The Journal of Lucy Quince (2 page)

I loved this feeling of power. I withdrew and he collapsed, lying back on the bed and groaning as his cock waved mournfully in the air. I smiled, and splayed his legs apart to delicately tongue and lick his balls. When I rolled one nugget gently in my mouth, I tasted his musk—his essence—and wanted more. I let my tongue travel down.

Ambrose gasped and froze as I followed the trail but I could not stop myself and eased his buttocks apart. He trembled and groaned my name aloud, when I stroked the crinkled bud with my finger. He grabbed me and pulled me upward. I do not think it was from abhorrence.

I marked that as a place to explore later, and took pity on his waving cock. I pushed him to the bed, straddling him and seating myself with one thrust. Ambrose lay beneath me, holding still as I drove my body against his length, taking him deeper with each movement of my hip.

I had enflamed my own passion and used his body now to assuage it. My power burned both of us and he anchored my hips and followed my rhythm as I squeezed internal muscles, licking him with the walls of my… “What do you call this?” I moved his hand to touch my woman’s place.

“Pussy, quim, cunt…” He groaned the answer as he continued flexing his hips so that we danced as we conversed, “Hotbox…” He put his thumb on the nub of nerves that screamed for attention.

“This is your pearl, your honey spot, your nubbin.” I bucked at his touch, taking him deeper so that my pussy lips folded back and my female moisture bathed his groin. My hips rotated following his finger, and I ground my flesh against his, hurting inside with painful pleasure…

July 25, 1866

I have been unwell. I cannot cook, nor tolerate the smell of food being prepared. I have hired a domestic. She is an older woman who will sleep in a room at the back of the house. She is grim and disapproving and if I could have a different choice, she would not be the one I would employ. However, when I posted a notice of employment at Bailey’s Mercantile in Eclipse, she alone applied.

My illness persists. I am very sad, and feel the loss of my father greatly. The days are long and Ambrose is rarely home. At first he did not approve the housekeeper. But, when I remained ill, he changed and made her welcome.

August 1, 1866

It is revealed why Ambrose accepted my employment of a domestic. I am with child. It has made me both melancholic and restless. I am trapped.

There, I’ve said it. I had pretended inside that I would return soon to Boston. That this was a segment of my life that I would look back on with interest, only a dream. I don’t know how my mind fooled my sense and blurred my reality.

I AM GOING TO HAVE A CHILD. I should be joyful, but the first thought I had was of freedom lost. I cry at night…it is shameful, but I know I am not ready for this.

August 20, 1866

Ambrose is proud of me at last. I am with child. “This will settle you down.” Like I was one of his cows to be herded, branded…milked. I shudder at the thought while he rejoices.

December 25th~Christmas Day 1866

My belly is beginning to round with the child that grows within. I have felt stirrings and last night I lay under Ambrose’ hand, feeling flutters of life. I am disturbed by my body’s changes. My nipples are tight buds, so sensitive that the brush of my nightgown irritates painfully.

I complained of this, and Ambrose whisked my gown off. “May all things be so easy to fix, my lady,” he growled in that voice that makes me act harlot.

I am aroused, remembering. During my morning sickness (all day and night also) we had not engaged in marital relations. I think Ambrose refrained because he felt guilty for visiting such ill-health upon me. He is a lusty man but I certainly had not considered enjoying the marriage bed during this time.

But the sickness is gone, leaving me with a wanton need to join with my husband. When he removed my gown, I sprawled shamelessly, inviting his gaze.

He hurried out of his clothes, words unnecessary between us. His cock was full and leaking fluid as he shimmied out of his pants. He stepped clear of all, pulled his shirt over his head, and came down between my sprawled thighs, seemingly in one motion.

The hair on his calves tickled the sensitive skin on my thighs and I made a moue of protest. “I’ll kiss it better.” He did that and more. “I want to look at you, here. I want to watch your pussy change.” He thumbed my nubbin and I hissed in pleasure.

“Look at you,” he crooned tenderly as he unfolded the petals of my womanhood, and swooped to kiss and suckle the jewel on my crown. When I raised my hips to meet him, he sucked my pearl deeper and tongued the hot bud, threatening to drive me insane with need. He stroked one, then two fingers inside of me, sucking on the nubbin until I screamed and orgasmed into his mouth.

He buried his face in my folds, bringing me back to full arousal in moments. My back braced against the headboard of the bed and I spread my legs for him and pushed my pelvis against his chin, grinding my sensitive flesh against his teeth and mouth. “Make me come again,” I begged him. My heat was not to be born. “Make me come, Quincy, put the fire out.”

He came over me then and shafted me until I screamed and screamed my climaxes. I swiveled my hips catching the rhythm of his thrusts, tightening and flexing around his cock until I felt the pulse of his seed spurt hotly inside. I was still enflamed and needed yet more.

Ambrose withdrew and urged me toward his mouth. “All of us,” he growled, “I taste all of us now.”

He buried his face in my pussy and ate at me, taking the combined essence of us and drinking it from my body. I rode his face, holding onto the back of the bed while he held my hips and suckled the climaxes from me. His hands squeezed my breasts, as his mouth laved and nuzzled, teeth scraping my sensitive nub, tongue plunging deep into my channel, chin riding against my engorged lower lips.

I moaned, hips jerking against his mouth as he suctioned around my channel, and drew from me my liquid heat. He murmured praise against my lower lips, drinking the proof of my need until I collapsed above him. Then, he tipped me so that his tongue languidly cleaned the final drops of my release.

I was satiated, limp, when he rolled from under me and stretched so that his kiss took my mouth and I drank our essence from his lips and tongue.

I heard myself give him words I had until then withheld. “I love you, Ambrose.”

He grunted and pulled me into his arms. I wanted to talk, he already snored softly. “I’m calling you Quincy from now on. Ambrose sounds like an old fuddy-duddy.” I whispered my intent to his sleeping form. The clock chimed one time in the hallway. It was Christmas 1866.

“Merry Christmas, husband,” I murmured.

“Merry Christmas, wife,” he surprised me. I’d thought him asleep.

April 4th, 1867

The ground outside is white. A surprise spring snow blanketed all, while inside, I became a mother. I gave Ambrose a son. We named him, Alexander McKenna Quince, after my father.

April 8th, 1867

I am nineteen today. I look at this journal and know that inside is the story of Lucy McKenna Quince and the journey that she made this year. Perhaps I will continue to write—perhaps not…

****

I hope you enjoyed
The Journal of Lucy Quince
. The sometimes tender, sometimes rough story about the love between Lucy and Ambrose Quince continues in
Quincy’s Woman
and
Perfect Strangers
. Visit me @
www.GemSivad.com
to view my books and discover more titles in the Eclipse Heat series available now from Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

An excerpt from

Copyright 2011, Gem Sivad

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-4199-3342-4

Blurb:

Fresh from the post-Civil War salons and drawing rooms of Boston, Lucy McKenna considers herself a sophisticated young woman. But when she meets Texas rancher Ambrose Quince, she turns into a flustered girl. He’s too old, war roughened and unrefined—and she has no idea how to deal with the sensual hunger he inspires.

Ambrose falls fast and hard for the innocent debutante visiting Eclipse, Texas. Persuading Lucy to accept his pursuit becomes a duel of wits and passion as he awakens her desire.

Lucy leaves Boston and childhood behind when she becomes Mrs. Ambrose Quince. Her lonely days on the Double-Q ranch are filled with work and frustration. But the nights are spent in her husband’s arms, learning carnal awareness…one molten caress at a time.

One day, as Father looked through his spyglass at the herd of mustangs, I stood apart, watching the wild horses from the crest of the bluff above where they grazed. From a distance, they seemed a motley group. Nothing distinguished them but the red stallion leading the herd. He arched his neck and trumpeted a challenge as though he knew we watched. Then he snorted and circled his mares, urging them into a gallop as they fled.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Mr. Quince stood behind me, close enough so that I could feel the heat of his body.

I moved away, putting space between us and he said, “Hot out here for a woman with such delicate skin. I imagine you’d like to shuck some of those fancy clothes right now.” He made statements like that often, not seeming to understand the inappropriateness of his personal observations.

As for my fancy clothes, I’d worn my Boston riding livery, certainly not as elegant as my hunt dress. Mr. Quince’s remarks irritated me almost as much as the hot sun beating down on the heavy dark material. I was perspiring beneath it and miserably aware of the damp material clinging to my body. I ached to return to the shade of the hotel.

But I refused to admit my state of discomfort to the rancher. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Quince, but thank you for your concern.”

He shrugged and walked to where Papa stood, still following the progress of the horses. “There’s a cave hidden in the rock formation behind us. Would it be all right if I show it to Lucy? It’s a lot cooler inside than out here.” He asked permission from Papa without even suggesting it to me. I would have declined immediately had I been given the choice.

Papa waved vaguely in my direction and said, “Go along, Daughter. I suspect you’re bored and I expect Ambrose is right. The shade will be a pleasant respite for you.”

Mr. Quince looked smug and took my arm before I could make excuses. The cave was dark until Ambrose lit a torch by the entrance. I immediately experienced the drop in temperature, shivering in delight at the balm of cool air. Once inside, we stood in a pool of flickering light. I gazed around the massive cavern, pretending interest in the rocks rather than look at him.

He stepped closer and turned me to face him. Later when I recalled the event, I experienced the same trembling ache his next actions wrought. Ambrose Quince kissed me. Without my consent, he brushed his lips across mine. When I didn’t respond, not really knowing how, he draped my arms around his neck and pulled me closer.

A different kind of heat seized me. My internal temperature soared as my body brushed against his. My womb tightened, clenching as a shudder rippled across my flesh and I looked up breathlessly.

Mr. Quince’s stature being much greater than my own, he seemed to engulf me in the embrace as he molded my body against his. I later assured myself that had he not kept claim to my mouth and held me secured against his frame, I would have fled his intimate conduct.

But he held me fast, and I didn’t struggle for release when he continued the kiss. He savored my lips and murmured sounds that vibrated across my nerve endings. At first, I felt the barest stroke of his tongue—a not unpleasant sensation of wet heat touching my bottom lip. Nudging against the seam of my closed mouth, he muttered, “Open for me.”

Heat pulsed through me and I leaned into his kiss, obeying his order. It was as if I had no will of my own and must comply. He slid his tongue with shocking smoothness through the narrow space I allowed. My whimpered distress didn’t deter his intent. He tasted me, stroking my tongue with his in the most startling fashion.

“Kiss me back, Lucy,” he said against my lips.

It frightened me how easily he invaded my person, mastering my will. I melted against him, enjoying the feel of his tongue tangling with mine. It was intoxicating, making me heady and weak. Clutching the back of his shirt in my hand, I clung to him, needing to anchor myself lest I swoon.

When he tipped my head even farther back and arched my body over his arm, my breasts pressed against my dress, creating friction. I had the terrible urge to move against his chest and purr like a tabby cat, stretching and rubbing on him.

At last releasing my mouth, he stepped away from me and I almost fell. I had been so enthralled by his attentions my limbs seemed turned to liquid.

He drew me back in his arms but refrained from a second kiss. “You taste so sweet,” he growled in a voice even deeper than usual.