the staggering sensation. Offering neither platitudes nor apologies, he stroked her breasts and clitoris, her thighs and bottom, between her thighs and deep inside her sweet, scented passage until she was almost fainting for him.
And then abruptly he did what he’d come here to do. He tumbled her back onto the bed and thrust himself into her hard, hard, terrifyingly intent, his powerful rhythm propelling hers, her panting cries music to his ears, driving him, goading him, his gyrations raw, harsh, different from the finesse he’d perfected in all the boudoirs of his past. But his obsession was different too, without explanation or equivalent. And he pounded into her like a madman, demented, forcing her, taking her.
She began coming, crying out in a frenzy he recognizedbecause her screams echoed the silent ones inside his head and he responded to her climax with a violent desperation as if she couldn’t go on without him. And he met her in a long, long coming that tore the breath from his lungs and jolted his body and left him gasping for air.
The sound of marching was heard from the street outside—an omen, a warning, reality intruding into the replete silence.
He cradled her head and licked the tears from her face with light touches of his tongue and offered his love between rough, raucous breaths, his eyes still wild, heated. Then he whispered, “Don’t move,” and extricating himself from her embrace and the bed, he walked from window to window pulling the heavy velvet drapes closed, shutting out the tread of marching feet. He lit two candelabra to illuminate the room before returning to the bed, before lying down beside her and drawing her back into his arms. “I don’t want to hear that,” he muttered. He wanted sanctuary and oblivion; he wanted forgetfulness.
His mouth covered hers and she felt his penis rise between them in a slow surging undulation, standing hard again, wanting her. Helpless against the unspeakable pleasure washing over her, she wondered if she’d ever have enough of him, if the molten heat inside her would eventually melt her away, vaporize her. “Hurry, hurry,” she whispered, opening her thighs, clutching at him, “I want to come.”
“There,” he breathed, his eyes full of dark flame, a thrilling urgency flaring through his body as he entered her. “We’re here,” he added, feeling her engulf him, plunging deep inside her, his brain beginning to lift away, the spreading brilliance swelling, swelling, his ears attuned to her sweet, defenseless whimpers.
It was a soft, soft coming that time—warm and slow and pure. And he held her on his lap afterward and said, “That was nice.”
Teo laughed and happily rubbed her cheek against his. “I think I’ll keep you.”
“Was I on trial?” he impudently inquired.
“And if you were?” Cheeky, unabashed.
“I would have added to my repertoire.”
“Things you learned from your governess?”
He didn’t reply.
“Where is she now?”
Again, she didn’t think he was going to answer but then he gruffly said, “I’m not sure.”
He knew; she could tell by his tone. “I don’t believe you.”
He pondered a moment, weighing courtesy against his reluctance. “She returned to France,” he simply said.
“And?”
“And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What if I insist?”
“Why would you?”
“Out of flagrant jealousy.”
“There’s nothing to be jealous of.”
“You cared for her.” If he didn’t there would be no need to protect her so.
“I don’t know what I felt,” he lied, remembering how he waited for Camille to come to him each night, how he adored her.
“What did she look like?”
“How can it matter?”
“I want to know because your voice changes when you talk of her,” she quietly said.
He lifted her from his lap. “I don’t ask you about your past.”
“Ask me if you like.”
“I don’t want to,” he said, rising from the bed, crossing the room to an armoire set
And then abruptly he did what he’d come here to do. He tumbled her back onto the bed and thrust himself into her hard, hard, terrifyingly intent, his powerful rhythm propelling hers, her panting cries music to his ears, driving him, goading him, his gyrations raw, harsh, different from the finesse he’d perfected in all the boudoirs of his past. But his obsession was different too, without explanation or equivalent. And he pounded into her like a madman, demented, forcing her, taking her.
She began coming, crying out in a frenzy he recognizedbecause her screams echoed the silent ones inside his head and he responded to her climax with a violent desperation as if she couldn’t go on without him. And he met her in a long, long coming that tore the breath from his lungs and jolted his body and left him gasping for air.
The sound of marching was heard from the street outside—an omen, a warning, reality intruding into the replete silence.
He cradled her head and licked the tears from her face with light touches of his tongue and offered his love between rough, raucous breaths, his eyes still wild, heated. Then he whispered, “Don’t move,” and extricating himself from her embrace and the bed, he walked from window to window pulling the heavy velvet drapes closed, shutting out the tread of marching feet. He lit two candelabra to illuminate the room before returning to the bed, before lying down beside her and drawing her back into his arms. “I don’t want to hear that,” he muttered. He wanted sanctuary and oblivion; he wanted forgetfulness.
His mouth covered hers and she felt his penis rise between them in a slow surging undulation, standing hard again, wanting her. Helpless against the unspeakable pleasure washing over her, she wondered if she’d ever have enough of him, if the molten heat inside her would eventually melt her away, vaporize her. “Hurry, hurry,” she whispered, opening her thighs, clutching at him, “I want to come.”
“There,” he breathed, his eyes full of dark flame, a thrilling urgency flaring through his body as he entered her. “We’re here,” he added, feeling her engulf him, plunging deep inside her, his brain beginning to lift away, the spreading brilliance swelling, swelling, his ears attuned to her sweet, defenseless whimpers.
It was a soft, soft coming that time—warm and slow and pure. And he held her on his lap afterward and said, “That was nice.”
Teo laughed and happily rubbed her cheek against his. “I think I’ll keep you.”
“Was I on trial?” he impudently inquired.
“And if you were?” Cheeky, unabashed.
“I would have added to my repertoire.”
“Things you learned from your governess?”
He didn’t reply.
“Where is she now?”
Again, she didn’t think he was going to answer but then he gruffly said, “I’m not sure.”
He knew; she could tell by his tone. “I don’t believe you.”
He pondered a moment, weighing courtesy against his reluctance. “She returned to France,” he simply said.
“And?”
“And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What if I insist?”
“Why would you?”
“Out of flagrant jealousy.”
“There’s nothing to be jealous of.”
“You cared for her.” If he didn’t there would be no need to protect her so.
“I don’t know what I felt,” he lied, remembering how he waited for Camille to come to him each night, how he adored her.
“What did she look like?”
“How can it matter?”
“I want to know because your voice changes when you talk of her,” she quietly said.
He lifted her from his lap. “I don’t ask you about your past.”
“Ask me if you like.”
“I don’t want to,” he said, rising from the bed, crossing the room to an armoire set
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