Why did she have to be so helpless, so incorrigibly weak, around the only man who had ever managed to read her thoughts?
She let out a quivering half-gasp as Peterson moved closer. The tears gathering at the corners of her eyes wouldn’t stop, now—they began falling down her cheeks, a sob rising in her throat.
‘Don’t cry. I can’t have you crying.’
Rebecca nodded, blinking away a tear as Peterson produced a square of linen from his waistcoat pocket, gently dabbing at her cheek. The guilt in his eyes only made her angrier with herself. ‘You do not need to worry. Everything you said was true.’
‘But it was angrily said. I am too brutish. I—I am not used to women.’
‘Good. I don’t wish to be cosseted, or petted.’
‘Truly?’
Rebecca paused. She had said that she didn’t want to be cosseted so many times, ever since she was a girl, that she had stopped examining whether she believed it. ‘I do not know.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Peterson slowly, carefully wiped away the last traces of her tears. ‘And not just because I want to do both to you. I want to, but I don’t know how.’
Hold me. The thought came so strongly to Rebecca’s mind that it felt like a shout. A wild call from her innermost self. Just hold me. Please.
For all the times that John Peterson had managed to read her thoughts, this one had apparently escaped him. Rebecca, holding her breath, knew that this was another step she would have to take alone.
Moving closer, not giving him time to step away, she buried her head in the warm hollow between his neck and his shoulder. Peterson’s quick intake of breath, the sudden tension in his body as she gently moved her arms around his waist, sent a thrill through her as sharp as any blade.
Embracing a man she barely knew, in his house? It was the smallest of the sins she had committed over previous days. For Rebecca, breathing in Peterson’s dark, clean scent, it felt like the most sinful thing imaginable.
She swallowed. ‘We couldn’t have done this in Vauxhall Gardens.’
‘I would have found a way.’ Peterson paused. ‘I would have liked the—the chance to find a way.’
Rebecca bit her lip, shame flooding her. ‘You will make me weep again.’
‘No. Anything but that.’ Peterson’s rough hand was light against her hair as he stroked her, soothing her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘Then we are both sorry together.’
‘I…’ Rebecca paused, gathering her courage to say what she needed to say. ‘I am not sorry to—to stand like this, with you.’
The gratitude in Peterson’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. ‘I am glad of it.’
In the silence that followed, Rebecca fought against the current of awareness that flowed through her. Awareness of Peterson, his face, his body—the strength with which he held her close. The hardness of his muscles against her, solid, stable. She had carried the memory with her for more than a day—but the reality of him, the physical promise he held, was more thrilling than she deserved.
With no Reviver to blame, she had to admit how she felt. How moved she felt, how —how excited she was, deep in her core, that he was close to her.
Perhaps they didn’t need to talk anymore. Perhaps she didn’t need to apologise, or explain, any further. Perhaps all she needed to do was grip the top of his starched white shirt, look into his dark, angry eyes, and kiss him exactly as he had kissed her…
… oh, what had happened to her? Why was sinning with John Peterson suddenly the only thing she wanted?
‘I… I cannot talk to you like this.’ She shook her head, a soft burst of tear-tinged laughter escaping her despite her best efforts. Peterson’s hands on her shoulders, gripping her skin, was the only thing that kept her anchored to the world. ‘Ever since that day—it is as if it is still in me, working through me. What I drank. I cannot sleep, I cannot work, I cannot do so much as look out of the window without… without imagining it. Without imagining you.’
‘But you didn’t come to me.’ The pain in Peterson’s voice was almost more than she could bear. ‘Why didn’t you come to me today?’
‘Because—because my public self has crusaded against every sort of sin ever since I became a woman.’ Rebecca bit her lip, trembling as she held back tears again. Looking into Peterson’s dark eyes felt like punishment and absolution, all at once. ‘Seeing a man in sunlight—sinning with him—’
‘We do not have to sin. We can walk, and speak, and write to one another as every courting couple does. How we begin does not dictate how we continue.’
‘But it does.’ Rebecca paused, preparing herself to say the words that shamed her as she spoke them. ‘Because… because I cannot be in your presence without wanting desperately to sin with you. To do things that we cannot do. It’s a hunger I cannot fathom—cannot contemplate. It consumes me.’
Peterson’s eyes were impossible to read. His voice was a strange, intoxicating mixture of frustration and resignation. ‘In that, then, we’re alike.’
In the silence that followed, a silence full of unspoken sentiment, Rebecca wrapped her arms tighter around Peterson’s waist.
‘I… I just want you to touch me. To kiss me, like you did. To—to tell me what to do. To please you, and please myself.’ She murmured the words into his shoulder, blushing too hard to show her face. ‘And… and it kills me to say it. To want it. But the pain of it, the shame… it only heightens the pleasure of it.’
Peterson’s ragged breath let her know that he was as seized by the moment as she was. His hand tightened in her hair; the feel of his fingers against her scalp was dizzying. She had never been held as tightly by a man—by anyone. ‘Shame can excite you. But shame isn’t all this can be.’
‘I… I know.’ Rebecca privately doubted it—her shame felt too great to ever overcome. ‘It means that what I drank was nothing more than—than the unlocking of a door. That all the passion in me, all the—all the pleasure… it was in me, somewhere. Waiting to express itself.’
‘That’s a good thing. A beautiful thing.’
‘It makes me a—a whore.’
‘No such thing as a whore. Only women for whom pleasure is work, and women for whom pleasure is something else.’
‘That is an astonishing thing to say.’
‘Leave, if you don’t like me saying it.’
She couldn’t move. No part of her wanted to—not even her rebellious, recalcitrant brain. Rebecca, with a harsh sigh of surrender, moved closer still.
‘I can stay away from you, if I can’t see you.’ She paused. ‘But when I see you… it gets more and more difficult, leaving you. It was difficult at the Club, difficult at the presentation… it feels impossible, now.’
‘I can’t be anything but glad.’ Peterson’s fingertips were unbearably soft as they stroked her cheek, sending a deep shiver through her. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘I know.’ Rebecca closed her eyes, quivering as his fingers traced the outline of her lips. ‘I am glad too. But—but I am scared.’
‘Do you think you’re the only one who’s scared?’ Peterson’s thumb rested at the corner of her mouth. ‘Even after I told you that I fear it?’
‘Fear what?’
‘The want. The want of you.’
The swirling morass of Rebecca’s sentiments coalesced into a single, overwhelming desire. A need that she had never felt concerning anyone else.
She was going to kiss John Peterson until she had no breath left.
Peterson’s soft sigh as her mouth covered his was her first reward. His answering kiss, his tongue and heat and hunger matching hers, was her next. The hunger had clearly been waiting in him too, far more powerful than his anger.
‘Take me to bed. Please.’ Rebecca looked over his shoulder at the bedroom door; she could see the hint of a coverlet. ‘I may not know much, but—but I know a bed is crucial.’
‘For someone who’s never done this b
efore, you have an expert knowledge of what is required.’
‘In order to prevent vice, one must know exactly what to look for.’ Rebecca laughed, shamefaced, still gripping the collar of Peterson’s shirt as tightly as she could. ‘But I have never been taught the exact words for it.’
She felt fortunate, dizzyingly fortunate, to have no prior experience of such pleasure with anyone else. They felt new, completely new—as if she and John Peterson were creating something from nothing, bringing it out of the dark.
It was wrong, of course. Wrong, and sinful, and against everything for which she had spent so much of her life campaigning.
What a terrible pity, then, that she wanted it so much.
Nothing had been lost. None of the freshness, the sweetness, the vibrancy—none of the shock of having Rebecca Westbrook in his arms. Peterson held her as gently as he could, terrified of scaring her. Rebecca was frenzied with want, wild with it, kissing him with a fervent ardency that he had never dared to dream of—how could he not respond with everything, absolutely everything, he had?
She didn’t want to walk through the park with him. Didn’t want to drink tea with him in public. All she wanted was this—to throw her arms around him, kiss him, and huskily plead for more…
It should have been enough. More than enough. It certainly was for his body; his cock was iron-hard, every muscle tense with want. Only in the back of his mind, his deepest self, was there a hint of sadness—as if he were already mourning something that hadn’t yet been lost.
Enough foolish longing. Enough dreaming of things that could never, would never, happen. Rebecca was here in his arms, lush and soft, better than any dream of what could never be.
As if coming to his senses, he kissed Rebecca with renewed vigour. Her ecstatic gasp, her shocked sigh as his tongue gently brushed against hers, only fuelled him further; he deepened the kiss, adding a touch of punishment to the pleasure. No daylight for them, no flourishing—well then. He would show her all the bliss that darkness and privacy could hold.
Gripping Rebecca’s waist, ignoring her quiet moan of frustration, he took her through the door of the kitchen to his bedroom, striding over to his bed. Sitting down on the plain woollen coverlet, pulling her to him with a harsh, wordless grunt, he lifted her into his lap as Rebecca laughed in shamefaced delight.
‘I cannot sit astride you.’
‘You can, and you will.’ Peterson pushed away the frothy mound of Rebecca’s skirts, searching eagerly for the heat of her body. ‘Do you not wish to?’
‘I wish to. Of course I wish to.’ Rebecca paused, biting her lip with a quiet gasp as Peterson pushed away her shift, her thighs and damp, tousled curls of her mound revealed to him. ‘But I still believe that I should not.’
‘Then tell me to stop.’ God, she was beautiful like this; dressed but exposed, constrained and free at the same time. He could take her like this, fuck her like this, until he was spent. ‘Tell me I’m a wicked, vile creature.’
‘You are a wicked, vile creature, and I would like you to put your hand on my… my…’
‘What word do you use for it?’
‘None.’ Rebecca blushed, a deep rose that had Peterson reaching to kiss her again. The woman shouldn’t be ashamed of her body, her capacity for giving pleasure—but oh, she was beautiful when she blushed. ‘I have no name for it. Perhaps—no. Don’t listen to me.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well… if you know the words for it, you could teach me.’ Rebecca’s kiss came, her murmur soft and exciting. ‘You could name it for me.’
God, she was so desirable it was damn near criminal. Peterson moved his hand to her mound, tangling his fingers in her rich blonde curls as his fingers brushed against her wetness. ‘If I name it, it belongs to me.’
‘Yes.’ Rebecca nodded eagerly, her words trailing into a soft, yielding sigh as Peterson stroked along her inner lips. That flush was there again, at the base of her neck—she was as excited as she was.
What good deed had he done to find a woman who shared not only his desires, but his dreams for a better world? ‘This cunt belongs to me now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’
‘I—I can’t.’
‘Say it here, against my mouth, as I stroke you.’
‘It… it belongs to you.’
‘What belongs to me?’
‘My… my…’
‘Mouth it.’
The word cunt appeared briefly in the curl of Rebecca’s scandalised lips. ‘It feels wrong just saying it.’
‘Sometimes wrong things are the best things.’ A sudden pall of doubt came over him. ‘But we can go more slowly, if you wish.’
‘No.’ Rebecca held him, her hands clasped around his neck. ‘I—I worry my courage will fail me, if we go slowly.’
He would have liked to go slowly with her. Take off each and every garment, kissing each inch of skin he found—kissing her from head to toe, with an eternity spent between her legs. Once again, Peterson found his dreams bound and chained by reality.
Still. As realities went, Rebecca in his arms was the best he could hope for. With a deeper, harsher kiss, Peterson gave himself over to the moment.
So much could be accomplished in so little time. A thousand kisses—hot, hasty kisses, made sweeter through desperation, slowly moving from lips to necks to collarbones as garments were pulled downward. The bedcovers grew rumpled as they fell backward together, clothes growing increasingly irrelevant, Rebecca’s body pressed tightly to his as Peterson fumbled with his undergarments.
‘Touch me.’ He sighed with relief as his cock sprang free, rigid and pulsing. Rebecca’s eyes widened; Peterson felt a stab of animal triumph. ‘You’re not the only one who can command.’ He sighed with pleasure as Rebecca’s fingertips stroked along his shaft. ‘Like that.’
‘Can we… I want to—’
‘No. Not—not fully.’ Peterson knew that if he sank himself inside her here, in his bed, he would never be able to let her go. ‘But you can give me pleasure, as I gave you pleasure.’
‘I—I like touching you.’ Rebecca’s voice was hesitant, but grew firmer as her hand stroked along his shaft. ‘Like this.’
‘Good.’ Peterson gritted his teeth, trying to keep from finishing all over her fingers. ‘I’m fond of it myself.’
This was more than pleasure. More than the vicious rush of passion that had left her overcome at the Cappadene Club, aided by the rose-scented drink. This was something deeper, stranger—so intensely good that it bordered on pain.
Rebecca tried to fathom it. Tried to investigate it, as if it were one of the many problems that she had overcome in the course of her work. But whenever she managed to approach the tight knot of sentiment that lay within her, a sudden rush of pleasure would throw her off course.
How could an animal act feel so… holy? Touching John Peterson, kissing him, feeling him sigh and grunt with the pleasure he was giving her… it shouldn’t feel so sacred as well as profane. Looking into his eyes as he trembled, overcome with ecstasy, was unspeakably profound.
The way he held her when she came, whispering endearments as she cried out in bliss, went to her very soul. They way he clutched her hand as he reached his peak, his dark eyes staring into hers throughout, was the truest touch that she had ever known.
It took a long, long time to come back to the bedroom—to leave the strange, shiveringly bright world she had reached. One she had caught a glimpse of on the desk of the Cappadene Club, and spent more time exploring here in soft, clean sheets. Rebecca lay back with a low, astonished sigh, watching Peterson as he did the same.
There were things still left undone. Still left unsaid. Rebecca, even as her body filled with deep, animal satisfaction, knew that there was more she could have done. They had been so close to the act—the act that even she knew about. What was odd, and unacceptable if spoken aloud, was how much she had wanted to do it.
Peterson had been right to refuse. Still—
the desire for it, to feel him inside her, lay in her like the guiltiest of secrets.
She wanted to stay in this dark, private world, where she didn’t have to be anything to anyone except herself. Where she was accepted by Peterson with such completeness, such honesty, that it felt like flying.
But the world was cruel, and her reputation would never allow it, and… and…
… and she was frightened, far too frightened, to choose what she truly wanted.
Peterson waited to speak. He waited several long, quiet hours, watching the rain fall on the other side of the window, holding Rebecca in his arms as she dozed against his chest.
He knew it shouldn’t feel so right, so quickly, to have her sleeping next to him in his private rooms, in the bed that no-one else shared. But then, the way they met hadn’t been right—the way they’d met again hadn’t been right either.
They hadn’t spent hours in drawing rooms, in gardens and tearooms and one another’s houses, too far apart from one another to touch. They hadn’t spoken of churches and childhood games, or dreams, or—or favourite colours…
… but Peterson was still sure, with a faith and fervency that terrified him, that Rebecca Westbrook was the most precious woman he had ever known. The most singular, the most beautiful—and the one that was, without a doubt, going to break his heart.
She would never be able to accept their manner of meeting. The guilt she carried was too great. He had seen it in her as they held one another afterwards, in the breathless, vulnerable moments that lay between completion and awakening.
She was ashamed of him. Of what they had done together. She would never be able to accept him as he was, and herself as she was. The best thing to do—the only thing to do—was to end it.
The easiest way to do it would be cruel. With any other woman, he could be callous. Peterson, biting his lip, gently moved away from her as he prepared to tell her the truth.
‘I want something more with you.’ The patter of rain on the roof only accentuated the sound of his voice. ‘Something real.’
Rebecca’s voice so close to his was so soft, so quiet, it was almost painful. ‘I know.’
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 26
