The woman, in her innocence, continued, "My body is
mine" – though it seemed his for perusal at the very least – "and I
want to give it to you, to me, actually. I want to spend it as I like. On a
lark if I so choose—"
Sam laughed, because it suddenly struck him. "That's
it?" he asked. "I'm a—" He laughed again, because it seemed so
preposterous. "A fling?" My God, he was a – that's right, the cowboy,
a yokel to her who didn't count. Whom her ladyship here wanted to sleep with on
the sly: for the sake of his body and the sake, possibly, of his two-bit
cowtown Southern mouth. He'd never dreamed. Women always saw his money and
position as part and parcel of him, or so he imagined. He didn't know whether
to be insulted or flattered.
Both. Flattered she wanted him so obviously, so simply and without
restraint. Insulted that she thought she could toss him over afterward, that he
wasn't worth more.
Her desire confounded him, elated him, addled him. Have at it, he
told himself. It wasn't every day a man got a chance at a woman as fine as
Liddy Brown, with no strings attached. Perfect.
Yet it wasn't. An unaccountable anger rose up in him that was so
fierce he didn't want to face it.
"You aren't being noble, Sam Cody," she told him.
He was. Yes, he was! He was thinking of her, too, damn it.
"You are being difficult," she said.
"I'm not." Except he knew he was difficult, because
everyone told him so. It was just that he hated it, hated himself for it,
wanted to be otherwise—
Sam dropped under the water. Liddy grabbed at him again, though he
avoided her easily. Enough, he thought. He let the cold pool swallow him up,
sinking down, down. The water was clear though relatively lightless just a few
feet under.
"Sam!" he could hear far above in a muffle.
"Sam!"
He ignored her, adjusting himself through his trousers in the
liquid dark. His testicles were shrunk against his body from the frigid water,
though they were active as the blazes and his goshdarn peter was as hard as
the granite walls around them. God love him, even this irritated him. He didn't
want to feel arousal.
He launched his body forward, stretching out in the fluid dark. He
gave a kick and glided toward the pool's edge. He swam, a single breath, then
finally rose toward the light, toward the sparkle of the surface.
Lydia couldn't see Sam at all for a full minute, then saw his
shiny head pop up, sending out ripples that ringed outward from his shoulders.
He shook his head, slinging water, and headed toward the shoreline, where tall
shrubs overhung the river.
Who could imagine that Sam could take his wayward, contrary self
to such extremes? To kiss her like that, then leave her? No. Oh, no, she
thought, as her eyes met the sight of his rising up out of the river, water
streaming off him as he pulled himself up onto the rocks, his trousers and
shirt stuck to his body. Oh, no,
Lydia
told herself
again. Now was no time to become
ornery
,
as he called it: difficult, she thought again. No, she thought. No!
She swam after him. He had just turned around, just raised his
head from wiping his face with his hands, as she climbed up onto the rocks,
then walked out of the river herself. In nothing but her soaking wet
underclothes – thin cotton and lace and narrow little ribbons. She knew what
she looked like.
Naked
, she thought
again and felt triumphant. She was fully naked to him. Better than naked:
almost naked. He stared. He gawked.
"Ha-a, God," he muttered. "Jesus. Liddy." He
took a step back. "Lid—" he said again and broke off. She walked
toward him. His face grew grave, his eyes narrowing, his expression openly
angry. "I won't stop this time," he said. "I won't."
"Good. Don't. Show me." She danced her bare feet a few
steps, letting her hips roll from side to side as she moved. She danced toward
him, saying, "I'm dancing naked. I'm making it as hard as I can on
you."
"Oh, you're making everything plenty hard." He let out a
breathy laugh. "Jesus God. Liddy—"
Power. Oh, the power she had. It made her giddy. It made her sad:
because it was her discovery, her triumph, but it was also the problem. Sam was
afraid of her power over him. She was half-afraid of it herself, so she didn't
blame him.
He stepped back. She pleaded her case. "Don't make me marry
for society, for other people, and make love for other people, too. Let me make
love one time for myself: for my heart's desire, remember?"
His face. The unblinking way his narrow eyes squinted at her, not
trusting, yet waiting somewhere, watching, alert. He said, "I – I'm not
for you. You've made it clear, Liddy. I – I'm not g—" He choked the word
back a moment then let it out: "good enough."
She said with all the conviction she felt, so strong, as she came
within arm's length of him, "You are right now. At this moment. You are
everything I dream of in a man." A shiver ran through her – for the
coolness of being wet, for trepidation of her own daring, and for the sheer
vigor, the incredibly gorgeous vigor she felt throbbing in herself: the female
potency to make tall, handsome Sam wet his lips, blink, eye her unavoidably up
then down – and, angry or not, rise solidly to the occasion, so to speak. His
wet trousers tented boldly.
She could see the outline of him – it took her aback a moment. His
penis was long and thick. It stood out from his abdomen, an aggressively
elegant part of him, straight as a rod and rounded like the end of a torpedo,
but with the outline of a ridge, a head. She stared. He stepped
spraddle-legged, shameless, to face her directly. Oh, yes. She wanted to touch
him, see him, feel the heat of him again. Such intimacy. She wanted it. Though
the logistics baffled her. She couldn't think how anything that size could fit
inside her, yet she wanted just that.
Inside
you.
Mad, she thought. She must be mad to express these thoughts, even
to herself. Yet she felt brave, willing to admit at least in silent
conversation exactly what she wanted, what would be her chosen blessing if she
were allowed to exert her will.
He murmured, sounding more bewildered than appreciative,
"Jesus God, you are so beautiful."
In that moment, his saying so made her so; it made her laugh. She
couldn't help it. She felt such delight for the unequivocal earnestness in his
voice, his eyes, no matter how confused he was by his own response: His
admiration as a man, her chosen lover, was full and present, rich. A gift
beyond measure.
The rest came quickly. Sam, muttering a stream of the most
colorful curses she'd ever heard, stepped suddenly to her and pulled her up
against him so strongly he yanked her off her feet. He dropped them both to the
ground – it took her breath, as stomach-lifting and wonderful as a Ferris wheel
box plummeting with gravity. He landed on one knee himself and broke her fall
by catching her hips, then let them both tumble. From here, in a kind of fit of
purposefulness, he moved them up a yard into a bed of ground cover, tiny soft
leaves with little white flowers, lightly fragrant, sunny-warm and damp. There,
he pushed her onto her back and brought his weight onto her.
He let loose in a way that spoke oceans for his former restraint.
He cupped her breast, rubbing his thumb across the nipple, then bending his
head, licking through the wet cotton, taking the tip of her breast into his
mouth, Oh! She arched. Oh! Her breath rushed out. A kind of cooperative
struggle ensued.
He pushed himself between her legs and pressed his hips into hers,
a rhythm, with
Lydia
not quite able
to keep up with her own arousal. Her stomach seemed to drop again. Blood
pounded. It was delicious; it was new and strong and unsettling. Sam kissed her
full-mouthed, deep, slathering the insides of her cheeks, her teeth, her
tongue, with his. His kiss grew hard, passionate with want. Through the wet
fabric of drawers and trousers, they all but copulated. She felt lightheaded
from it. It was as if she'd dropped into another pool, a dark, hot one.
Bottomless, powerful, and, she knew, if she followed his lead, he could take
her further down into it.
She simply let herself go, let him take them where he would. She
felt him push his knees against the insides of her thighs, opening her legs
till she couldn't stretch them wider, at their limit. Then he brought his hand
between them and touched her there through her wet drawers.
She leaped. "H-hea-vens." She jerked. Before she could
catch her breath, he'd tugged at the wet drawstring. When it resisted – it had
become knotted – he broke it, loosening the waist till there was nothing to
stop his hand. He pulled her drawers down, sliding his hands with them down her
bare belly, his cool fingers suddenly digging into the curls of hair. His
fingertips registered all but icy against the heat of her … places. She knew
the words, but they were suddenly inadequate.
Vulva. Vagina. Labia
.
None of them
were heady enough, shocking enough, delighted, panicky—
"A-ah h-ha-a hha!"
So unexpectedly
private and so perfect. She let him… And couldn't catch her breath.
"Haah." Who could have been prepared for this? She tried to form
words, though God only knew what she would have said to him, had she been able
to speak. Stop? Thank you? This feels so wicked … oh, God, please, more, yes?
His fingers knew her better than she knew herself. His chilly
fingertip found a small place that positively made her wild when he touched it.
He teased her there, then slid his finger, so cool, down along where she was so
warm, hot. She began to push against him, while he contained her.
He did the trick again, instructing her this time. "I want
your legs wide, your body open to me. I want to look at you, touch you.
Look," he told her.
She bent her head just in time to see him, to feel him, push his
finger inside her.
Inside your body
. What a
feeling. To be penetrated, oh—
"Watch," he told her, and she did. She watched him
withdraw his finger, spread her apart with his fingers and thumb, wide open,
vulnerable to him, then push two fingers in all the way up to his knuckles.
"Ah – oh-hh-h—" Incoherent. Blind. Blaring white
pleasure till her eyes ceased to see.
She could feel him move his fingers out, then in, out, then in. He
bent his mouth to her ear, bringing his weight down onto her, and murmured in
his deep, raspy voice, "I whaa—" He, too, was at the edge of control.
He began again. "I wha-a-anted this from the first hour I stole looks at
you across that coach. My ffinger – f-fingers-s—" He withdrew, then repenetrated,
widening, as if filling her more … more fingers… "My tongue, my penis
inside you here—" He penetrated her deeply, and she arched against his
hand, against him.
"Yes-s-s," she murmured. "Now." Whatever was
building was starting to become unbearable. "Na-ha-how," she said.
He let out a faint snort and answered simply, soft and low,
"No-o-o."
It was an argument he was destined to win. Because everything he
did sent her higher, crazier, enraptured her more.
He lifted his weight enough to work at the buttons of her chemise.
He must have been fairly dexterous, because the tiny buttons seemed to pop
under his fingers, little flicks of fabric opening. He pealed her chemise off
her breasts, off her shoulders, till it bound her arms lightly against her
body. His bare chest brushed against her breasts, his wet shirt dragging
lightly at her ribs. He bent his mouth to her cold nipple as he pushed his
fingers into her again.
"Oh-my-dear-lord," a prayer, an invocation she muttered
into his hair.
Lydia
became unable
to form any but the most inarticulate sounds, groaning, crooning as she turned
her head from one side to the other. Oh, her breasts … open to him … to the
heat of his mouth; to his sight and touch. He suckled one nipple as he seized
the other with his fingers, squeezing. His fingertips were cold, his palm warm,
his mouth as hot as Hades. His tongue and mouth pressed wetly over one breast
then the other; he made the tips ache and constrict as if they could tighten
like tiny fists. While he continued with his very wicked fingers lower.
He found that spot again between her legs, the place he'd touched,
teased and abandoned. This time, though, when he touched her, she reached
between her own legs and held his hand where she wanted it. She felt his hand
move with knowing, their hands together in this intimate crook of her body. He
began a rhythmic caress of the tiny place, this small part of her she wasn't
very familiar with, yet he seemed to know all about. She responded strongly,
her whole body quivering. He began to slide down her abdomen.
"Wha-what?" She lifted her head, unsure. No, this
couldn't be right. "N-no—"
"Oh, yes," Sam murmured. He pushed away her reaching
hands, her reservations.
When his hot mouth suddenly took her so intimately, she saw stars.
He pressed his tongue, soft, then made it hard, the tip licking at her, and a
second later, her body contracted with such strength, her muscles jerked. The
pleasure of it was strong, strange, and unpredicted. Pleasure so powerful it
was stronger than
Lydia
herself. All
she could do was let it drive through her, let it have her, let it make her
shudder.