Someone to Hold
Page 77
“I do not regret this road of self-discovery I am on,” she said, “though it is incredibly painful.”
“Is it?” His eyes dropped to her lips.
“You will feel pain too,” she told him. “Being forced out of the life one has always led without any great deal of introspection is painful. Most people never have to do it. Most people never really know themselves.”
“And you know yourself now?” His eyes smiled suddenly beneath the brim of his hat. “You did not on the day we went to Sally Lunn’s. You told me so.”
She knew something then with mind-shattering clarity, and it was something that would have shocked Lady Camille Westcott to the core. She wanted him to kiss her even though they were in a horribly public place. She wanted to go to bed with him again. Was this self-knowledge? Was she promiscuous? But no. She had never wanted any such thing with any other man and could not imagine ever doing so. And what did that tell her about herself?
“I am learning,” she said.
His gaze did not shift. It was most disconcerting, but she would not lean away from him or look away either. She was no longer that prim, oh-so-correct aristocrat. It was a beautiful day and she was sitting by the river on a public path with a man she desired in a most shocking way, but she would not feel either shocked or ashamed. Even though he was going to change and move into a world where she could not follow. She had guarded her feelings all her life, and where had it got her?
His lips touched hers very briefly before he seemed to remember where they were and sat back again, his shoulder against hers. The boy with the hoop came roaring back along the path, the same female calling plaintively to him from behind. A mother duck was gliding across the river, five ducklings coming along behind her in a slightly crooked line. An infant squealed with delight and pointed at them while she bounced astride her father’s shoulders and her mother held a hand behind her lest she pitch backward.
“Joel,” Camille said, “take me home with you.”
* * *
He ought not to have done it, of course, but how could he have said no when it had been what he wanted too? Joel had no idea if her comings and goings had been noted by any of the neighbors on the street, but certainly this time they were fortunate inside the house. Either his fellow tenants were out, or they were occupying themselves quietly in their own rooms.
Camille made no pretense of having come with him for any other reason than the obvious one. Having removed and hung up her bonnet and shawl, she turned into the bedchamber and looked around. He was glad he had cleaned and tidied yesterday. He had even changed the bed linen.
She undressed herself today, methodically and efficiently, her back to him. They had scarcely exchanged a word since leaving that seat by the river. Her hair came down last. She drew out the pins, set them on the table beside his book, and shook her head. Her hair was dark and thick and shining and fell in waves almost to her waist. Despite the fullness of her figure evident through her clothes, one would never guess that she was so voluptuously beautiful. And young. In most of the personas she adopted for the outside world, she looked ageless, but certainly not youthful. Now she looked her age—she must be all of five years younger than he—and youthful and vibrant and so desirable that the blood seemed to be singing through his veins and filling him with an almost painful desire.
She drew back the bedcovers and lay down, apparently without self-consciousness as he finished undressing and joined her on the bed. She turned onto her side and reached for him. She had been a virgin the first time, of course, and somewhat passive, though not by any means cold or shrinking. Today she made love with a fierce abandon that he soon matched, her hands, her mouth, even her teeth, all over him while he set about the wholly unnecessary task of arousing her. He rolled onto her and thrust into her far sooner than proper finesse would have dictated, but not too soon, by God. She was hot and wet and eager, and she matched him stroke for stroke with rolling hips and inner muscles and straining hands and twined legs until she cried out her release a moment before he spilled into her.
“Camille.” He disengaged from her, moved to her side without taking his arms from about her, settled her hot, damp body against his own, and smiled as she sighed and slid into a deep, totally relaxed sleep.
He had enjoyed regular sex with Edwina for two years or longer without ever feeling the need to examine his feelings or wonder about hers or consider his obligations. He did all three as he lay there, comfortable and sated and teetering on the brink of sleep but not quite falling asleep. She smelled of that faint fragrant soap he had noticed before—and of sweat and woman. She smelled wonderful.
She woke up sometime later and moved her head back far enough to gaze at him. He wondered if he was in for another stinging slap across the face, but no—she was the one who had asked to be brought here for just what had happened between them. Besides, she had explained that she slapped him that other time because he had apologized and thus cheapened what for her had been a lovely experience.
“I am not about to apologize,” he said.
She smiled slowly. It began in her eyes and spread down to her mouth—a lazy, amused, happy smile. And oh, God, when had that ghastly Amazonian woman he remembered from a couple of weeks ago metamorphosed into this infinitely desirable woman in his arms and in his bed?
“A pity,” she said. “I could have slapped your other cheek and evened things up a bit.”
Camille Westcott making jokes?
He kissed her, moving his lips warmly, lazily over hers, and by unspoken consent they made love again, slowly this time, in no hurry to get where they were going, taking their time, enjoying every moment, every touch and caress along the way. And when it came time to join their bodies, he took her on top of him, drawing her knees up to hug his hips, and penetrated her before they rode together for long minutes of pure pleasure until desire turned the ride into something more urgent and they reached the climax together. He stayed deep and she clenched tightly about him and then opened as he spilled his seed into her once more.
“Is it?” His eyes dropped to her lips.
“You will feel pain too,” she told him. “Being forced out of the life one has always led without any great deal of introspection is painful. Most people never have to do it. Most people never really know themselves.”
“And you know yourself now?” His eyes smiled suddenly beneath the brim of his hat. “You did not on the day we went to Sally Lunn’s. You told me so.”
She knew something then with mind-shattering clarity, and it was something that would have shocked Lady Camille Westcott to the core. She wanted him to kiss her even though they were in a horribly public place. She wanted to go to bed with him again. Was this self-knowledge? Was she promiscuous? But no. She had never wanted any such thing with any other man and could not imagine ever doing so. And what did that tell her about herself?
“I am learning,” she said.
His gaze did not shift. It was most disconcerting, but she would not lean away from him or look away either. She was no longer that prim, oh-so-correct aristocrat. It was a beautiful day and she was sitting by the river on a public path with a man she desired in a most shocking way, but she would not feel either shocked or ashamed. Even though he was going to change and move into a world where she could not follow. She had guarded her feelings all her life, and where had it got her?
His lips touched hers very briefly before he seemed to remember where they were and sat back again, his shoulder against hers. The boy with the hoop came roaring back along the path, the same female calling plaintively to him from behind. A mother duck was gliding across the river, five ducklings coming along behind her in a slightly crooked line. An infant squealed with delight and pointed at them while she bounced astride her father’s shoulders and her mother held a hand behind her lest she pitch backward.
“Joel,” Camille said, “take me home with you.”
* * *
He ought not to have done it, of course, but how could he have said no when it had been what he wanted too? Joel had no idea if her comings and goings had been noted by any of the neighbors on the street, but certainly this time they were fortunate inside the house. Either his fellow tenants were out, or they were occupying themselves quietly in their own rooms.
Camille made no pretense of having come with him for any other reason than the obvious one. Having removed and hung up her bonnet and shawl, she turned into the bedchamber and looked around. He was glad he had cleaned and tidied yesterday. He had even changed the bed linen.
She undressed herself today, methodically and efficiently, her back to him. They had scarcely exchanged a word since leaving that seat by the river. Her hair came down last. She drew out the pins, set them on the table beside his book, and shook her head. Her hair was dark and thick and shining and fell in waves almost to her waist. Despite the fullness of her figure evident through her clothes, one would never guess that she was so voluptuously beautiful. And young. In most of the personas she adopted for the outside world, she looked ageless, but certainly not youthful. Now she looked her age—she must be all of five years younger than he—and youthful and vibrant and so desirable that the blood seemed to be singing through his veins and filling him with an almost painful desire.
She drew back the bedcovers and lay down, apparently without self-consciousness as he finished undressing and joined her on the bed. She turned onto her side and reached for him. She had been a virgin the first time, of course, and somewhat passive, though not by any means cold or shrinking. Today she made love with a fierce abandon that he soon matched, her hands, her mouth, even her teeth, all over him while he set about the wholly unnecessary task of arousing her. He rolled onto her and thrust into her far sooner than proper finesse would have dictated, but not too soon, by God. She was hot and wet and eager, and she matched him stroke for stroke with rolling hips and inner muscles and straining hands and twined legs until she cried out her release a moment before he spilled into her.
“Camille.” He disengaged from her, moved to her side without taking his arms from about her, settled her hot, damp body against his own, and smiled as she sighed and slid into a deep, totally relaxed sleep.
He had enjoyed regular sex with Edwina for two years or longer without ever feeling the need to examine his feelings or wonder about hers or consider his obligations. He did all three as he lay there, comfortable and sated and teetering on the brink of sleep but not quite falling asleep. She smelled of that faint fragrant soap he had noticed before—and of sweat and woman. She smelled wonderful.
She woke up sometime later and moved her head back far enough to gaze at him. He wondered if he was in for another stinging slap across the face, but no—she was the one who had asked to be brought here for just what had happened between them. Besides, she had explained that she slapped him that other time because he had apologized and thus cheapened what for her had been a lovely experience.
“I am not about to apologize,” he said.
She smiled slowly. It began in her eyes and spread down to her mouth—a lazy, amused, happy smile. And oh, God, when had that ghastly Amazonian woman he remembered from a couple of weeks ago metamorphosed into this infinitely desirable woman in his arms and in his bed?
“A pity,” she said. “I could have slapped your other cheek and evened things up a bit.”
Camille Westcott making jokes?
He kissed her, moving his lips warmly, lazily over hers, and by unspoken consent they made love again, slowly this time, in no hurry to get where they were going, taking their time, enjoying every moment, every touch and caress along the way. And when it came time to join their bodies, he took her on top of him, drawing her knees up to hug his hips, and penetrated her before they rode together for long minutes of pure pleasure until desire turned the ride into something more urgent and they reached the climax together. He stayed deep and she clenched tightly about him and then opened as he spilled his seed into her once more.
