over.
He started inching up her nightgown, and she was so overwhelmed that she didn't notice what he was about until he arrived at the vee of her thighs.
"Marcus, no!" She attempted to scoot away, but he locked his leg over hers and held her tight.
"Relax, Kate. Let me do this for you." He cupped her, shpping two fingers far inside. She was wet, primed for what was coming, and weeping into his hand.
She arched up and moaned. "Don't. It's to o ... t oo ..."
"Naughty? Delicious?"
"Yes. I can't bear it."
With his thumb, he jabbed at her sexual center, and she yelped with surprise, her anatomy struggling toward the end, even as her mind wrenched her away.
"What's happening to me?" she managed to gasp.
"It's pleasure, darling."
"I don't want this from you."
"You may not, but your body is begging for it."
"I can't," she wailed. "I won't."
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"For me, Kate. Do it for me."
He touched her once, again, as he sucked at he r nipple, and she cried out and leapt over the precipice with a ferocity he hadn't encountered with any of his prior paramours. He was convinced it was her first orgasm , and he was ecstatic to have spurred her to such riotous turmoil.
The agitation went on and on, and finally, it peaked and waned. He moved over her, and kissed her, softly, tenderly, thrilled that she trusted him enough to spin out of control, to grasp that she could when she was with him.
Her eyes fluttered open, and he wasn't positive what he expecte d — p erhaps a maidenly sigh, or one of her pithy remarks— b ut instead, she studied him, then burst into tears.
"What's this?" he inquired, his heart reeling, and he grabbed the quilt and swiped them away.
"Was that feminine passion?"
"A very dramatic example."
"I'm loose, aren't I?"
"Absolutely."
"Do you suppose it's in my blood?"
"I'm sure it is."
He was joking, but she was devastated, and a protracted bout of weeping ensued. Throughout the deluge, he cuddled with her, whispering soothing words, and he was amazed that he would.
He'd never before comforted a distraught woman, because he wouldn't have been inclined to remain through a display of histrionics. A female's emotional situation had no impact on his relationship with her,
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and thus, she wouldn't be welcome, in his presence, to vent her anger or hurt
As he was special to no one, no one would dare impose on him, and it occurred to him that it was a sorry statement on the condition of his life. He was so isolated, and previously, his separateness hadn't bothered him. He'd liked his independent existence, but he was lonely, and there was a contentment in consoling Kate that he hadn't known he'd missed.
They were scarcely acquainted, yet she was rendering striking changes in how he carried on, in how he viewed himself. A flicker of excitement sparked within. Maybe he wasn't the cold, callous man others presumed him to be.
Eventually, her outburst diminished, her breathing slowed, and she dozed, which was another high spot for him. When he was philandering, he never dawdled after lusts were sated.
He lay very still, cataloging every detail of the precious moment. Her negligee was askew, and he tugged it down and covered her with the blankets. She was so exhausted that she didn't stir, and he brushed a kiss across her lips.
"Good night, my dear Kate," he murmured. "I'll see you on the morrow."
As if she'd heard and understood the comment, she smiled in her sleep.
He'd intended to rise and leave, but he couldn't bring himself to go, and he decided to rest for a few minutes. He napped , and when he woke, it was early morning. The mellow light of dawn crept in the window, and a bird chirped outside. He reached for her, but
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she wasn't there. Glancing around, he was astounded to find himself in his own bedchamber, in his own bed.
Stunned, he sat up, and his head pounded with such a sharp ache that he felt as if the top might blow off, as if he had the worst hangover in all eternity, when he