Cheryl Holt (33 page)

Her other breast beckoned, and he ambled to it, delaying, savoring, and when he finally kissed a trail up her bosom, when he finally took her mouth, it was a precious, tender embrace. He couldn’t get enough of her. Her fondness was a soothing balm, a cherished gift, and he couldn’t abide the thought of their parting.

Their lips separated, and apparently, she’d discerned his distress. She searched for answers, trying to distinguish the source of his blatant woe.

“What is it, John?”

“My brother and I had a fight,” he affirmed, amazed that he would. He never divulged his private affairs, and he particularly never expounded on Ian—a fact that annoyed London gossipmongers no end.

“What about?”

“Everything.”

She chuckled. “That must have been some quarrel.”

“Aye, it was.”

“What started it?”

“I caught him with Caro, in the middle of the night. They were kissing.”

At the mention of his purported fiancée, she tensed and tentatively ventured, “Were you jealous?”

“No, just upset.”

“About what?”

“About his behavior. He’s not her equal.” Even as he offered the idiotic explanation, he was embarrassed. What a horrid opinion to have about his brother! Ian was an admirable man, but John had been imbued with a lifetime of indoctrination about society and rank, and he couldn’t set it aside, not even for the sibling whom he’d always treasured.

“We
commoners
are an infuriating lot,” she sarcastically asserted, making him feel petty and mean-spirited. “We don’t stay in our place when you exalted types demand it.”

“I don’t know what he was trying to prove.”

“You are such a snob.” She chuckled again. “Perhaps they merely like one another. Have you considered that?”

“Yes, but it could never be.”

“So? Some people can’t stop themselves.” Quietly, she added, “Even if what they’re doing is improper.”

She was referring to their own complex relationship, but it wasn’t the same as Ian’s and Caro’s situation. Was it? Was he stupid enough to imply that, because Caro was the daughter of an earl, her virginity held more import than Emma’s? The insinuation was ludicrous.

“He was stealing from me, too,” he imputed, switching to a topic about which he could muster more conviction as to his outrage.

“Are you positive?”

“He admitted it.”

“He didn’t seem to be the kind who would.”

“No, he didn’t.” He blushed. “I said some terrible things.”

“I’m sure he’ll—”

“I hit him,” he interrupted, needing to confess. The heinousness of what he’d done was eating him alive.

“Oh, John,” she murmured. “How awful.”

“I doubt if he’ll forgive me.”

“Of course he will.”

“He loathes me.”

“He doesn’t. He cares about you too much. I could tell.” She laid her hand over his heart, and it had the peculiar effect of making him feel she was rubbing where it ached. “Although if you want to reconcile, it will be up to you. Even if he was in the wrong, you’ll have to say you’re sorry.”

“I hate apologizing. I never do.”

“That’s because it’s so difficult for you to swallow down that enormous pride of yours.”

He laughed, relishing that she would be so frank, that she could catalog his faults without making them sound so calamitous. “You are so good for my ego.”

“Somebody needs to remind you that you’re human.” She kissed him gently. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”

He gazed into her eyes, loving her, revering her, and he grappled to find the fortitude to declare himself, but he’d never previously uttered the sentiment to another, and though he’d fancied himself a courageous man, he couldn’t locate the mettle to tell her.

What aspiration would an attestation satisfy anyway?

The word
love
, when expressed to a female—especially one of Emma’s background and antecedents—connoted a pledge of devotion, a promise of fealty and constancy, traits he didn’t possess and had no idea of how to implement.

He didn’t believe in fidelity, hadn’t met a woman who could incite thoughts of monogamy or commitment, though Emma definitely made him speculate as to whether such a life might be possible.

When he married, he would wed for the usual reasons:
increased wealth, alliances, status. His highborn wife would understand his proclivities, would ignore his bad habits in exchange for the position their union would bring her. Love wouldn’t play a part.

Emma would be a bride who would expect and require faithfulness and loyalty, which he knew from past experience he was incapable of guaranteeing. He couldn’t follow through.

Best to be silent.

Taking her hand, he kissed it, then linked their fingers. “I’m leaving for London.”

“When?”

He swallowed, scarcely able to speak. When he’d journeyed to Wakefield, he hadn’t intended to linger. Why, then, was it so painful to discuss his departure?

“At dawn.”

She frowned, calculating. “So soon?”

“I need to be away. I should have left days ago.”

She smiled tremulously. “I won’t ever see you again.”

“No, I don’t think you will.”

There was the strangest rattle in the center of his chest, and he suffered the oddest impression that his heart was breaking. He’d known that he’d fleetingly be at a loss without her quirky company, but until this very moment, when he’d verbalized his plans, he hadn’t truly realized how horrible their farewell would be. On himself.

When he’d visualized his going, he’d imagined how arduous it would be for
her
, but
he
was the one hurting. He felt as if he’d been rent into tiny pieces, that he’d be abandoning half of himself if he traveled to London without her.

How bizarre! Women floated by, and he wasn’t imprudent enough to grow attached. He was physically attracted to Emma, and the magnetism was significantly
elevated, but he declined to read any more into it than that.

Due to the fracturing of his affinity with Ian, he was overly distraught. Once he got back to London, everything would return to normal, he’d be more himself, and Emma would cease to plague him. Her proximity was confounding, but time and distance would cure his fascination.

Still, he’d be a bit more pleased if she’d evince a smidgen of concern over his tidings. He’d braced himself for a display of feminine histrionics, but not so much as a tear had sprung to her eye, and he was extremely put out that she could remain so calm. Or perhaps—a small voice suggested—she wasn’t distressed.

Without notice or warning, he’d burst into her life, had disturbed her staid existence. Maybe she’d be elated to have him go.

Wouldn’t that be his just deserts? An ironic turn of events! The only occasion he’d actually bonded with a woman, and she’d be relieved when he walked out the door!

“Will you miss me?” he asked. His customary arrogance was markedly absent, and there was a quiver in his tone.

“Yes, you scoundrel. Every second.”

“It’s been wonderful knowing you,” he posed, but dared no more. “I’m so glad we met.”

“As am I.”

While he wasn’t about to proclaim his buried emotions, he’d hoped she’d expound, but she seemed to have been struck dumb, just when he yearned to have her babbling incessantly.

“I want you to spend the night.”

“John,” she chided. “I can’t.”

At her rejection, his original response was fury! He was so tired of her spurning his wishes! This was their
final assignation. Would it kill her to accommodate him? Couldn’t she be amenable? Just once?

But as quickly as the selfish concept entered his head, he shoved it away. This was Emma. Her dedication to her family was an integral component of who she was, and she’d never change. He wouldn’t want her to change! When he was, once again, installed at his empty town house, leading his licentious, boring life, he wanted to fondly reminisce, to picture her at Wakefield, busy, fulfilled, stubborn and determined.

“Then stay as long as you’re able.”

“I will.”

“I want to love you over and over.” Surprising himself, he disclosed, “I always want to remember what it was like.”

“So do I.”

He kissed her tenderly, then with expanding vigor, reveling in the joy that emanated from her. In a desperate mood, he was anxious to imprint himself into her very soul.

He would join to her as he never had with another, would penetrate so deeply and so furiously that some of himself would be left behind when the rendezvous was over. At the conclusion, he wanted to be forever transformed.

Nervous, uncertain, he was like a bridegroom on his wedding night. The remarkable episode of bliss had to be a solid foundation that would provide him with memories to last the rest of his days.

“No matter where you end up, Emma,” he said fiercely, “you were mine first. Never forget!”

“How could I?”

“Let me show you how much you mean to me.”

“I already know.”

She smiled and opened her arms, and he felt as if he’d been welcomed home.

H
E
was leaving! He was really going!

Emma subdued the wave of sadness engulfing her. From the outset, she’d known his visit would be of limited duration, and she’d accepted that their relationship would be temporary, but to have the dreaded moment arrive without any warning!

It was too terrible to be borne, yet she wouldn’t succumb to melancholy, would not allow her sorrow to ruin their last tryst.

John had made her feel special and cherished, as though she had a dear husband, but he’d never been hers. She’d shared a tiny segment of his otherwise bounteous and gregarious existence, and she’d latched on to their connection with a rare determination and gusto.

But it was over.

He would return to London, to his vices and iniquities, and she had no illusions. She had been a convenient method by which he’d slaked his boredom and dolor, but she’d been little more than that.

Once he was ensconced in the city, and pursuing his panoply of sordid amusements, he’d forget her straightaway. She’d simply be one of the anonymous women who’d flowed through his life, and who were systematically relegated to his pool of regrettable past history.

The only viable difference between her and the others was that she had been foolish enough to fall in love
with the irritating, engaging cad. She couldn’t explain why.

Nothing about their association made sense—not their physical attraction, not their odd friendship—but it was potent and irrepressible, and she wanted the assignation to be glorious, to be festive and magnificent, so that when he departed, he’d recall it with an abiding affection.

He too appreciated the gravity of what they were about. The solemnity was manifest in his actions and demeanor. There was an urgency to his kiss, a somberness and tenacity in how he touched her. They were on the same frantic quest to imprint every impression for later dissection.

His hands were at her breasts, kneading the two mounds, tormenting the nipples, and he took one of the extended tips into his mouth. The inflamed bud was overly animated, and with ease, he had her squirming. He nuzzled to her other breast, teasing and laving it, until she was beyond comprehension or restraint, then he continued on, to her stomach, to her navel and down.

Burrowing into her mons, he tickled and licked her belly, his adept fingers fondling her privates. She was wet, eager, and she spread her legs, granting him access and permission. He was wild for her, delving and probing, spurring her to a savage precipice, but when she would have leapt over the brink, he shifted away.

He kissed her inner thigh, then he worked up her torso, thoroughly investigating her body until she was afire in every pore.

When their lips joined again, she seized the advantage, rolling them so that she was on top, so that she would have the opportunity to explore and titillate. She commenced her own journey by caressing his chest, his ribs, dallying with his nipples, until she had him in a
frenzied state, his respiration labored, his pulse pounding.

His cock was adamant, demanding, and she obeyed its dictate, taking him in her hand, in her mouth. It was a maneuver she’d come to relish, had practiced with reckless abandon, so she’d discovered numerous techniques by which she could drive him to distraction.

With renewed vigor, she toyed and played, stroking his length, his balls, while her tongue goaded the incited tip. She grazed and trifled until his sexual juices were oozing, his hips flexing. When he could tolerate no more, she permitted him to slip in, to push and toil, in fervent preparation for a stunning finale, but as he’d done with her, she pulled away before the end.

Blazing an ardent trail upward, she was hovered over him.

“Vixen!” He clasped her buttocks and wedged her loins to his. “I’m so hard for you!”

“Good!”

“You kill me with that mouth of yours.”

“What a blissful way to quit this earth.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “what a way, indeed.”

In a swift motion, he rotated them so that she was on the bottom once more. He’d ascended to a critical juncture; he was tense, strained, his heavy torso pressing her into the mattress.

“I have to be inside you,” he ground out. “Now! I can’t wait.”

He nudged her thighs apart, centered himself, and she braced for him to raucously plunge in, but instead, he taunted her, sliding in the smallest amount, the blunt crown jabbing and tempting her.

“Tell me how much you want me,” he exhorted.

“I do. I want you.”

He propelled himself forward, giving her a tad more,
widening her, making her ache and throb. “Tell me that I’m the only one you’ll ever have.”

She couldn’t fathom why such a factor would signify, or why he’d need her to acknowledge how hopelessly attached she was, but she had no difficulty giving him reassurance.

After knowing him and adoring him, she couldn’t picture having another man in her bed. John was the great love of her life, and there could be no other after him.

“It’s always been you, John. You’ll be the only one.”