Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (11 page)

He sighed. "No. A few shillings."

"A few shillings!" she gasped. "But I can make a lot of tarts! I can—"

He shook his head. "You have to think of the ingredients. Your father pays for them now. But you would have to buy them, and that costs money. You need a kitchen and—"

"And an oven. Pots. Spoons." All the things she'd give up if she left her home. She sighed. "Would those be very expensive to buy?"

He nodded. "So you see why I am sad. I know what I want, Francine. I look at you in that dress and I see everything I want. But—"

"Maybe we can convince my father." She said the words, but she didn't believe them. Her father had been planning her future since the day she was born. Marrying Anthony and becoming a baker was not part of his plan. "I am of age. We could marry anyway. We could go to Gretna Green."

He touched her cheek. It was a slow caress that left her skin sizzling where he touched. "Think of everything you would be giving up."

She did. She was. Certainly she'd lived poor before. As a child. But that was a long time ago. She hadn't been without food or clothing or a home... ever. She saw beggars on the street. She even gave them coins sometimes. Would she end up being one of them? Wretched, freezing, many of them ill? Would that be her? Her children?

"Anthony," she whispered, his name more of an aching call than a word.

He understood. He always understood her. He wrapped her in his arms, and he held her. And soon he was kissing her forehead, her eyes, her tears. It was all happening so fast. She had just realized she wanted to be strong like Penny, but the reality was scary, especially since she didn't really know what it would be like. She just had fears and the certain knowledge that she would hate being hungry and cold.

How lowering that the very day she decided to be strong was the very day she figured out that she wasn't strong at all. She was afraid. Too afraid to be bold.

He kissed her. It was a kiss of longing—achingly tender—and she sank into it. She met his mouth, she clutched his shoulders, and she took his hands and put them to her breasts. She didn't want to think about what she was doing. She just wanted to feel him with her, doing the things they'd done before, back when she hadn't realized she was too cowardly to marry him.

"I shouldn't," he gasped against her mouth. But even as he said it, his hands flowed over her breasts. But she had a corset on, and it was interfering with what she wanted. The fabric was too thick, the boning too strong for her to feel what she wanted to feel.

"Shhh," he said against her lips. "It's all right."

"No, it's not!" she cried. "I want to know. I want to feel."

He pulled back from her, his eyes dark, his lips moist. He appeared to be thinking about something, and his eyes darted around the room. They were alone.

"Don't worry. Penny is keeping everyone away," she said. "We have at least an hour."

He nodded. "There is something I want to do," he said. "Something..." His voice trailed away. "It is not something an honorable man would do, but—"

"Yes," she said. And when he didn't move, she repeated it more firmly. "
Yes
."

He swallowed and let his hand trail down to her thigh. "I want you to know what it should feel like between a man and a woman. So many women don't know, they don't... They don't know."

"Tell me," she said. Then she shook her head. "
Show
me."

He nodded. "You will have to be quiet. You will have to let me touch you places no one has ever touched you before."

"Yes," she whispered, her body tightening with excitement.

"I want to be the man to show you this. I want you to remember that it was me," he said, a note of possession in his tone.

She smiled, liking what he said. Liking that he wanted to be the man for her. "I want it too," she whispered.

"Then you need to lie back," he said.

She looked around, trying to see how she should—

"Lie back on the bench." He grabbed a pillow. "Just lie here."

He helped her, and in a moment she was stretched out before him, lying flat on the bench.

"Francine," he whispered.

"Yes?"

He grinned. "Thank you." And then he slid his hands up her skirt.

Chapter 9

Francine felt his hands on her calf, slipping just underneath her skirt. She felt the heat of him and the quiet tremble in his fingers. But looking into his eyes, she saw a silent anguish. And though he touched her leg, he did not move beyond that.

"Anthony?"

He closed his eyes, and she felt him shudder. "This is not the way. We are too exposed here." He squeezed her leg. "You deserve so much better."

She pushed herself up, latching onto his biceps to hold herself upright. She felt the strength of his muscles, and she also remembered the way he kissed her—all banked desire and a quiet ownership that never failed to thrill her. Never had she thought she'd feel such possessiveness from a man. Not for her. Not fat, ugly, mean Francine.

"Now, Anthony," she whispered. "Don't stop. I want to know. I want to..." She cut off her words, but in her mind they echoed loudly. Special. She wanted to feel special. And only he gave that to her.

"But—"

She kissed him. Then she did the boldest thing she'd ever done in her life. She scooted forward on the bench. She widened her legs and the abruptness of the movement brought his hand high on her thigh. Higher than her garter.

She tensed, but she didn't stop. She kissed him with all the wishes she had stored up inside her. Every little girl dream, every womanly fantasy was poured into that kiss. And he responded just as she wanted. His hand tightened on her thigh, his mouth became a thing alive, his tongue thrusting and tormenting her.

And while she was dueling tongue to tongue with him, his hand started to move. Over her thigh to the center between her legs. She gasped at that. No one else had ever touched her like that. It was too secret, too intimate. But he was relentless, and soon she felt his fingers tangle in her hair.

She gasped. Oh, the dangerous feel of him there!
Forbidden
. And he didn't stop. He curled his fingers into his palm, using the backs of his long fingers and his knuckles to press deeper between her thighs.

She opened for him. She didn't mean to, but their position on the bench forced her to. And as she widened, he pushed deeper, separating her folds, opening her as she never imagined possible.

She pulled away from his kiss, her eyes wide and her hands clutching him. She held on to his arms, clinging as what he did between her legs became all consuming.

"I... I don't know," she whispered, not even knowing where the words came from.

"It's all right," he said as his free hand stroked her hair away from her face. "I know."

"But..."

"Shhh. Just look at me. I have you safe."

She did as he wanted. She looked into his dark brown eyes and felt safe. Better yet, she felt an incredible excitement build in her stomach. She licked her lips, and his eyes riveted there. And when she tightened her hold on his arm, he smiled.

"Do you want to know what I am doing?" he asked. "Do you want to see?"

She blinked. See what? See... herself? She could barely comprehend it, but he pressed a kiss to her lips. A hot swift sweep of his tongue into her, and then he broke away to whisper into her ear.

"Trust me."

He waited until she nodded, then he slowly stood up from the bench. His hand didn't leave where it was, deeply embedded between her thighs. But as he moved around behind her, his fingers twisted, his knuckles rolling over every part of her and forcing her more open.

Then he was behind her, supporting her back as he urged her to lean against him. And as she rested backwards, he used his free hand to draw up her skirt.

Up, up, up it went until she was fully exposed to the dressing room mirror. She knew she shouldn't look. What they were doing wasn't proper, but she couldn't
not
look.

She was spread wide, her thighs white and open. And between her legs was his hand, lightly tanned with his long fingers wet and so active.

"Oh..." she whispered.

"You've never seen yourself this way have you?"

She shook her head.

"It's beautiful. You're beautiful."

She lifted her gaze to his reflection, searching his face to see if he lied. She saw simple adoration in his expression. Then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her neck, nipping there before laving it with his tongue. The sensation was sweet and intimate. Tingles sparked beneath his lips. And while she was relaxing back to the sweet, familiar feel of his mouth, his hand began to move.

Long, slow strokes between her legs. And each stroke had her legs trembling wider and her breath tightening. Another long caress had her gasping as he rolled over something wonderful at the top. Her buttocks tightened and she gasped.

"That's it," he said against her ear. "Feel it."

"Yes," she said, though he hadn't asked a question.

"Say my name, Francine," he whispered against her forehead. "Tell me you know it's me."

She didn't understand what he wanted. Of course she knew it was him. She wouldn't let anyone else do what he was doing. But his expression was so fierce, she couldn't deny him anything.

"It's you, Anthony," she whispered. "Oh!"

When she started speaking, he'd been on the downstroke. At his name, he penetrated her. He pushed his finger inside her in a swift thrust. She arched, lifting her whole body higher on the bench so that he would push deeper. How she wanted him deeper.

"Yes," he murmured as he pulled out, drawing her moisture up between her thighs to that excruciatingly sensitive place. She looked in the mirror and saw herself, a dusky red with a sheen of moisture. And all the while he kept murmuring into her ear. "Who am I, Francine? Who is your first?"

"Anthony," she moaned, and he swirled his finger around the nub at the top. "Anthony," she moaned again as he pushed his finger back inside her.

His finger was thick, but the slide was so easy.

"Oh," she cried, as he repeated his stroke. Then he pushed two fingers inside.

The blood was roaring in her ears, her heart was pounding, and she could not catch her breath. What was he doing to her? It didn't matter. She wanted it. She wanted him.

Again the stroke, this time the pressure harder. The swirl faster. She was pushing against his hand, and she was clutching the hard muscles of his thighs.

He was the only one supporting her, the only anchor she had in the maelstrom he created inside her.

Something was building, something terrible and wonderful and...

"Francine," he moaned against her. "Give over to me."

She forced her eyes open. She caught his gaze in the mirror. She hadn't the breath to say his name, but she thought it. Over and over, she thought Anthony. Anthony.

His strokes continued. The thrust. The swirl. Higher, tighter. Harder.

Anthony!

Pleasure exploded through her body, a flash fire of power and ecstasy. It flooded every part of her. She burst! She soared! And then, eventually, she floated.

He held her safe the whole time. He supported her, he cradled her, and he even slipped her dress down to cover her knees so that they appeared like two lovers reclining together. Not speaking. Not doing anything scandalous. Just holding one another.

It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. And more than that, it was a vision of what she wanted. The two of them, together like this. He was smiling, his expression tender. Her skin was flushed, and she knew she was dazed. But she couldn't look away. Not from the vision in the mirror before them.

She wanted that picture with a fierceness that was so far beyond anything she'd ever desired in her life. It was everything to her. And it burned itself into her memory.

They would be wed. She would find a way. Because suddenly, amazingly, she was a new Francine. Beautiful, confident, and very, very determined.