Passion Page 2

  “There.” He looked into her eyes. He stood so close. “Read this.”

  Passion tore her gaze from his to see the passage he in­dicated. The Song of Solomon. A small smile turned the corners of her mouth.

  “Beautiful.” He said the word as if to himself, but he was looking at her—looking at her so intently.

  “Read it to me,” he said, his voice low. “I want to hear you say the words.”

  Passion hesitated.

  His eyes flickered over her shoulder, surveying the room. Then he lifted his finger, drew it across her cheek to her chin, and, with gentle pressure, tipped her head to face the page. “Read it,” he urged softly.

  She didn’t need to read. She new the words by heart and spoke them softly. “As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.” She looked into his fiery gaze, and her voice shook. “He brought me to the banqueting house “—his large hand cupped her breast; desire tore through her, wetting her—“and his banner over me was love.” She gasped.

  “I have what you need,” he said, his voice rough and urgent. His broad-shouldered frame blocked them from view as his hand slid to her other breast. “And you have what I need.”

  “Yes.”

  The word had barely passed her lips when, with one quick glance over his shoulder, he pushed her behind the huge screen.

  Passion whirled around and felt the wall against her back. He closed the small distance between them in two strides and braced his hands on either side of her head. Even in the dim light she could see the blueness of his eyes.

  His voice came low and quiet. “If you want to say no, say it now.” He shook his head. “Not two minutes from now, not five minutes from now.” With one hand, he slowly pulled free the ribbons of her bonnet. “Now, or not at all.”

  Passion stared up at him. Her breathing came fast, yet she was powerless to slow it. The noisy chatter of voices floated over the top of the screen. This was the fork in the road—her last chance to retreat. She had never thought to be with a man again. But here she stood, in the most un­believable and extraordinary of situations. This man, this day, these circumstances would never happen again. He was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Could she walk away? Everything she was made of—blood, bone, heart, and soul—begged her to stay. She could do nothing else.

  Slowly, she reached up and removed his hat. A thick lock of dark brown hair fell forward over his brow. Still, he didn’t move.

  “You have what I need,” Passion breathed. She lifted her other hand to her bonnet and, pushing it back, let it fall to the floor with his hat. She tucked an auburn curl behind her ear. “No reproaches. No regrets.” She pulled off her gloves and dropped them. “No repentance.”

  His mouth was on hers, his body pressed to hers. She had barely had time to draw a breath, but it didn’t matter because she had stopped breathing.

  His tongue thrust between her parted lips. His hand clasped her breast, and his enormous erection ground against her skirts and prodded her stomach. Passion moaned into his mouth as her body shivered with unful­filled need.

  She tasted and sucked his driving tongue. His nape felt strong and firm beneath her fingers, his chest hard and solid. When had she reached for him? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. He tasted like desire, and she wanted to feast upon him forever.

  His tongue plunged repeatedly to meet hers, and his hands moved in tight, sweeping caresses over her breasts and around her waist. She arched against him. Her thighs were wet.

  He tore his mouth from hers, and Passion filled her lungs with a loud, gasping breath. Suddenly, his hand pressed over her mouth, and she stared into eyes that were glittering with lust and potent expectation.

  “You must be quiet,” he said low, his own breathing short and rapid.

  She could hear the voice of the crowd just beyond the screen.

  As his fingers moved to lightly trace the outline of her mouth, she felt his other hand working between them. He pulled her hand down, and she curled her fingers around the stiff, thick shaft of his penis.

  His jaw clenched, and his hands fell away from her. “Look at it.” His words were a demand, but his tone was a plea.

  Passion lowered her gaze. Her eyes widened, and she stared hungrily. Protruding from his pants like some giant pagan phallus, his penis jutted massive and heavy in her hand. Threaded with cordlike veins, she watched, en­tranced, as he thrust it back and forth within her grip. Her hand looked small and her fingers barely closed around him. Her mouth watered, and a heavy throbbing started between her legs. It was beautiful, and she wanted it.

  “I told you I had what you needed,” he murmured. A clear drop of fluid welled over the swollen head of his penis. “Look, it’s crying to be inside you.”

  Passion gasped softly and licked her lips.

  With a finger under her chin, he lifted her face to look at him. “Is your cunt crying, too?”

  Something fluttered in Passion’s stomach as her womb pulsed with need. She stared into his intense blue gaze, and her legs trembled.

  His head dipped and he barely brushed his lips against hers. “Tell me.” He kissed her softly, briefly. “Is your cunt weeping for my cock?”

  “Yes!” The word came in a whispered rush against his mouth.

  And then he was kissing her again—deeply, unrelent­ingly. His hands pulled at her skirt and petticoats.

  Passion’s chest heaved, and she opened her mouth wider beneath the force of his kiss. She sucked the air from his mouth in a gasp as she felt his hand between her legs. Yet he kept kissing and kissing, giving her the breath she didn’t seem able to draw. Then his fingers pushed through the slit in her pantalets and plunged inside her.

  Passion’s blood rushed to her center. The tight, throb­bing spot pressed to the heel of his palm was like a second heartbeat. She moaned into his mouth as she felt herself clenching around his thrusting fingers. Her legs shook un­controllably and her arms tightened around him lest she fall.

  He broke the kiss abruptly, and his voice came low and raspy in her ear. “My God, has it been so long?”

  Passion felt tears well in her eyes. It had been forever. It had been never. Never like this. Her fingers clasped the fabric of his coat. “Please.” she begged in a desperate whisper. “Please!”

  Something flared in his eyes. One hand slipped over her mouth; the other moved between them. Passion stared into his beautiful eyes and mewled quietly behind his hand as he rubbed the head of his penis against her wet curls and tender flesh. Her hips jerked once, twice.

  Groaning, Passion shut her eyes. She had never felt so out of control.

  Then he thrust deep inside her, and in one soul-splitting, body-breaking moment, she didn’t care. Her eyes flew open, and she cried out behind his hand as a deep groan escaped him.

  Passion couldn’t move. She was impaled, filled, stretched—pinned to the wall. Her toes barely touched the floor. She didn’t want to move. She was held in place by the unrelenting pressure of his cock against the door to her womb. If only she could stay here forever—forever filled, never empty. Her flesh throbbed and clenched around him.

  He surged upward, and Passion moaned as she was lifted against the wall. The throbbing pulse between her legs intensified, drowning out her heartbeat.

  His eyes blazed into hers and he thrust again. “This is what you need,” he rasped. “You need to be fucked.” He thrust. “And fucked.”

  Yes! It was true. Passion gasped with each driving force, the pressure inside her building, as he seemed to be ever pushing yet never withdrawing.

  “Take me inside you,” he groaned, thrusting again.

  Her muscles drew taught with expectation. She wanted to scream—to spew everything out of her that was not an ally to desire. To rid herself of the woman she was and be only this woman, now, forever. Deep inside her, the pres­sure built. Was it he trying to get in, or she try
ing to get out? She felt faint. Her eyes filled with tears of pent-up longing.

  Did he see her need? He must have, for she felt his hand tighten on her buttock, and in the next moment, he was bearing down hard upon her hip while he pushed up inside her.

  Passion bit back a scream. Her mind reeled. She clenched hungrily, protectively around the thick shaft of his cock, though the swollen head was slowly forcing the tight door of her womb. It was killing her. She writhed wantonly against him. It was the greatest pleasure she had ever known.

  “Take me,” he rasped. “That’s it. Take me.” He ground against her.

  Passion’s whole body began to shake and open. She felt everything inside her was going to shatter. And she wanted it.

  His eyes never left her. “Take all of me. Open for me. Open! “

  And he bore down so hard upon her and drove up so fiercely that Passion broke. The resisting opening to her womb lifted, moved in some small way. Her heart stopped, and she sucked in air. Then her whole body began to convulse in wracking spasms of hot, quivering desire. The only heart that beat was the one between her legs. Beating so hard, so fast—shaking her with violent jolts of wracking pleasure. Her eyes rolled back, and with a weak, keening cry, warm wetness gushed out of her in a torrential wash of cum and tears.

  With a choked groan, he pumped his hips into her, forc­ing her to give more. Passion sobbed at the exquisite pres­sure and could do nothing to resist it—she didn’t want to resist it.

  “That’s it.” He drew breath through clenched teeth. “Open! I have more to give you.” He pushed fiercely into her hot wetness, and Passion choked on a sob—a sob of desire, anguish, and gratitude. “It’s all right,” he rasped. “It’s all right.” But he kept pushing, faster and faster, his cock driving into her, lifting her.

  Passion saw hunger and supplication in his eyes. Her body answered, and somehow she eased open another small bit.

  He gasped, his eyes closing for a moment. Then his hips were driving her into the wall. Passion felt everything drawing up tight inside her. He yanked his hand from her mouth and kissed her, filling her with his tongue.

  Her flesh clenched and caressed his thick shaft. The tight opening of her womb rubbed the invading head of his cock. Her arms held him, her fingers twisted in the hair at his nape. Her thighs trembled in willing submis­sion.

  Then with a long, guttural groan into her mouth and wrenching thrusts into her body, he spewed hot seed deep inside her. He came and he came, bathing her insides with hot washes of come.

  And Passion wept silently between gasps and kisses as the tortured pulse between her legs exploded again and sent a thousand darts of bursting pleasure into her cunt, her womb, and the very organs of her body.

  *

  Chapter Two

  The Aftermath

  “So? What does Miss Charlotte Lawrence look like?”

  Outside the Crystal Palace, Mark swung into step be­side his brother. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

  “Didn’t see her? She was supposed to be there, in the china.”

  Mark shrugged. “She wasn’t.”

  “Where the hell have you been, then?” Matthew flipped open his pocket watch. “I’m going to be late for tea with Rosalind.”

  “What did we used to say about marriage when we were boys, Matt?”

  Matthew raised his brow with a grin as he slipped his watch back in his pocket. ” ‘Be she alewife, fishmonger, washerwoman, or whore; the woman who fucks my whole cock shall I take to church’s door.’”

  Mark pushed his hands into his pockets with a smile. “Well, I’m not getting married, but I just got closer than ever.”

  Matthew laughed incredulously. “What? And how, in the midst of the spectacle of the Crystal Palace, did you, dear brother, manage to get into a woman?”

  They nodded politely at two passing matrons.

  “More easily than you might imagine,” Mark an­swered.

  “This I’ve got to hear.”

  “No. You’re late for tea.”

  Matthew grinned as he raised his arm to hail their coachman. “Damn you. Tell me on the way.”

  A coach with the Hawkmore coat of arms emblazoned on the door pulled to the curb.

  “The Benchley home, Bingham,” Matthew directed the driver as the brothers threw their tall frames into the coach.

  Sitting across from each other, they propped their boots on each other’s seats as the coach started off. They had done so since boyhood, just as soon as their legs had grown long enough to reach. Also in their typical fashion, Mark sat with his arms folded across his chest, while his brother leaned, relaxed, in the corner.

  “Well?” Matthew prodded.

  Mark shrugged. “What can I say? The day was alto­gether more delightful than I would ever have expected.”

  “You can be so very amusing when you choose to be. Now give me the details before I decide to pretend I don’t care.”

  Mark grinned. “I had her behind a large screen in the gothic furniture room. It was very fast and, necessarily, quiet.” His grin faded. “And it was very, very good.”

  “Just good?”

  Mark shook his head and gazed out the window. He didn’t see the passing view. He saw wide hazel eyes and a perfectly bowed mouth. “No. Better than good. Better than superb. Better than… anything.” His brows lifted then dropped. “The best.” He turned back to his brother. “The best ever.”

  A light frown furrowed Matthew’s brow. He leaned forward. “What’s her name? Who is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The frown deepened. “You have the fucking fuck of your life, and you don’t know who she is or how to find her?”

  Mark threw his hat on the seat. “No.”

  “All right. Tell me about her. What does she look like?”

  Mark felt his heartbeat quicken. “She looks like desire and hope and…” What was it he was going to say?

  He leaned his head back against the seat with a sigh. “She has hazel eyes as wide as a doe’s. Beautiful, expres­sive eyes that invite you to look into them.” He remem­bered how she had looked at the group, of people admiring the tureen. She was an outsider, like him. He’d seen it in her expression. Eyes that show her every changing thought and emotion. Eyes that draw you into her.

  “She has auburn hair and a mouth made for kissing.” Mark closed his eyes and basked in his memories. “She smells of vanilla and orange blossoms. And her smile is too damn beautiful for words.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Her voice is low and soft, and there is a tenderness to her speech that makes you want to have her all the more.”

  Mark opened his eyes and found his brother staring at him with a rapt intensity. When had their coach stopped?

  “Young?” Matthew asked, leaning forward.

  Mark gazed absently out the window. “A young widow, I’d wager. She was wearing lavender and had a black ribbon tied around her upper arm.”

  “A young widow in her second year of mourning would be a ripe catch, indeed. Maybe 1 should look for her and see if I can have a go?”

  Mark snapped his head around as hot jealousy roared through him, fierce and undeniable. “Try it, and I’ll beat the hell out of you,” he growled.

  Matthew’s sudden smile was wide. “A might posses­sive of this one, are we brother? I do believe that’s a first.” He slapped Mark’s knee. “I was just joking. I’m in love with Rosamund, remember?”

  Mark shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “What does it matter? I’m not likely to ever see her again.”

  “No. No, likely not.” Matthew paused and then ad­justed his hat. “I’ve got to go. Rosalind will be waiting.”

  “You’re such a slave to that girl.”

  “It’s love, brother,” Matthew said as he jumped from the carriage. “True love.”

  Mark was still rolling his eyes when Matthew poked his head back in.

  “What about you?” Matt asked. “Did you give her your name?”


  “No. No name.” Mark paused as he remembered her tear-filled eyes. “She cried. I gave her my handkerchief.”

  “She cried? You didn’t hurt her?”

  “She said no.” Mark wished he were back in her aims. “I think they were tears of longing. Tears of passion.”

  Passion’s tears had baptized the fine linen of the hand­kerchief. She stared at the monogrammed “M” on the cor­ner of the square. Though she sat on a bench in the wide gallery of the Crystal Palace, she saw nothing but that “M.” Her thumb moved slowly over the dark blue threads, tracing the lines of the letter. Who was he? Where was he now? Was he thinking of her? Bringing the handkerchief to her nose, her eyes tipped closed as she breathed in its fragrance. Was he wishing for her as she wished for him?

  “Oh! Wherever have you been? And where is Char­lotte?”

  Passion’s eyes flew open to find her flustered aunt sit­ting down beside her. Mathilda Dare’s plump cheeks were flushed, and she blew short puffs of air through her nose as if she were preparing to breathe fire upon anyone who might offend her.

  Passion’s quiet solitude was over. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Matty. Charlotte never arrived and I’m afraid I—well, I became terribly distracted by all the sights.”

  Her aunt was fishing in her reticule and had barely looked at her. “Don’t say a word. I must get my fan before I faint.”

  Passion sighed as she slipped the handkerchief—his handkerchief—carefully into her pocket. She didn’t want to talk with her aunt. She wanted to think—to think only of him. Alas…

  Whipping out the small ivory fan she always carried, Aunt Matty closed her eyes and fanned herself energeti­cally. The blue feathers atop her bonnet quivered in the breeze she created. As much as she threatened the event, so far as Passion knew, Mathilda Dare had never fainted in her life. Still, she made a good show of it.

  “All right, then. I am recovered,” her aunt said dramat­ically. “Now,” she turned to Passion, “what were you—good heavens! What happened to you?”

  Passion drew back, startled. Her heart thumped, and she lifted a hand to her cheek. Good God, did her indis­cretion show? Was she found out?