Cheryl Holt (25 page)

Abigail forced a laugh. “Whatever would make you think so?”

“People have been noticing the two of you together. There’s been gossip. Even Margaret’s commented. . . .”

“That’s downright silly. We’re friends, nothing more.”

“Then what gentleman has you so enamored that you’re dancing in the closet with your underwear?”

For a moment, just one, Abigail flashed an expression of such unbridled hopelessness that Caroline was sure she was going to admit all. Whatever was weighing on her sister’s mind appeared to be a heavy burden that she would gladly unload.

But just as abruptly as the moment came, it vanished as she pasted her customary serene smile on her face. “Really, Caroline! As if I could keep some
man
a secret from all of you! Even if I wished to commit such an atrocious act, how would I go about it?” She sauntered toward the door and advanced into the hall, effectively preventing any further discussion. “Your imagination is playing rather wonderful tricks. Let’s go down, shall we?”

Left alone in Abigail’s room, all Caroline could do was follow.

Abigail lounged on the bed, leaned against the pillows, and awaited James. As he had done previously, she’d staged the room for seduction. Candles burned, and a fire sizzled in the grate. Outside, a cold drizzle was falling, and the drops splattered at the windowpanes. Inside, all was warm, cozy, and snug, a welcoming lovers’ nest filled with fine wine, scrumptious treats, and an eager, willing woman.

She’d chosen the black ensemble for their encounter, and before reclining, she’d taken a prolonged evaluation in the mirror. James had been wise, she’d readily decided, in asking her to wear the scandalous attire.

Just from staring at her reflection, she’d become unsettled and excited. James hadn’t even joined her as yet, and the intriguing costume was working magically, augmenting her level of agitation and anticipation, and she couldn’t help but contemplate how much extra delight the carnal apparel would bring to their assignation.

She ran a hand across her scantily covered breast and stomach, letting it rest on her naked thigh. The material clung to her like a second skin, and she adored how it slithered across and cooled her heated surfaces. She couldn’t wait to see his expression when he espied her in the slinky garment, or to feel his fingers skimming across it, gliding underneath and down.

In their haste to depart after the prior meeting, he’d left his precious portfolio of risqué pictures, and she balanced the stack on her lap, casually scanning the renderings. During their sexual lessons, she never had enough time to peruse the paintings, and she flipped to the nude of James, assessing his hairy chest, his erect cock, and the manner in which Lily so affectionately tended him. At the thought that
today would be the day she’d finally be allowed to do the same, her entire body tingled.

She skimmed the picture, then hastened on to the one where Lily was servicing him with her mouth. One of his hands was at the back of her neck, guiding her. The artist, Pierre, had truly been a master at depicting profound emotion, for James’s enjoyment of the event was excessively manifest. He gazed at Lily, monitoring her ministrations with an incredible expectancy.

Abigail traced the spot where James’s phallus met Lily’s ruby lips, and she stifled a groan. She hated viewing James with another woman, but even as she despised the sight, she was fascinated and unduly stimulated. Disgusted with herself, she couldn’t quit staring, wondering how it had felt—to Lily, to James—and hoping she would have the chance to experience some of the same undeniable pleasure.

Though James wasn’t with her as she would have liked, she wanted to discover what naughty adventures lay ahead for the pair, so she accelerated past the portion they’d surveyed together. Past where James suckled Lily’s breasts, past where Lily’s privates were detailed, past where James was positioned between her legs and savoring her with his tongue.

One at a time, she pitched the individual parchments on the mattress until she was surrounded by a sea of lewd drawings. Inevitably, she arrived at new territory, and she received her first true inkling of what marital intercourse entailed.

Lily was lying down, her knees wide, and like a conquering hero of old, James crouched between her spread thighs, tightly gripping her hips, ready to plunder. Lily stared at him possessively, with feminine approval and admiration, as though daring him to proceed. James scrutinized her in return, pompous and sure of himself and his purpose.

Inflamed, Abigail flipped the portrait onto the bed, then gazed at the next.

The lovers had switched positions. James was now on
the bottom, Lily on the top. She was straddling his groin, riding him much as one would a horse. In pure anguish, her palms were on her buttocks, her shoulders thrown back, and the position thrust her large breasts forward. James cupped them, his thumbs on the elongated nipples.

As long as she could stand to, she let the image wash over her and through her, but try as she might to will away the representation, she couldn’t get beyond the fact that she was watching him as he made love to another woman. The exhibition was ominously arousing in a fashion that acutely bothered her, and she wanted to cast the illustration aside but couldn’t.

His perpetual search for mindless liaisons was a facet of James’s personality that she couldn’t abide, yet she had to understand it if she was to ever really know him. It hurt her to think that his life of dissipation led him to consort so aimlessly with any woman who gave the slightest indication that she was interested—in Lily’s case, a friend’s wife. Perhaps she was only fooling herself, but she refused to believe that he actually preferred the insensitive couplings in which he so regularly engaged.

Miserably, she continued on, only to find the couple in another pose. How many ways could the sexual act be consummated? Apparently, there were at least three!

The vigor of the joining had increased, the lovers nearing the conclusion. Lily was on her hands and knees, much like an animal. Her head was hanging, her forehead pressed into the pillows, and she bit against her bottom lip as her bountiful breasts swung unimpeded, her enormous nipples brushing the sofa cushion.

James was rutting on her from behind, his slender fingers stark against her skin. He was perched at her entrance, his erect rod slick and wet. Though the picture was motionless, it was easy to imagine him thrusting, working at her mercilessly, taking what he needed, and in return giving her all she could handle and more. His demeanor was bleak with a beautiful sort of desperation, his body stressed, zealous, exultant.

Brimming with regret, she tossed away the remainder of the paintings, suddenly feeling very sorry for James. He was supposed to be the expert on men and women and their antics, but she was convinced that the kinds of things he was doing with Lily should only happen between two people who were in love. The sins of the flesh were too dramatic, personal, and overwhelming to be committed so casually.

Then and there, she resolved that their physical engagements would become events he could recall with comfort and joy. When they separated for good, she wanted him to carry fond memories of their affair, perhaps to recollect it as the one and only time he had been truly treasured by his paramour. She couldn’t bear it if, in the end, he dumped her in with all the others with whom he’d fornicated. In actuality, she couldn’t stand to contemplate the future at all, to hypothesize over the nameless scores of women he would ultimately seduce after her, or to imagine how she might be perceived during his periods of reminiscing.

Belowstairs, noise erupted. He had arrived!

Chaotically, she grabbed the scattered pictures and stuffed them into the satchel, then she struggled to pull herself together, smoothing her features, burying her worries. Instinctively, she fathomed that he had come for an evening of spontaneous sexual play, and he wouldn’t be disposed to witness any emotional upset. He’d already made it clear, on numerous occasions, that he didn’t wish to be reminded of extraneous issues. Not his father, or his family, or their lives outside this room.

If she raised the topic of his lifestyle, he’d protest her intrusion of his privacy while insisting, as he seemed wont to do, that he couldn’t be expected to act any differently since he was lacking in morality and reveled in debauchery. Should she prod too deeply, he might depart, and her enchanted night would be ruined, a catastrophe for which she’d never forgive herself, so her concerns had to remain her own.

The door to the bedchamber opened, and James stepped
through. He brought a wave of frigid air with him. With a wifelike attention to detail, she noticed that he’d shed his outer garments, that his clothes were dry, but his hair was damp, and she could smell the rain on his skin. She thought to go to him, to tend him while he dried in front of the hearth, but as she started to rise, he stopped her.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice husky with desire. “Let me look at you.”

He approached the foot of the bed. Beginning at her feet, at the black shoes, he traveled visually, evaluating her stockings, her garters, her bare thighs. He lingered at the V between her legs, then proceeded up her stomach, her ribs, to her breasts, pausing at her nipples. He gave each one his undivided attention, tarrying while they hardened, peaked, commenced aching. Only then did he continue. To her bosom, her neck, her mouth. As his astute gaze finally settled on her own, he hesitated. His eyes narrowed.

“What’s amiss?” he asked, repeating the same question he’d posed once before upon entering.

Despite how carefully she’d schooled her swing of emotion, he knew her too well. He could read her moods as no other ever had, and she was gratified but unnerved. How could she play at being casual when he had pushed the discussion to the next level before she realized what was occurring?

“Nothing,” she fibbed. “I was just thinking about you.” She amended, “Waiting for you.”

He focused on the leather envelope beside her on the mattress. “You were reviewing the pictures.”

“Yes.”

“They disturbed you?”

“Not overly much.”

Rounding the bed, he sat next to her, his weight causing it to sink and her torso to shift toward him. He braced his hands on either side of her. “You shouldn’t ever lie to me,” he said fervently. “I can tell when you are.” Closing the distance, he gifted her with a chaste kiss, then he pulled
away and reached for the satchel. “Let’s examine whatever it is that has you so troubled.”

She couldn’t tolerate a second perusal of his interactions with Lily, so she placed her hand over his, stilling his attempt to open it. “I can’t look at any more. I don’t like seeing you . . .” She hesitated. No matter what type of excuse she provided, it would sound overly possessive.

“With another woman?” He finished for her.

“Exactly. I don’t like it at all.”

“I’m glad,” he said softly, greatly surprising her. He bestowed a second sweet kiss, then wrapped his arms around her and reposed her across his chest. “Lily was my friend, but the things I did with her . . . they didn’t mean anything. ’Tis just a man’s way. ’Twas her way, as well.”

“But that’s what I don’t like about it,” she explained. “I don’t like knowing that you can engage in sexual games with her—with any other female—but then do the same with me as though I’m personally of no import to you.”

“Oh, love. . . .” He chuckled and stole another kiss. “Is that what you believe I’m doing?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “and it makes me afraid.”

“I care for you, Abby,” he vowed gently. “That’s why all of this is so dangerous; why I’ve worked to slow the process. Because I can’t determine how it shall come to a worthwhile end. When I’m with you, I . . . I . . .”

He couldn’t complete his frank comment, but she’d heard enough. Enough to hope. Enough to dream. Enough to love him all the more. Even if he never found the courage to admit deep feelings, she had an ample amount to go around.

She rested her palm against his cheek. He’d just shaved, and his skin was sleek and soft, still cool from his journey to be with her. “Show me what you mean.”

“With pleasure.”

Instantly alight with excitement, he kissed her deliberately, and, as always happened between them, the fire quickly ignited. Not breaking contact, he eased her against the pillows, and he came over her, covering her with his
weight and the rough fabric of his clothes. He ducked under her chin and nibbled her throat.

Unexpectedly sounding shy and embarrassed, he said, “Thank you for wearing my gift.”

There was a wistful tone in his voice, and she couldn’t get past the notion that he’d sent the lingerie to prove to himself that she’d refuse it. “I love it,” she replied. “How could I not?”

As a response, he rooted under her neck again. “You’re so beautiful in it. As beautiful as I knew you would be.”

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she was stretched out on top of him, her breasts over his face. He grasped them, milking them, squeezing the stiff tips. With minimal effort, he had her squirming. Shifting her higher, he brought a nipple to his mouth, and he suckled her through the silk. Teeth, tongue, and cloth combined to torture her.

As he played with her firm nipples, he stroked up and down her back, and she initiated some maneuvers of her own. Following his lead, she imitated how he touched her, held her, cherished her.

Tentative at first, she petted and nuzzled, and he was responsive to whatever she tried. His reactions guided her, and she quickly discerned that it was easy to tell what he liked best from how ardently he tensed, moaned, or hugged her tighter.

Deciding that he had on too many articles of clothing, she pulled away and balanced on her haunches, tarrying as long as possible, letting the anticipation build as she slowly undid the buttons and tugged at his shirttail. He laid against the pillows, observing, enjoying her leisurely attention, rubbing her thighs, caressing her stomach, her ribs, her breasts. His fingers were never still, always busy with some tactile endeavor.