,” she agreed, her voice tremulous.
“I want to make sure the rest of my life is just as good.” He brought his hands out, one of them holding a small black jeweller’s box. When he opened it, an emerald cut solitaire diamond winked in the firelight.
Holly was glad she was lying down, otherwise she was sure she’d pass out. “Michael.” She wet her lips. “Are you asking me…that is, are you…”
He took pity on her then as she stumbled over her words. Naked, his cock even now semi-erect, he dropped to one knee at the side of the bed and reached for her hand. “Say you’ll marry me. I love you more than I ever thought I could love a woman. And I promise to make you happy.”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, Michael, you already do.”
She held out her left hand, and he slipped on the ring. A perfect fit.
“I was actually going to wait until we were on the plane to do this,” he said. “But I thought after the intimate week we’ve all shared, you guys might want to be part of this.”
“Not to mention staking your claim,” Jim commented. “Right?”
Michael winked at him. “You’re damn right.”
“Well, kiss her, you fool,” Duncan roared. “Then let’s all have another drink.”
Michael stood and pulled Holly up with him, his kiss at once both tender and demanding. His tongue was a caress and a flame, his lips like velvet and rough silk. He held her as if he’d never let her go, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve worried for weeks you were getting tired of me.”
“Never, sweetheart,” he murmured in a low voice. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”
Duncan opened a bottle of his best wine and passed around the glasses.
“I know we’ll be invited to the wedding,” he said, “but what about the wedding night?”
Holly held her glass and looked at Michael, then the other two. “After this, could we possibly have one without you. But gentlemen, you’d better get plenty of rest beforehand.”
They laughed lustily as they toasted the couple, their erotic thoughts reflected in their eyes and Michael hugged her close to him.
“Just remember. The groom gets first dibs.”
About the Desiree Holt
I always wanted adventure and change in my life, and I certainly got it. I grew up in Maine, a beautiful place to live, then lived in the Midwest and Florida. Now I make my home in the Hill Country of Texas, truly God's chosen place on earth. My husband, David, is a sixth generation Texan, tracing his roots here back to the time when Texas was a Republic, so retiring here was a dream we finally fulfilled.
I've had a lot of firsts in my life – first female sports report on The Michigan Daily at the University of Michigan; first woman to own a rock and roll agency in Detroit, the home of Motown; first woman president of the Pasco (Florida) Economic Development Council.
I graduated from the University of Michigan with a double major in English and History, and a minor in economics., and went on to have at least four careers. When my children were small, I satisfied my need for writing by working for weekly newspapers. I had a wild and wacky time managing rock and roll bands. I joined the insanity of retail with a string of shoe stores. I worked in fundraising, public affairs and community relations. But writing fiction was always my dream. I had a lot of stops and starts, but it wasn't until we retired that I could devote myself to it full time.
My wonderful husb
and, David, encourages me and supports me in my dream. Our children are all grown and on their own, and are my biggest fans.
When I'm not writing I'm an avid reader – anything and everything – and watching football, especially my beloved Michigan Wolverines. David and I golf and target shoot., and of course enjoy life in the gorgeous Texas Hill Country, where most of my stories are based.
I am a member of Romance Writers of America, and San Antonio Romance Authors, Diamond State Romance Authors, and Passionate Ink chapter of RWA.
Email: [email protected]
Desiree loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Desiree Holt
Crude Oil
MONSOON FEVER
Lisabet Sarai
Dedication
To Das
Chapter One
The rain drops are Lakshmi’s tears. That is what Lalida had said—tears of pity wept by Vishnu’s consort at the sad state of mankind. From the sheltered veranda, Priscilla watched sheets of rain sweep relentlessly across the land. The silver curtain alternately hid and revealed the shapes of the green hills rising in the distance.
Priscilla swallowed the last of her biscuit and leaned back in the rattan chair, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. She knew, from the past week’s experience, that the downpour would end in a few hours. The lush wet bushes would sparkle in the sun, as though someone had scattered handfuls of jewels over their leaves. For now, the muted hues of the landscape matched her mood.
“More tea, Madam?” Lalida stole up behind her on bare feet, her orange sari like a streak of fire in the grey morning.
“Not for me, but please bring a fresh pot for Mr. Archer.”
“Yes, Madam.” The maid hurried away, leaving Priscilla alone again with her reveries.
Had it really been only a month ago that they had arrived in India? It seemed like a lifetime. She could barely remember the streets of London, the bustle and the noise, the clatter of hooves on the pavement, the horns and the backfiring engines of the autos vying with the carriages for space. It was so quiet here on the plantation. All she could hear was the hiss of the rain sluicing down.
The first week she had been busy, working with Lalida and a few of the village girls to clean up her father-in-law’s bungalow and sort through the untidiness of two decades of bachelor living. She’d met Jonathan’s father only once, at the wedding six years ago. Her confused recollection was of a jovial, but somewhat distracted man with eyes younger than one would expect from his seventy four years. He had travelled five weeks to see his only son married, yet he stayed in London only four days. India was his home, he’d told her. He couldn’t bear to be away for long.
Once the house was in order, Priscilla had little to occupy her. Jonathan’s days were full, managing the plantation and trying to figure out his father’s tangled affairs. He had little time for her. Not that this was so different from her life in London, but there she had friends and diversions. Here she had no one to talk to but Lalida whose English was hardly adequate for a conversation of any depth.
The door hinges squeaked. Priscilla turned, expecting the servant, but instead she saw the trim, erect figure of her husband.
“Good morning, Jon. Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough. I hope that my tossing and turning didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all.” Priscilla couldn’t tell him the truth. Often she lay awake for hours, staring at the pale mosquito netting looped above their bed, listening to his muttering, wanting but not daring to wake him. Dying for him to touch her. “Sit down and have some breakfast. Lalida’s coming with a fresh pot.”
“I’m really not hungry. I’ll take a flask of tea with me. I want to get out to the north slope as soon as I can and see how the plucking is coming along. Suresh told me that normally the second flush harvest should be completed before the rains begin. The longer we take, the poorer the quality will be.”
“Please, sit down for just a minute. Have a biscuit. These days I hardly see you!”
Jonathan rested his hand on her shoulder. He brushed his lips across her ginger curls. The brief touch made Priscilla shiver with delight. “I’m sorry, Pru. I know that this must be hard on you. As soon as the harvest is finished, we’ll start looking for a buyer. We’ll be back in England before Christmas, I promise.”
He straightened up, a resolute look hardening his youthful features. “Right now, though, I’m facing something of an emergency. I hope that you can understand. Lalida, put that in a Thermos for me. I’ll be back for lunch, around one.” He reached for the oilcloth raincoat hanging by the door post.
Priscilla rose and put her arms around his waist. His body had changed in his few weeks of physical exertion. She could feel the hard muscles shifting under his shirt. Her own body sparked awake, suddenly aware of the texture of his skin, the scent of his soap. “I’ll miss you, Jon.” She tried to kiss him, but he twisted away, only his moustache brushing her lips.
“Priscilla, please! It’s broad daylight.”
“There’s nobody around. No one would be out in this deluge. Do kiss me, please.” She rubbed her body against his, deliberately trying to rouse him. “Anyway, you didn’t mind before, when we first got married. Do you remember that time, when you met my train at King’s Cross? You were so desperate for me, you slipped your hand under my blouse, right there on the platform!”
“That was a long time ago,” Jon’s face was grim. Tears gathered into an aching lump in Priscilla’s throat. “We were young and irresponsible.”
“I liked being irresponsible,” she declared, putting on the bratty air that used to amuse him. But she couldn’t bring a smile to his face. Firmly, he put her aside and pulled the oilcloth over his head.
“We’ll talk about this later, Priscilla. I’ve got to get to the fields.” She knew, though, that this conversation, like all the others about their private life together, would not be continued.
She watched him stride down the path, heading for the paddock. Before long she heard the clip-clop of his horse fading into the misty distance. She sighed, leaning on the railing and peering out through the shifting veils of rain.
Priscilla had been crazy for Jon when they met. She couldn’t get enough of him. She’d been a virgin when they wed, but before long she was as randy and ready as any woman of the street, or so he claimed. Back in those days her sexual audacity had excited him. Memories of their early adventures made her cheeks burn and her thighs dampen.
Somehow, though, his early ardour had cooled. It could have been the increasing weight of his business concerns, or the terrible hardships of the war years. It might have been due to the fact that, despite frequent and vigorous efforts, she could not seem to conceive. They both wanted children. In the beginning, the notion that they were creating a child together added a special thrill to their lovemaking. As the years went by without her becoming pregnant, they stopped talking about children. Silently, each of them oscillated between guilt and blame. When they made love, the unspoken recriminations made it more and more difficult for them to connect.
If only they could try again…but Jon hardly touched her now. She could easily remember the last time, on the steamer a few days out of Portsmouth, when she had been seasick and Jon was trying to comfort her. She hadn’t been in much of a condition to enjoy herself, but still his attentions had been welcome.
Nearly two months ago! Priscilla was frustrated beyond belief. Being here in India made it worse. Assam was much cooler than Delhi or Calcutta, but inevitably, in this climate, they wore fewer clothes. The native food, with its spices and chillies, tended to stir the blood. And the native people were far less circumspect than the English about their bodily functions.
Once, walking past the village on an errand, she had come across a man and woman coupling in the shade of a huge bo tree. Hidden behind a brake of bamboo, embarrassed but unable to look a
way, Priscilla had watched their mating. The man pulled the woman’s sari aside and bared her lower half. She spread her thighs wide, wrapping her legs around his waist as he drove his organ into her sex. He shrugged off his simple cotton garment as he churned on top of her, each thrust eliciting a deep moan of pleasure from his partner.
Priscilla could see sweat glistening on his mahogany skin. She was close enough that she could smell them, sweat and musk, garlic and palm oil. Gold bangles gleamed on the woman’s ankles, which were hooked around the man’s hips. She rocked back and forth seeking her pleasure. The man finally growled and ground his pelvis savagely into the woman’s depths. She answered with a keening cry that certainly must have been audible in the village a hundred yards away.
Priscilla hurried back to the bungalow, locked herself in the bedroom, and plunged both hands into her knickers, desperately trying to assuage the hunger between her legs.
In fact, that was one way she had been passing the time over the past weeks, in frantic self-pleasuring. No matter how often she brought herself to climax, though, it did not relieve her need. Her own touch left her empty and cold. It was Jon’s touch that she craved, his skin and his scent, his gentle hands and his fierce penis.
Relentless rain still pounded the earth. Priscilla felt a sudden wild desire to tear off her clothes and run off the veranda into the rain. She didn’t move, of course. But she saw herself in her mind’s eye, dancing naked in the deluge. She could almost feel the cool rivulets sluicing down over her bare skin, tickling her nipples, flowing into the crevice between her thighs to quench the constant fever there.
All at once, through the hazy curtains of rain, she saw something move. Down below, on the path that led up to the bungalow from the government road, there was a dark shape. As it came closer, it resolved itself into a huge black umbrella. By the time it reached the steps, Priscilla could see that the umbrella was carried by a tall, formally dressed, extremely wet native.
