Cheryl Holt (10 page)

The perception scared her to death!

“You make me so hard,” he asserted, and he bent down and bestowed a kiss that was so sweet, she sighed with pleasure.

“Rascal.”

“Help me with my shirt.”

She knew she shouldn’t, but she set to the task anyway, unhooking his cuff links and laying them on the vanity. Then, she unfastened the buttons until his chest was bared, his beguiling matting of hair luring her to caress him. He yanked the lapels aside, wresting the hem and jerking at the sleeves, so that he was nude from the waist up.

“Touch me again,” he implored. “I like the feel of your hands on me.”

Tempted beyond her limits, she forced an image of him and his paramour into her mind, recalling them in the throes of their bored, restrained passion, vividly recollecting the tang of an exotic cologne, and what the couple had likely been doing that had resulted in the fragrance being smeared all over him.

“Not till you’ve washed. I can’t.”

“Of course,” he gallantly responded. “You’re so fetching; you make me forget myself.”

Ooh, he was an unrepentant flatterer, who adeptly appreciated how to overwhelm a woman’s saner impulses and inclinations. In her forlorn circumstance, it was a hazardous combination. He smiled, a devilish grin that creased two dimples in his cheeks, and she could picture how he must have looked as a naughty boy when
he was causing his nanny all sorts of trouble.

Caution was so imperative!

“Why don’t you get in the tub? I’ll be right outside.”

“Promise me you won’t leave.”

He was sincere! He truly wanted her to be there when he finished! The insight made her heart pound.

“I won’t.”

She went to the outer room, anxious to distract herself, but his presence was too blatant. One of his coats was tossed over the bedframe, a pair of riding boots was balanced in the corner, his shaving equipment and extra cuff links were scattered across the dresser. Proximity to his belongings was exhilarating, and she quivered with anticipation, eager to peek into the wardrobe, to riffle through it so that she could examine and handle his garments.

Instead, she went to the table where the maids had deposited the breakfast trays. In a thrice, Cook had prepared a scrumptious repast, enough for an army, and she furtively nibbled at the eggs, at a morsel of scone. The flavors made her stomach growl, and her oral glands salivate.

While it was inappropriate to partake of Wakefield’s feast, she was hungry. Anymore, her diet was so meager that, sporadically, she wondered from where their next meal would come. With the loss of security her father’s job had rendered, the preceding six months had been a nightmare as she’d fretted and stewed over the fate of her meager, poverty-stricken family.

The new vicar, Harold Martin, had moved into the rectory where Emma had been born and raised. She could scarcely argue over his legitimate usurpation of the property, so she’d packed and gone quietly, meekly abandoning her home without a fight. Since that dreadful day, she’d been forced to endure the eternal humiliation
of surviving in a hovel, of having little to eat, and no means of supporting her mother and sister who depended on her.

People were aware of the Fitzgeralds’ dire straits, but no one could intercede. Economic conditions were too extreme for all.

When her father had been alive, parishioners had rewarded their good deeds by donating supplies to the vicarage, so she’d kept on with her nursing, considering it as employment whereby she could procure sparse rations of provisions. She delivered babies, attended the sick, prayed with the dying, but in light of the area’s acute financial austerity, few had anything with which they could afford to part, so hunger was an incessant problem.

Plucking a berry from the scone, she held it on the tip of her tongue in order to savor its tartness. The astringency was like a poke with a sharp stick, graphically reminding her of her dire plight.

She whirled away, only to discover that she could peek into the dressing room through the crack in the door. Wakefield was disrobing, having removed his shoes, and he was in the process of drawing down his pants. Dry-mouthed, she scrutinized him as he revealed his backside, and she couldn’t prevent herself from staring, at the bumps of his spine, the rounded globes of his bottom. His thighs were covered with a wiry dusting of the same blond hair that was on his chest, and she was deluged by a maniacal desire to strip herself, to hurry in and press her torso to his.

In dismay, she shut her eyes, and she could hear him stepping into the tub, the water lapping, his hiss of breath as he sank down into the steamy cauldron.

Absurdly, she was jealous of his luxury. She hadn’t bathed in a tub since they’d moved out of the rectory
and lost the stove that had so easily heated the water. Her ablutions had been reduced to quick swipes with a cloth, and her envy of such a minor amenity only underscored—more so than her deplorable diet—the pitiful level to which her fortunes had descended.

“Miss Fitzgerald,” he beckoned, “come here. I need you.”

“For what?”

“To wash my back.” There was a pause, and a significant chuckle. “And my front.”

Oh, Lord, give me strength!

She bit the inside of her cheek, worried her fingers on her skirt. The prospect made her weak, but in spite of her misgivings, she went. It was a method by which she could experience some of what she coveted without going overboard.

After all, what could happen when the man was immersed in a vat of water?

To be safe, she dished up a plate of breakfast and took it with her. In case she ran out of innocuous chores to accomplish with her hands, she could feed him. Head high, courage at the fore, she entered the room, marched to the screen, and peered behind it.

Submerged in the water, he was reclined, his elbows and knees relaxed against the edges. Warm, drenched, slippery all over, he’d dunked himself, and his hair was dripping and slicked off his forehead.

Feigning bravado, she approached and knelt beside him, bringing over a stool and resting the plate upon it.

“Let’s get some food in you. You’ll feel better.”

“I already feel pretty damned good.”

“Don’t cu—”

“I know, I know.” He snickered and waved away her protest. “Don’t curse.”

“You’re learning.”

She grabbed the spoon and scooped up some eggs, extending them to him as if he were a babe. He assessed her, a smile quirking his exquisite mouth then, without complaint, he took the bite she’d rendered, then another and another, until he’d gobbled up most of it.

When she dispensed the final spoonful, he steadied her wrist, grasping the utensil and setting it and the plate away, then he linked their fingers. “You’re constantly taking care of people, aren’t you?”

For some reason, she blushed. “I try to be helpful.”

“It’s more than that. You’re a natural. It’s in your blood.”

“Perhaps.”

He leaned forward and kissed her in that tender way she was coming to expect. It was always dear; it was always a surprise.

“Thank you for taking care of
me
.”

“You’re welcome.”

He clasped her neck and tugged at her till their cheeks were joined, his face in her hair, and . . . and he was sniffing her!

“I like how you smell,” he contended after a protracted sampling. She couldn’t devise a suitable reply and was striving to develop one when he added, “I want to call you Emma.”

“No.”

He laughed, a seductive, bewitching sound that rattled her innards. “Woman! You’re alone with me. In my dressing room. I’m naked. I’m calling you Emma.”

“It’s too familiar.” If they discarded all semblance of propriety, where would that leave her? Such liberty was the very worst thing that could transpire. How would she maintain any emotional distance if he was repeatedly murmuring her name? “I don’t want anyone to know that we’ve established a casual relationship.”

Momentarily, he was stunned, then he laughed again. “You’d be embarrassed if people knew we were friends?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“God, but you’re deadly to my ego. I’m not sure why I put up with you.”

“Because you like me?” she tentatively ventured.

“Yes, I believe I do.” Scrupulously, he evaluated her, then he sat back, slouching down into the water. “We’ll compromise. I’ll call you Emma when there’s no one else about. And you’ll call me John.” He winked wickedly. “That way, when I’m inside you and you’re crying out in ecstasy, I won’t have to listen to you saying
Milord Wakefield
. I don’t think my pride could stand it.”

The knave was so convinced of his prowess! She’d seen him having sex, and she hadn’t been impressed, so she couldn’t deduce how he’d drive her to cry out—in ecstasy or for any other purpose. Besides, she didn’t plan to ever spread her legs for him, but she didn’t suppose this was the best time to admit it.

“You’ll never persuade me to call you by your given name.”

“We’ll see.” He urged her nearer and whispered in her ear. “Take off your clothes. Get in the tub with me.”

Her breath hitched in her lungs. Did men and women really conduct themselves so decadently?

How spectacular it would be, both of them nude and rubbing against one another! Her avid imagination soared with the possibilities of what she wouldn’t dare attempt. She couldn’t conceive of parading before him, undressing while he watched, then climbing in to frolic.

“I can’t”—he kissed her cheek, her mouth—“I can’t.”

“I want you in here with me.”

He pulled her to him, so that she was precariously
positioned over the tub, her breasts flattened to his damp chest, but she had no fear that she might fall in. His arms were strong as a vise, and he held her as if she were cherished and special.

“It’s too soon. You’re asking too much.”

“I keep forgetting,” he mused.

“About what?”

“That you’re not like the other females of my acquaintance.”

“No, I’m not, and I wish you’d stop mentioning them. The comparison makes me feel cheap and common.”

“My darling Emma,” he said, “there’s nothing
common
about you.”

He regarded her, not sure what to make of her or the peculiar association they’d formed.

She pondered the same. Where would it lead? Where would it end?

He reached behind her and retrieved a cloth, swished it in the water, wrung it out, then he offered it to her, encouraging her to misbehave with complete abandon.

It seemed such a venial sin, to merely brush it across him. How could she resist?

Recklessly clutching it, she snatched the soap, too, and worked up a lather. Commencing at his neck, she laved his shoulders, his arms, his back, his chest. In alluring circles, she stroked lower and lower, until she was dipping into the water with each swipe, coming closer to the provocation that awaited, but not courageous enough to slide all the way down.

She settled for rinsing off the soapy residue, until his upper half was clean, and he smelled so fine that she could hardly keep from sniffing at him as he’d done to her.

All finished, the cloth dangled from her fingertips,
and she was ready to drop it, when he directed her hand under the water and guided her to his erection. He swathed her fingers around it, tightening their combined grip, and he flexed, the velvety skin going taut then easing as he retreated. He was enormous, her fist barely able to round the circumference, and a flutter charged through her secret, feminine regions.

He moved his hand away, to let her proceed on her own, and once he did, she withdrew, too, so he enveloped her again and held on.

“Fuck me with your hand, Emma,” he gently commanded.

The vulgar word electrified her, inducing a swirl of chaos, and she was overcome by such a confused mix of physical craving and imposed restraint that she was paralyzed. She turned to him, burrowing into his chest.

She was so conflicted!

“You can do it, Em,” he coaxed. “Just for me.”

Brazenly, he rose up on his knees, his flanks and loins exposed, and she glanced down, rejoicing in the chance to observe him. His cock was tempestuous, angrily pulsating, demanding her immediate attention. She flicked her thumb across the incited crown, causing him to shudder and tense his stomach muscles.

“You’re so beautiful—” she managed, before her mouth united with his in a torrid kiss, and of their own accord, her unruly hands drifted down, meticulously massaging the cloth over his privates, his cockstand, his balls, the cleft of his ass.

The rough nap titillated and excited him to a thrilling, outrageous peak, but ultimately, he was the one to halt. He seized her wrist, slapping at her hand seconds before he lost control and spewed himself into the water.

She wasn’t sure why he’d hesitated at the critical apex. She couldn’t credit it to shyness or modesty, and
definitely not to any sudden decision to remediate the pace.

Slumping into the water, he reposed against the tub as he rapidly reasserted his aplomb, and he analyzed her, trying to deduce how they’d so swiftly arrived at this erotic juncture. The room was quiet, and he was staring at her so intently that she couldn’t match his gaze. She looked down at the water, humiliation sizzling her cheeks.

“I thought I could go through with this,” she explained. “I want to. I really do, but . . .”

But what?
a voice in her head screamed.

Now that she knew how glorious she felt when he was near, she yearned to stretch out with him on his bed. It would be so splendid to have him pushing her down into the plush mattress, to have his body heavy and insistent against her own. She’d want to dabble and trifle over and over until she ignited in the flames of a sin from which there could be no salvation.

“I want your hair down, and your clothes off.” As he spurred her to commit one trespass after the next, he was kind, understanding. “I want you to lie down beside me.”

“Oh, Lord . . .” She buried her face in her hands, feeling as though she could burst into tears.

It would be so simple. The bed was a few feet away. He was thoroughly aroused, her own self in no better condition. She could say yes, but she would be giving the most precious part of herself to this bounder, this stranger, and the fact that she was considering it, that she was so pathetically eager, was frightening.