the intimate connection when he joined our bodies. I enjoyed feeling his love spurt deep inside me.”
A second snap reverberated with remembered pleasure.
Rose Clarring taking a man’s ejaculate. Jack giving a woman his ejaculate.
“I asked him, when he lay with me on Christmas Eve, why he no longer loved me.” A third snap shot down Jack’s spine. “He said making love . . . he never used the word fucking, Mr. Lodoun”—a fourth snap pierced Jack’s chest—“he said making love to me was like a form of self-abuse. Children, he said, were a man’s gift to the woman he loved. He no longer had anything to give me, he said. So we held each other while his ejaculate leaked from my body onto the sheet, and we cried.” A fifth snap gripped Jack’s throat. “When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.”
A wave of memory crashed over Jack.
The harsh groan of masculine release. The sharp cry of feminine orgasm.
Jack’s drowsy satiation. Cynthia Whitcox’s kissing laughter.
She had left him after their shared pleasure, and he had never again seen her.
Not alive. Not dead.
White cotton abruptly blocked Rose Clarring’s face.
Jack instinctively glanced downward.
Visually he followed the upward glide of a cotton chemise riding silk drawers . . . whispering across smooth flesh . . . clinging to upthrust breasts—pale hair glinted gold in the dark hollows of underarms—jerking free of a snagging hairpin.
Rose Clarring had small breasts, firm and round like the globe of a brandy snifter. Dusky pink nipples stabbed the air, hard with need as Jack’s cock had been hard the night before.
He took no pleasure in her vulnerability.
Rose Clarring’s closed eyelids slowly opened; her stark gaze pinned Jack. “I felt Lucy’s unborn baby, and I needed to see you.”
“Why?” ricocheted off the bare walls that were dressed only in shadows.
“Because you love another woman,” she said, standing tall in ribbon-laced drawers, stockings and shoes. “And I love another man. But they are both dead to us. Yet we cannot share our loss with anyone.”
Her unspoken words vibrated over hissing gas and popping embers: Save for each other.
He was a politician who had completely betrayed her. She was a woman who totally exposed herself.
Jack should walk out now, before she penetrated the special place she had saved for her husband: He could not.
“Take off the rest of your clothes, Mrs. Clarring.” Jack’s voice hardened; the package underneath his arm throbbed as if it were a part of his cock instead of a lifeless, soulless object designed for the sole purpose of fucking. “Let us discover where a woman’s passion resides.”
Chapter 11
“Do you mind if I sit down to take off my shoes and stockings?”
Rose Clarring asked for the same simple dignity she had granted Jack when he had stood before her clad only in his trousers, smallclothes, socks and shoes, body pulsing with his pending nakedness.
Silently gesturing toward the settee, Jack turned to give her a minute of privacy.
The small sigh of a depressing cushion slithered down his spine. The impact of wood—the heel of a shoe dropping onto the floor—clenched his groin.
Jack glanced about the small, bare drawing room, the size and shape typical of the terrace homes daily popping up to house the newly emerging breed of lower middle class.
Another thud of wood pierced his chest.
Jonathon Clarring’s town house, Jack thought—deliberately distancing himself from the undressing that occurred behind him—was located in an older neighborhood, a wealthy community that combined elegance with practicality. But Rose Clarring—living separately from her husband—would no longer be able to afford the luxuries to which she was accustomed.
An almost imperceptible sigh abraded his skin, cushion plumping after being released of weight.
Black leather, oak wood and gilded metal leapt out at Jack.
The trunk from which she had twenty-three hours earlier
A second snap reverberated with remembered pleasure.
Rose Clarring taking a man’s ejaculate. Jack giving a woman his ejaculate.
“I asked him, when he lay with me on Christmas Eve, why he no longer loved me.” A third snap shot down Jack’s spine. “He said making love . . . he never used the word fucking, Mr. Lodoun”—a fourth snap pierced Jack’s chest—“he said making love to me was like a form of self-abuse. Children, he said, were a man’s gift to the woman he loved. He no longer had anything to give me, he said. So we held each other while his ejaculate leaked from my body onto the sheet, and we cried.” A fifth snap gripped Jack’s throat. “When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.”
A wave of memory crashed over Jack.
The harsh groan of masculine release. The sharp cry of feminine orgasm.
Jack’s drowsy satiation. Cynthia Whitcox’s kissing laughter.
She had left him after their shared pleasure, and he had never again seen her.
Not alive. Not dead.
White cotton abruptly blocked Rose Clarring’s face.
Jack instinctively glanced downward.
Visually he followed the upward glide of a cotton chemise riding silk drawers . . . whispering across smooth flesh . . . clinging to upthrust breasts—pale hair glinted gold in the dark hollows of underarms—jerking free of a snagging hairpin.
Rose Clarring had small breasts, firm and round like the globe of a brandy snifter. Dusky pink nipples stabbed the air, hard with need as Jack’s cock had been hard the night before.
He took no pleasure in her vulnerability.
Rose Clarring’s closed eyelids slowly opened; her stark gaze pinned Jack. “I felt Lucy’s unborn baby, and I needed to see you.”
“Why?” ricocheted off the bare walls that were dressed only in shadows.
“Because you love another woman,” she said, standing tall in ribbon-laced drawers, stockings and shoes. “And I love another man. But they are both dead to us. Yet we cannot share our loss with anyone.”
Her unspoken words vibrated over hissing gas and popping embers: Save for each other.
He was a politician who had completely betrayed her. She was a woman who totally exposed herself.
Jack should walk out now, before she penetrated the special place she had saved for her husband: He could not.
“Take off the rest of your clothes, Mrs. Clarring.” Jack’s voice hardened; the package underneath his arm throbbed as if it were a part of his cock instead of a lifeless, soulless object designed for the sole purpose of fucking. “Let us discover where a woman’s passion resides.”
Chapter 11
“Do you mind if I sit down to take off my shoes and stockings?”
Rose Clarring asked for the same simple dignity she had granted Jack when he had stood before her clad only in his trousers, smallclothes, socks and shoes, body pulsing with his pending nakedness.
Silently gesturing toward the settee, Jack turned to give her a minute of privacy.
The small sigh of a depressing cushion slithered down his spine. The impact of wood—the heel of a shoe dropping onto the floor—clenched his groin.
Jack glanced about the small, bare drawing room, the size and shape typical of the terrace homes daily popping up to house the newly emerging breed of lower middle class.
Another thud of wood pierced his chest.
Jonathon Clarring’s town house, Jack thought—deliberately distancing himself from the undressing that occurred behind him—was located in an older neighborhood, a wealthy community that combined elegance with practicality. But Rose Clarring—living separately from her husband—would no longer be able to afford the luxuries to which she was accustomed.
An almost imperceptible sigh abraded his skin, cushion plumping after being released of weight.
Black leather, oak wood and gilded metal leapt out at Jack.
The trunk from which she had twenty-three hours earlier
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