Her Husband's Harlot (33 page)

Yes
I bloody can when you nearly get yourself killed!

He
wanted to shout. But he did not, because he was not one for shouting. At least,
he had never been until his wife decided to act like a candidate for Bedlam. He
tried for calm again. He attempted to think of a reasonable refute to her
argument, one he could utter without the use of profanity or an unduly raised
volume. After a minute, he abandoned the impossible endeavor.

"What
do you want from me, Helena? A sodding sonnet?" he bit out.

His
wife studied him. He wished her eyes did not appear so bloody large and
luminescent in the moonlight—it was distracting to his anger, and he planned to
remain pissed for a good long while. Had he truly believed that Helena was a demure little thing? He shook his head in disbelief. This woman could drive a
man to distraction. As if to prove his point, the minx had the nerve to smile. Her
lips curved, and she actually dimpled. The smile dissolved into a gale of
giggles.

"Oh,
a sonnet ... from
you
... man of many ... words," she gasped
between fits of laughter.

He
should have been outraged at her levity, or at the very least offended by her
lack of wifely respect. Instead, the sound of her unexpected laughter had a
strange effect upon him: it soothed the beast. It diluted the bloodlust still pumping
in his veins. Bloody hell, it was good to hear Helena laugh, to see her alive
and well and bewitching under the star-filled sky. Despite the seriousness of the
situation, Nicholas felt his own lips soften.

He
firmed them immediately. "You married a merchant not a poet," he
reminded her.

"Oh,
Nicholas," Helena said, wiping her eyes. "I don't want a sonnet or an
ode to my eyes or some such silly nonsense. Don't you know that?"

As a
matter of fact, he didn't. Besides which, if he was to compose a poem to his
wife's body parts, it damn well wouldn't be about her eyes. Best keep
that
thought to himself.

"What
do you want, Helena?" he said.

"You.
Just you, my stubborn, foolish husband." Potent as the sun's rays, her words
reached and thawed all the chilled parts inside him. "Come, have a seat
beside me before you fall down. You look like you defeated Bonaparte
singlehandedly."

He
sat and flinched when Helena touched a handkerchief to his brow.

"Hold
still," she said. "You are bleeding."

He
had not realized it. In the heat of battle, all that had mattered was keeping
her safe. Now, as he looked down at his hands, he saw that some of the knuckles
were torn and swelling. He was not concerned. He had been in far worse
condition before.

But Helena
inhaled sharply. "Your hands."

At
once, he saw his hands as his wife must be seeing them: work-hardened and welted
with violence. His were a brute's hands, unfit for a lady's eyes. A sickening
feeling churned in his gut and seemed to prickle the scars on his back. Reminders
of who he was. He started to turn his hands over, to hide these deformities at
least, but Helena grabbed hold of them. He watched her slim fingers trace
gently over the broken skin.

"Pay
it no mind. I heal quickly," he said, still unable to meet her gaze.

"But
it is my f-fault."

"I
trust you will remember that the next time." At the sound of his own words,
he frowned. Had he just implied that there was the possibility of a next time?
That he would permit her to engage in another such escapade? The idea seemed
ludicrous, but one could never be certain with his wife's hare-brained logic.
He opened his mouth to clarify his edict.

But before
he could say anything, something warm splattered on the back of his hand.
Another drop followed, landing between his knuckles and trickling down between
his fingers. A succession of warm, wet drops plinked against his skin.

Bewildered,
he looked up to see his wife's tear-drenched eyes.

"You
are not ... crying?" he said.

She
shook her head, the tears rolling down her cheeks now.

"'Tis
the stress," he said, a little desperately. "Your sensibilities are
overwhelmed."

"Yes,
the stress, that must be it," she said, her smile wobbly.

Then
she began to weep in earnest.

He
searched for a handkerchief. Then he remembered he had one in the pocket of his
jacket—the jacket that she was currently wearing, that dwarfed her as her entire
body shook with sobs. God, she was crying like a child might, gulping for
breath as her eyes and nose dripped. There was nothing for it. With a groan, he
scooped her into his arms. He cuddled her against him, whispered Lord only knew
what nonsense against her curls as she cried her heart out.

He
did not know when her arms came to wind around his neck. Or how her face came
to be tilted under his. Or whose lips moved first to find the other's. But hers
tasted as sweet as he remembered, felt just as soft as they parted beneath his.
He could taste her tears now, too, licks of salt between their clinging mouths.
He had never kissed her or anyone in this fashion before—with the intent not to
possess or pleasure, but merely to comfort.

He
held her for a long time, under the dark canopy of trees.

And
then something changed. His lips had been undemanding at first, seeking only to
soothe, to calm. She sighed, seeming to melt into his embrace. It was the kind
of softness a man could drown in, and he lost himself in the succor of her
honeyed mouth, the gentle caress of her fingers along his nape. He drank of her
sweetness until she made a sound, a little moan, and her hands moved restlessly
to his shoulders. She molded herself against him at the same time that her
mouth burst into flame.

God,
the
heat
of her. Her tongue twined with his in a molten dance. He knew
without words what she felt, what her breathy sighs and unconscious movements
conveyed. He knew it was the aftermath of fear shaking her body with desire,
leading it to press pleadingly against his for relief from the tensions coursing
within. He himself had felt the after-effects of violence many a time before.
But his sheltered Helena had never experienced such a shock before, and it
grieved him that she should do so now. On the morrow, he was going to tear Reed's
head off. But, for now, he understood all too well the need to affirm life
after death brushed by. He knew precisely what she needed.

By
God, just this once, he wanted to be the one to give it to her.

He
let his mouth wander from her mouth to her neck, licking and nibbling his way
down her throat. She squirmed in his lap, and he groaned as the curve of her
buttocks moved snugly against his cock. It would take every ounce of his
self-control to survive this night, for he meant this loving to be about her. For
her. If he could, he wanted to give her the mindlessness of release. Leaning
her back against his arm, he parted the velvet lapels of the jacket. Her skin
glowed pearl-like in the shadows. As he eased down her torn bodice, her head rested
against his upper arm. He saw that her eyes were closed, her lips parted.

He
cupped her breasts, molding the luxurious weight in his palms. She shuddered as
his fingers found her nipples and played with them. He rolled the hardened
points between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently. When he bent down to draw
one of the ripe berries into his mouth, she let out a keening cry. He suckled
her, circled his tongue round the puckered fruit. Aye, delicious. He felt her
hand clench the linen of his shirtsleeve. He pulled her more deeply into his
mouth even as he reached beneath her skirts.

His
breath came harshly as his hand caressed the silk-encased length of her leg. Even
here, she was all feminine curves, and he had to ward off the image of himself
between her legs. Of his thighs pressing down into hers, his rod long and thick
and poised to plunge into her heat. No, this was to be about satisfying her and
her alone. Not that he had complaint. It made him drunk with pleasure to touch
her thus, under her chemise, past the ruffle of her garter. He skimmed the
trembling insides of her thighs, pausing at the brush of silky curls against
his knuckles.

"Don't
be afraid, my darling," he whispered, looking into her eyes. "I won't
hurt you. You know that, don't you?"

She
nodded, her eyes heavy-lidded and trusting.

"Let
me then," he said, his fingers finding her. "Let me."

Helena
made a choked sound as he lightly petted her pussy.
His nostrils flared to encounter the slick moisture that had not been there on
their wedding night. If her breathy whimpers were any indication, she wanted
this, wanted him. His chest expanded with that knowledge even as he used her
wetness to create a silky rhythm, gliding up and down along her feminine folds.
She was panting now, her head thrown back and eyes closed. He found the heart
of her sensations and rubbed there, gently, with his thumb.

Helena
let out a scream which he quickly smothered with his
mouth. He swallowed her cries as he continued to stroke her pearl, pressing
harder, alternating up and down movements with ones that spiraled. Perspiration
formed on his brow as he felt her juices rain upon his hand. His palm moistened
with her essence. Excitement raged within him. By God, she had a passionate
streak in her. She was lusciously wet, so very eager, and she did not yet know
the ecstasy that awaited her. That
he
would give her.

His
tongue delved into her mouth at the same moment that his middle finger eased
into her channel. Her thighs quivered.

"Stay
open for me, darling," he coaxed against her lips. "I promise there
will be no pain this time. Your body wants what I can give it."

His
finger slid in deeper, and she shuddered.

"Can
you feel how your body wants this?" he asked. "I can. I can feel every
throb, every pull of your delectable self on my finger. Feel how you pull me in
deeper, how ready you are for my touch. Can you feel it, my love?"

"Yes."
Pleasure slurred her voice. Her thighs slackened.

"And
this?" He pushed deeper still, until her nest feathered against his knuckles.

"Oh
my God,
Nicholas—
"

He
withdrew his finger and plunged all the way in. Helena's moans filled his ears
as he continued to finger her. His cock pulsed in unison with the thrusts of
his hand, experiencing vicariously the tightness, the voracious heat of his
wife's cunny. He groaned as she began to gyrate upon his lap, her pelvis
tilting to meet his strokes. She had no idea what she was doing to him. If this
continued much longer, he would come in his smalls.

He
could imagine a worse fate.

He
increased his tempo to match the quickness of her breath. Her breasts tempted
him with each bouncing movement; he could not keep himself from licking along
one plump underside. He worked his way upward, sighing at the decadence of
orange blossoms and soft flesh against his cheeks. He could have stayed there, pillowed
between her tits, forever. But he could tell from the slickness of his fingers,
from the way she was biting her bottom lip to keep her cries in, that she was
close. So very close. He wanted her release to be perfect.

He
nuzzled her ear.

"Open
your eyes, my love," he said.

Her
eyelids quivered open, revealing hazy, unfocused depths.

"Yes,"
he said. "Stay with me. Let me watch you fly apart."

He
plunged into the core of her, thrumming her little knot at the same time. It
did not take long. Her inner muscles clutched at his finger and then he was
surrounded by a flutter of convulsions that stiffened her body.

"Yes,
love, come for me now," he urged.

In
the next instant, Helena cried out, her hand gripping his shirtsleeve, her back
arching over his arm. The sound of infinite pleasure, of her
first
climax, inflated his chest. The satisfaction he experienced could barely be contained
within his skin. Likewise, the agonizing desire threatening to burst from his
cock, but he didn't care. He'd made his lady come, and that was all that
mattered.

Gently,
he extricated his hand from beneath her skirts and cradled her close. He
smoothed back her hair as he waited for both their passions to subside.

"Beautiful,"
he said. There was wonder in his voice as he stroked her cheek. His fingers glistened,
and he could smell the musky sweet scent of her release. "Every inch of
you, so unbelievably beautiful."

"Mmm."
Her eyes had drifted closed again.

Nicholas
heard familiar voices echoing down the walk. He made attempts to rearrange
their clothing, securing his wife's bodice as best he could and buttoning his
jacket over top. Helena made no move to help; from her rhythmic breathing, he
thought she might have fallen asleep. Brushing away a damp tendril of hair, he
pressed his lips to her forehead.

"This
wasn't a dream, was it?" Her voice was cloudy with sleep.

He
rather thought it was. A wondrous dream he would give his life for.