"We're almost there," he said. "It's up ahead, behind the trees."
To Charity's surprise, they arrived at a picturesque creek minutes later, a forest oasis hidden behind clustering trees. As Paul tied up the horses, she went to the edge of the bank and climbed atop a smooth boulder which provided a natural dock of sorts. Diamonds sparkled upon the water, bracken and sweet moss scenting the air. The velvety breeze was a welcome respite from the scorching blaze of the sun.
"How did you find this place?" she asked as Paul joined her on the rock.
"Lads down in the village mentioned some good spots for swimming," he said. "No current and the water is sweet from a spring."
Charity peered into the dark, clear depths below. "Isn't it too cold to swim in?"
"Only one way to find out."
She turned to look at him, her jaw slackening as he divested himself of his jacket and tossed it onto the mossy ground beyond. "You're not serious!"
In response, he sent his waistcoat and cravat on the same trajectory as his jacket.
"But—but anyone can see you," she said, aghast.
He yanked the shirt over his head, and at the sight of his muscled chest, she lost track of her next argument. The filtered rays of sun glinted off the sprinkling of bronze hair on his carved torso. The trail of hair narrowed as it descended past the taut bands of his belly and vanished into his waistband ...
"There's no one here but you, and I do believe,"—he waggled his brows as he yanked off his boots—"you've seen it all before."
He stripped off the rest of his garments.
Her breath puffed from her lips. Her sex fluttered and dampened.
Oh my
goodness
.
No matter how many times she saw her husband naked, she'd never get over the thrill of it. He was so boldly male, so virile in every edge and line of his chiseled form. The sleek muscles of his thighs rippled as he came toward her, and her gaze drew unerringly to what jutted between.
She'd snuck glances at his phallus before, of course. She hadn't dared to do much more. Which was rather silly, come to think of it, given the other ways in which she was acquainted with this part of her husband's anatomy. Lifelong modesty was hard to overcome, however, and she'd thought it forward enough that she'd caressed his naked chest the last time they'd coupled. He'd seemed to like her touch, certainly.
The thought occurred to her: would he want her to touch him ... there?
With a pulse of heat, she wondered if he would fit within her hand. Even at rest, his member hung thick and heavy between his legs, and now, aroused, it pointed straight up from the patch of light brown hair, the broad tip almost skimming his navel. He sauntered up to her with no apparent embarrassment, his shaft and bollocks swaying with each step.
He ran a finger along the edge of her jaw. "Coming in with me?"
"I—I'll just watch," she said breathlessly.
Lips curved, he bent and took her mouth in a hard kiss ... and then turned and went dashing off the rock like a lunatic. His loud whoop echoed along with the loud splash. Peering over the edge, she saw nothing but waves of froth and concentric rings spreading over the surface. She clambered from the boulder onto the bank, her eyes anxiously on the water.
When his head emerged seconds later, she released a breath.
"It's glorious in here," he called, droplets flying as he shook the water from his eyes. "You must come in."
"You go ahead and enjoy it. I'll watch from here."
"For God's sake, at least dip your toes in."
"I don't want to get my dress wet."
"Then take off the damn dress." He swam in sure strokes toward her, stopping to tread water several feet away. "There's no one here to see. Besides, aren't you boiling in that rig?"
It
was
hot on the bank, and she'd been roasting the entire journey over. Perspiration adhered her skin to the layers of her unmentionables and trickled into equally unmentionable places. She felt sticky and itchy all over. She darted a glance around, saw nothing but birds and ruffling leaves. What harm would it do to take off a layer or two? She'd keep her chemise and drawers on.
She managed to remove the dress and front-lacing corset. Sitting on the edge of the bank, she dangled her feet in. Pure bliss.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back on her elbows. Cool water slid between her toes and lapped against her ankles. Then something gripped her calf.
Her scream was muffled by a giant splash.
A moment later she broke the surface of the cool water, sputtering. Paul held her in his arms, grinning from ear to ear.
"You cad, I can't swim!" She clutched his hard, slippery shoulders in a frantic grip.
"Better hold on tight then," he advised.
She had no choice but to cling tighter, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he took her toward the deep heart of the creek. His strong, easy strokes gradually eased some of her anxiety. Before she knew it, she was relaxing, enjoying the silky water against her skin.
"Let go and try to float. I won't let you drown," he said.
"Are you certain?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Positive. I'm a lazy chap, and it would be an inconvenience to have to replace you." He kissed her, all the while coaxing her arms from his neck. "There now, lie back and breathe."
Slowly, she did. With the support of his hands beneath her back, she allowed her muscles to relax, her breath to come in natural surges. Before she knew it, she was doing it, floating as effortlessly as a leaf on the water's surface.
Marvelous
. When his hands eased away, she continued to drift on her own. She closed her eyes, weightless, surrendering to the gentle bobbing of the waves.
They stayed in the water for some time. He taught her a few elementary strokes so that she was able to paddle about with some semblance of direction. They laughed and played, yesterday's tension washed away. When she began to tire, he brought her safely to shore. He laid her down, the cushion of moss soft and warm beneath her back. Staring up at him, she saw the playful heat in his eyes and as ever she responded, her nipples rising against her damp shift, her thighs twitching as moisture gushed between them.
His slow, wicked smile sped up her pulse. His approval filled her with joy, especially now after their tiff. She felt an overwhelming urge to touch him, to be connected to him in any way possible. So she ran a hand through his hair; the flames in his eyes leapt higher. With hammering excitement, she followed a rivulet with her fingertip, tracing its path down his temple and jaw. His neck arched as her finger traversed that corded length.
The tiny stream trickled over his pectoral muscle, which turned rigid beneath her touch. She loved the smooth tautness of his skin, like satin wrapped over mahogany. The droplet caught in the fine whorl of his chest hair, adhering to one flat nipple.
Her friend's advice surfaced:
whatever feels good to you will feel good to him.
Leveraging herself up on her elbows, she licked the water away.
His growl thrilled her.
Recalling how he'd ministered to her, she flicked his nipple again. It pebbled beneath her tongue. She suckled him, his groan inciting her to draw harder. She couldn't reach his other side, so she pushed him up and followed him so that they were both kneeling on the grass. She put her mouth on the neglected nipple. When his fingers dug into her scalp, she grazed him with her teeth.
He bit off a curse and yanked her mouth up to his.
Thrilled with her success, she returned his deep, tongue-ridden kiss. But instead of wrapping her arms around his neck, she let her hands wander. Over his granite-hard chest. The twitching bands of his abdomen. And finally ...
"Sweeting," he groaned against her lips.
Her pussy quivered as she held his pulsing rod in her hand. It was so thick that her fingers couldn't fit around its circumference, so long that the blushing brown tip nosed beyond her grasp. With great care, she curled her fingers, moved them up and down. The sensation—like dragging velvet over an iron poker—suspended her breath. When pearly moisture seeped from the burgeoned tip, she paused, not certain what to do.
"Don't stop, darling." His hand closed over hers, firming her grip on his phallus. "That's a tear of joy. My cock loves what you're doing, you see."
"Oh. Good," she said in a breathy voice.
He brought their linked hands up to the dripping dome of his cock, and his wetness smeared her palm. When he guided her hand down his shaft again, the slippery movement made him groan.
"Ah, love, that's
incredibly
good," he sighed.
It was so exciting, arousing and pleasing him with her touch. From his guiding hand, she learned the rhythm of a firm stroke, one that covered his cock from thick root to bulging tip. She must have gotten the hang of it because his hand left hers to cup her jaw. She pumped him as they kissed, open-mouthed and panting. Heat poured through her, her heart pounding with wild desire. Her other hand instinctively joined fray, cupping the smooth weight of his stones ...
"Devil and damn," he gasped.
The next instant, he yanked her chemise over her head and flipped her onto her hands and knees. Before she could wonder at this startling position, his lips burned at the back of her neck, down her spine, the sensations so thrilling that she arched for more. She shuddered as he rained kisses over her bottom and further down still ... she cried out as his tongue delved into her sex.
"You have the sweetest cunny," he groaned. "I'll never get enough of it."
As he continued to eat her from behind, pleasure burned away her reserve, her limitations, freeing her from her own skin. She blurred into a creature of forest and stream, a wild thing who thrust her pussy against her lover's mouth, moaning an ancient summons. Soon his tongue left her, and she shivered when his manhood took its place. He entered with a powerful thrust. Her nails dug into the mossy carpet as he rammed his shaft inside her. Again and again, he surged, his cock so deep that his balls ground against her folds. She took every throbbing inch, loving it, loving him.
"I want to come with you," he growled at her ear. "Squeeze my prick, love. Take it from me."
Her cunny tightened in response. Ecstasy roared over her, and his primal shout startled the birds from the trees. At that moment, with his hot essence gushing inside her and bliss swirling in her veins, she grasped a sudden, incontrovertible truth.
I want him—all of him.
She wanted everything: his body, his heart ... a part of his soul that belonged only to her.
With his breath hot upon her neck, his sweaty, hard body covering her own, she knew that she could not settle for less.
All or nothing—an impractical bargain. But there it was.
He collapsed onto the ground, tucking her into his side. As she lay listening to his thundering heartbeat, her lips curved. She drifted off, dreaming that anything was possible … even for her.
TWENTY-FOUR
A summer storm interrupted the journey home. They were nearing London when the sky darkened and raindrops began pelting the carriage roof as thunder simultaneously rumbled in the distance.
Paul thought to himself,
All good things come to an end.
His arm tightened around Charity, who was snuggled up against him, napping. Her long sable lashes lay against her cheek; she didn't stir. He smiled because he knew what had exhausted her so—and the recollection had the exact opposite effect on him. His body awakened as he saw her pretty rump turned up for him, heard again her sigh muffled against the forest floor. Sinking into his delicate, lush nymph from behind had no doubt been one of the most decadent thrills of his life.
They'd explored erotic terrain beyond his wildest expectations. It'd taken only three days for him to drink her sweet nectar at the source. Less than a week to know the bliss of her hands stroking him. His cock stiffened, though, by rights, that randy monster should have already gotten its fill. More than its fill, in truth. For despite his lusty adventures in the past, Paul couldn't remember anything like the past week: with every taking, he'd only wanted more, his desire unending, at times even desperate ... as if he could never get enough ...
Apprehension needled his insides. If he was honest, he was no stranger to being out of control. Was this in the same vein as his old obsession for Rosalind? And his consequent compulsion for drink and gaming? Could that dark, self-destructive part of him be at work yet again?
He'd sworn to better manage himself. To keep himself in check. He'd vowed that moderation would be the ruling theme in his marriage—yet was it moderate to tup one's wife three, sometimes four—and aye, one time,
six
—times a day?
He bit back a groan. If he could have banged his head against the wall without waking Charity, he would have. Deuce take it, what had he been thinking?
He
hadn't
been thinking; that was, and had always been, the source of all his problems. He tried to calm the thudding in his chest. Alright, so he'd been somewhat … immoderate in his dealings with Charity. This had only been their first week of marriage; he could chalk it up to novelty. The first bloom of passion. But once the intensity faded … then what?
Could he be the kind of husband Charity wanted? The son-in-law Sparkler demanded?
What about his own dreams? He needed his concentration, his focus to win the championship. He couldn't let himself get distracted, no matter how sweet the diversion.
Charity burrowed deeper into him. His arm locked around her even as disquiet gnawed. The last week, while sublime, had not been without conflict. While they'd smoothed over the tiff at the hat shop, he wondered how long their happiness could continue. He knew that his feckless nature was bound to grate on her sensible nerves again and, truthfully, vice versa.
Nothing this good had ever lasted in his life.
Though it shamed him to be thinking of another with his wife tucked in his arms, he couldn't prevent his final meeting with Rosalind from surfacing.