Authors: Alice Duncan
Until
he felt her trembling fingers fumble with the buttons on his jacket.
Then he tossed caution to the winds and let his hands travel to her
delightfully round derriere.
“Tom!”
she cried.
A
little worried, Tom looked at her. She wasn’t scared. She looked delighted,
in fact. Encouraged, he shut his eyes again and pressed her bottom.
She caught on immediately, and Tom growled when he felt her get up on
her tiptoes so she could feel his hardness against the juncture of her
thighs.
“Please
love me tonight, Tom.”
Tom
was sure that in the heat of his own desire, he had misunderstood her.
He gasped, “What?”
Smiling
up at him, Claire discovered happily that all her inhibitions had disappeared.
All she cared about tonight was learning what Tom’s hands felt like
on her naked flesh. All she cared about was feeling him kiss her. She
felt beautiful for the first time in her life; she felt alive and vibrant,
and she didn’t care that tomorrow she’d be plain Claire Montague
again. This man wanted her; he cared for her; tonight she even believed
it.
“Love
me, darling. Take me to your bed—take me anywhere—and love me, Tom.
Please love me.”
She
saw his beautiful eyes open wide. Then she saw them shut. He groaned.
Then, in a move so swift it made Claire squeak, he swept her off her
feet and walked her straight to the stairs. As she rested her head on
his wonderfully broad shoulder, she allowed herself a moment of amazement
that he should be so strong and good and noble. He was going to make
her his; to teach her the art of love, to show her what all the fuss
was about.
Her
toes curled and she fought a giggle of anticipation. She wished she
could use this new experience in one of her novels. Immediately, she
realized she must cease thinking about her novels if she expected to
enjoy herself. And she would enjoy herself. Defiantly, Claire clung
to Tom, knowing that her life would change forever tonight, and glad
of it. She would become his mistress, a delightfully wicked prospect.
No
more would she be prim Claire Montague, housekeeper, who hid a sordid
past behind a prudish facade and yearned for love and excitement. Tonight
she would be loved for a certainty—and by the very man for whose love
she’d longed these many years.
If
he found he didn’t care for her after her secret was out, if this
episode was as painful as she’d heard it could be the first time,
if she never experienced Tom’s love again, at least she would cherish
the memory of tonight.
She
felt a thrill when Tom swept her past her own room and down the hall
to his own. He was taking her to his own bed! For some reason, his decision
made her heart glow; it seemed somehow a confirmation that, in some
way, he truly did care for her and want her in his life forever.
Not,
of course, that Tom Partington was capable of wheedling a female into
his bed with false promises. No indeed. Such despicable tactics were
the tools of men like her father. Tom Partington would never do such
a base and deceitful thing.
The
door to Tom’s room opened with a crash, since Tom was too preoccupied
for subtlety. He growled, “Are you sure, Claire? Are you absolutely
sure? I’ve wanted you for so long, I’ll never be able to stop unless
you tell me now.”
“I’m
sure, Tom,” Claire whispered.
It
occurred to her what a nice thing Tom had just said to her. She understood
that gentlemen in the throes of passion often made extravagant declarations.
Still, Claire had never dared even dream that a gentleman would say
an extravagant thing to her.
She
whispered, “I love you, Tom,” because it was the truth and her heart
was full.
“Oh,
God, Claire.” Tom’s voice sounded ragged as he dropped her on the
bed. She bounced on the soft mattress and stared up at him.
“May
I see you, Claire?” he asked shakily. “May I see your beautiful
body? I’ve dreamed of it, Claire. I know you probably think it shocking
of me, but you’re so beautiful, you’re so elegant and regal and
wonderful. I want to see you.”
He
wanted to see her. Her! Skinny Claire. He thought she was elegant and
regal. Her heart so full she could barely speak, Claire whispered, “Oh,
yes, Tom. I want to see you, too.”
He
obliged with such alacrity, Claire was left gasping in amazement. She
hadn’t known one could shed one’s clothing so swiftly. In a second
or two, Tom stood beside the bed, naked. She blinked rapidly several
times, stunned, staring at the magnificent maleness of him.
“Mercy,”
she murmured, glad yet again she was not wearing her spectacles. She
wasn’t sure she could survive this much magnificence clearly delineated.
“I
didn’t mean to shock you, Claire.” Tom sounded contrite.
“No.
I’m not shocked,” she lied. “You’re just so—so beautiful.”
That part wasn’t a lie. She’d never seen anything as awe-inspiring
as Tom Partington in the buff, even if he did look fuzzy. Her myopic
gaze raked his body. His shoulders were broad and muscled. She’d never
seen such muscles. His arms were hard and corded with sinew. His chest
rippled under a feathering of light brown hair that glimmered like gold
in the candlelight.
She
skipped over the part between his lean belly and his thighs, and began
her survey again from his toes, which resided at the end of long, well-shaped
feet. Until this minute, Claire never would have guessed feet could
be exciting. His calves bulged with muscle—Claire hadn’t realized
how phenomenally well-developed Tom was under the elegant city clothes
he always wore—and his thighs did, too. She saw dreadful scars on
his legs, and didn’t wonder that he sometimes limped.
At
last, she dared peek at his maleness. “Good heavens!”
“Are
you frightened, Claire?”
She
noticed he had his fists clenched tightly at his thighs, as if restraining
himself with an effort.
“N-no,”
she said. “I’m not frightened. Exactly. It’s just all so new to
me.”
She
saw him swallow and decided she shouldn’t prolong his agony any longer.
As he watched, she began to unbutton her soft woolen gown. His eyes
grew round and she felt herself blush even as his passion emboldened
her. She flung her bodice open, ripped the gown from her shoulders,
and lifted her hips to wriggle it down her legs.
Tom
groaned.
Getting
into the spirit, Claire unfastened her corset hooks and flung the instrument
of torture to the floor, staring at Tom all the while. When she lay
before him clad only in her camisole and drawers, she smiled. Very slowly,
she began to untie her camisole.
The
provocative gesture seemed to jolt Tom out of his stupor. With a growl
of pure lust, he flung himself onto the bed next to her and took over
the chore Claire had begun. Claire’s eyes drifted shut when she felt
his hands on parts of her body she’d never even felt herself, except
in the bath.
Tom’s
hands lit a fire within her, and his lips fanned it into an inferno.
By the time he took one small, rigidly-peaked breast into his mouth
and began stroking her inner thigh, Claire was certain she would explode.
“That’s
right, Claire, darling. That’s right. I want it to be good for you.”
His exploring fingers found the damp, hot seat of Claire’s passion,
and she uttered a muffled shriek and arched her hips.
“Yes,”
Tom whispered. “Oh, yes, Claire. You’re so beautiful. So beautiful.”
His
hoarse, sweet words coaxed Claire to abandon herself completely in her
quest to sate the pressure building within her. When release came, it
did so swiftly and powerfully. Claire gasped, “Tom!” and she was
gone in a paroxysm of small convulsions.
Claire’s
reason remained suspended for a terribly long time. When she finally
became aware of her surroundings again, she discovered herself being
held and caressed by Tom with the utmost tenderness. Her eyes fluttered
open to behold his dear face smiling at her.
Her
mouth was dry and her body felt limp. She managed to mouth, “Mercy
sakes,” but it was an effort.
“That
was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Claire,” Tom whispered.
“I hope this won’t hurt you too much.”
Hurt?
He hoped what wouldn’t hurt? From what seemed a great distance, Claire
realized Tom was positioning himself over her. When she felt his maleness
prod her intimately, she remembered. Ah, yes. This was the part that
was supposed to hurt. She smiled. She was ready; she didn’t care.
After what Tom had just done for her, Claire figured she could stand
anything.
With
one powerful stroke, he entered her. And she still figured she could
stand anything as long as she kept her teeth clenched.
“I’m
sorry, Claire,” Tom ground out. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll never
hurt you again.”
Daring
to open her eyes, Claire realized it was taking a great deal of restraint
on Tom’s part to keep from moving now that he’d broken through her
barrier. She managed a smile and said, “Please, Tom. I love you. It
doesn’t hurt,” and knew she’d said the right thing when his countenance
lost some of its rigidity.
Oddly
enough, after a moment or two, the pain began to subside. As Tom started
to move within her and she realized how much pleasure he was taking
from the act, she got caught up in it again herself. By the time he
surged into her, roared his release, and collapsed on top of her, she
was really quite enthralled; so enthralled, indeed, that she was almost
disappointed that it had ended so soon.
There
would be other times, though, she thought rapturously. There would be
many, many other times.
# # #
The
day after Christmas dawned crisp and clean and with a sprinkle of white
snow covering the landscape. When Claire awakened, she discovered herself
in an intimate embrace with the man she loved, and staring at a magnificent
view outside his window, the curtains to which were drawn back. The
sun sparkled on snowy fields like diamonds, and the fields seemed to
stretch into infinity. The sky was as blue as Tom Partington’s eyes,
and Claire was sure she’d never be this happy again. It was a dead-sure
certainty that she’d never been this happy before.
“Good
morning,” a gravelly voice whispered in her ear. She felt Tom’s
breath fan her cheek and a thrill shot through her.
“Good
morning.”
“Are
you feeling all right, Claire? Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt
you.”
“I
feel fine, Tom,” she murmured truthfully. “I feel simply marvelous.”
“Good.”
Tom
was surprised at how good he felt this morning. Generally when he’d
had carnal dealings with a female, it had been in celebration of the
conclusion of an assignment. Except, of course, when he’d been visiting
his parents and had called on the fetching widow Columbine, with whom
he’d had an understanding since his adolescence. This morning, however,
he felt not merely clear-headed, but energized.
Why,
he felt as though he could climb mountains or conquer worlds this morning.
He didn’t understand it, although he was pretty sure his monumental
sense of well-being had more to do with Claire than with himself. It
felt right to have her in his bed. She belonged here.
Peering
into her face, striped by the morning sun streaking through the window,
he murmured, “You’re so beautiful, Claire.”
She
was embarrassed by his words and tried to hide her face in his shoulder.
He put his arm around her and chuckled softly. “You are, you know.”
“Am
not,” came, muffled, from the pillow.
But
she was. Her features weren’t spectacular like those of Dianthe or
Tom’s mother, but her facial structure was pure and classical. Claire’s
face was one that would last forever. He’d bet any amount of money
that Claire would still be lovely and elegant when she was seventy-five.
He hoped he’d be alive to see himself proved right.
He
nuzzled her neck. “Thank you, Claire. You’ve made me the happiest
of men.”
She
said something, but he couldn’t make it out because she was still
speaking into the pillow. Feeling the need to see her and to clarify
his future, he very gently pressed her shoulder until she lay on her
back. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her beautiful brown eyes looked
soft as a faun’s. He had to kiss her, but he didn’t lose track of
his purpose.
“You’ll
stay with me, won’t you, Claire? We make a wonderful team in every
way. Surely you can see that. Why, a man’s mistress is more important
to him than any wife could ever be. You can see that, can’t you?”