Susan Johnson - Again and Again

And then her arms twined around his shoulders and she pulled him closer, opened her thighs wider for him, absorbing the huge, long length of him with a gloating sigh. “I’d forgotten,” she breathed. 1 would have begged for this…“

He didn’t want to hear that. It was the last thing he wanted to hear when he needed some inexplicable virtue from this woman he wanted to fuck to death. Even he realized the brute illogic in his wishes and he breathed, “I’m sorry,” in blanket atonement… for now, for the past, for the fierce violence of his lust.

“I’ve been waiting for you…” she sighed, warmed by rapturous bliss and fond memory, by scented lust.

His fingers loosened on her hips.

Their eyes met in unspoken detente.

She smiled and moved her hips because she could now-in a distinctive flowing undulation that caused them both to catch their breaths.

When she could speak again, she gently brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “I like being with you in storms…”

“I’ll have to see that it keeps snowing,” he murmured, guiding her hand to his mouth, lightly kissing her fingers. “Or barring that,” he whispered, settling into a dexterous, practiced rhythm of thrust and withdrawal, “I’ll find something else to keep you happy.”

This time when she was about to come, he took care to gauge the exact measure of her need; he went still when she wished it and moved when she moved and held himself hard against her womb at the last as she uttered a high, keening primordial scream. And when her last gasp had died away and her rippling orgasm had subsided, he finally allowed himself his own climax, pouring onto her stomach with such explosive spasms he felt the shuddering ejaculations down to his toes.

He couldn’t move when it was over, nor find breath enough to fill his lungs.

She couldn’t have moved if she wished with his body braced above hers.

The fire crackled in the hearth, their labored breathing counterpoint to the light snapping sound. Even the whisper of snow on the windows was audible in the hush of the room.

Caro brushed a kiss over Simon’s jaw. Thank you,“ she whispered. ”You don’t know how much I needed that.“

His head swung around. “Don’t say that.”

She measured his critical gaze for a moment and then softly exhaled. “Am I supposed to pretend I’m some innocent… or-what, Simon? Since when has the style of your bed partners changed?”

He didn’t answer; he rolled away. “Screw you,” he said, reaching for the sheet.

“If you want to say you were celibate the last five years, I will too.”

He growled deep in his throat, an indistinct contemptuous sound, glared at her for a second and then began wiping himself dry.

“Is that a yes or no? Are we still playing games? I don’t usually, but I can.”

“Don’t tell me what you usually do,” he muttered. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“And I don’t want you sulky and sullen like a prudish ascetic when we both know you’re not.”

He gave her a sullen look in answer.

Sitting up, she took a portion of the sheet for herself and began wiping her stomach.

The silence was oppressive.

Having swabbed away his semen, she crumpled up the soiled portion of sheet and sitting cross-legged on the bed, made a small moue. “Why can’t we just enjoy our time together? Is that asking so much?”

Her voice held a small plaintive note, as did her gaze.

And he had to admit, he didn’t know what he wanted-other than sex with her for the next million years. Not necessarily a realistic desire. “Forgive me.” He smiled faintly. “You’re right. I always had a partiality for carnal excess; why change now?”

She laughed. “Ah… the darling Simon we all know and love…”

He shrugged away his reservations and reaching out, trailed his finger across her thigh. “Friends?”

She nodded, liking the sound of the word, pleased to be with this man she’d missed more than she’d realized. “Very good friends,” she murmured, glancing at his undiminished arousal, “from the look of things.”

He rolled closer and touched her cheek. “I’d better shave before next time. I’ve scratched you.”

She gave him a sportive look. “You mean there’s more?”

“I’ve ordered a week of snow. Do you mind?”

“Despite that glorious orgasm, I’m looking at bedposts and doorknobs and beautiful erections like yours. I don’t mind at all.”

He grinned. “We always were a randy pair.”

Her smile was affectionate. “I had a good teacher.”

He shook his head. “Natural talent”

“And you would know.”

“I guess we can’t all be innocent like you,” he murmured, a moody undertone to his voice.

“I’m not starting that fight again.”

He softly exhaled. “Maybe I should buy this place and keep you in bed filled with cock.” He grinned. “Mine, of course. Then you wouldn’t have to look at doorknobs with longing.”

She stretched luxuriously, her full, ripe breasts rising in the most delectable way. “The way I’m feeling right now,” she murmured, letting her arms drop to her sides, “I might let you do that.”

“God Almighty, Caro…” His voice was husky at the licentious thought. “Look what you’re doing to me.”

His erection had surged higher, the veins turgid, pulsing with blood, the large head swollen purple.

“I’ll shave later,” he whispered, reaching over, picking her up at the waist and swinging her up over his hips. He eased her down in a slow descent, his muscles flexing and then he guided her down his rock hard penis until she was firmly impaled. He was scarcely breathing, his senses skittish, inflamed, not sure he would survive this fortuitous reunion unless he could get a grip on his ravenous desires. Sheathed by her tight cunt, he could have come that second and the next one as well, and a dozen times after that. But in his new benign mood, he repressed his orgasmic urges, wanting to please the lady.

“I think I could come without moving,” she whispered, her eyes half shut, her hands braced on his shoulders.

She was as feverish as he, their desperation predicated by their long separation, or by the heightened intimacy of the small bedchamber shrouded by the storm. Or perhaps their fevered senses had always been in sympathy.

Like now.

“You come first,” he proposed, raising her, his hands light around her waist until she balanced on the tip of his erection.

Brushing his hands away with a smile, she sank back down with a luxurious sigh and slowly rotated her hips. “Ummm… don’t move.” She rocked lightly, feeling the rapture in every inflamed nerve in her body.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, thinking if this wasn’t heaven, it was a very good approximation. Sliding the pad of one finger up her slippery cleft, he gently stroked her swollen clitoris in a lazy small circle. “You’re running wet,” he murmured, catching a droplet of pearly fluid on his fingertip. “Does that mean you like me?”

“I find you very pleasing, milord,” she whispered, riding him in a slow, sensuous rhythm. “Very pleasing, indeed. If you keep me filled with cock, I’d be ever so grateful…”

Her gaze was angelic and playful and so filled with longing he seriously thought of coming in her and indeed keeping her in every sense of the word. But reckless emotion immediately gave way to the prudent habits of a lifetime. “I’m available, darling,” he murmured. A facile, casual phrase implying neither past nor future, only the transient present.

And he made himself available for her as often as she wished that morning, both of them making up for lost time. Until, finally, hours later he rolled away. “Give me five minutes,” he panted.

She was spread eagle on her back, every cell in her body languid from her most recent orgasm, and yet, she was ravenous still. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand…”

“If I could move, I’d put my hand over your mouth, you little witch. All right, three minutes, but you’re going to have to do all the work.”

She turned her head and smiled at him. “I’d forgotten how much fun you could be.”

He chuckled and shut his eyes. “At least I’ll die happy.”

But short moments later, he glanced over at her because her counting had drifted off. She was sleeping.

He gently covered her, careful not to wake her, remembering how she could fall asleep in seconds while he would always lie awake, waiting for sleep. She’d been traveling longer than he though; she must be exhausted, although she looked rosy-cheeked in sleep, innocent as a babe, her unruly curls framing the beauty of her face. And for a poignant moment, he wished they were back at Monkshood on that stormy night so long ago. Before all the misunderstandings had come between them.

He sighed. Nothing was simple anymore, their youth far behind them. And Caro had left-not he, he reminded himself. Perhaps she’d been looking for greener pastures. She might be again. So there was no point in letting undue sentiment hold sway in this enchanting interlude from the storm.

She was starved for sex.

And he wasn’t in any hurry to reach his destination.

The next few days should be memorable.

Brushing aside useless regret, he rose from the bed and started heating up the water.

He’d have a bath ready when she woke.

It was one of the hardest decisions she’d ever made, Caroline thought, her gaze unfocused on the winter landscape outside the carriage windows. She could have stayed with Simon. On what basis, of course, was questionable, but he would have taken care of her-that she knew. But she wasn’t ready to be taken care of… regardless the manner of it Nor was she ready to fall into Simon’s arms as though he had but to smile his devastating smile and she was lost She’d gone through too much in the years of her marriage to ever completely trust a man again. Perhaps she’d simply grown up. Perhaps her notions of marriage had been impossibly idealistic. Or maybe being in a hot-tempered sulk and allowing herself to be talked into marrying hadn’t been the most sensible thing she’d ever done. Whatever the reason, at the moment, she needed independence. After five years of marriage, she particularly wished to answer to no man.

Although the days with Simon had been the happiest she’d experienced for a very long time. He was as charming as ever, as loveable-not that loving him had ever been at issue. What had been at issue was his capacity to love or rather his capacity to love too well. He’d been rakehell wild. She smiled, recalling particular nuances of that wild-ness. He was willing to do anything, anywhere, anytime; they’d shocked the ton on more than one occasion.

Simon’s wealth and title had insulated him from the worst of the disapproval while his heroism in the Peninsula War had put him firmly above reproach. Her blood was as blue, but she hadn’t a penny, nor did her gender allow her the same degree of indiscretion. Her escapades had been viewed with a more critical eye.

Not by her father of course; his love had been unconditional. But then he wasn’t a particularly good judge of propriety considering he was gambling them to ruin. She sighed. At least she’d still had him with her five years ago… before his slim hold on sobriety and the enormity of his debt had driven him to suicide.

She shook away the sense of loss that always overcame her when she thought of her father’s sad decline-a technique she’d perfected in order to survive. She thought instead of all the wonderful years they’d had together, of the good times, of the joy and laughter. She and her father had been the best of friends. Like she and Simon had been friends. Lovers too, as time had gone by. But always friends.

The days at Shipton had been sheer bliss and not for the amorous pleasure alone. She’d forgotten how pleasant it was to talk without fear of censure, to be treated as an equal-to laugh.

Henri had too much of the ancient regime in his blood to condone anything that smacked of female freedoms. With the restoration of the French monarchy, his world had returned to what he considered the order God intended and his autocratic tendencies had intensified. A shame she hadn’t been aware of his reactionary sentiments before she married him and a greater shame the government hadn’t yet restored his estates. She suddenly laughed. On the other hand, Lady Luck had definitely been on her side when the newly widowed Duchesse of Closont had revived her friendship with Henri. She had to thank the duchesse for their divorce as well. How convenient the duchesse’s husband had had the good sense to invest in munitions during the war and then opportunely die.

Henri’s leaving hadn’t hurt, only the manner of it. He shouldn’t have taken everything. But he was gone and for that she was content. And despite her demur when Simon had offered to call Henri out, she hoped to have her vengeance someday. Which thought always lifted her spirits and for the next several miles, she contemplated various means of exacting retribution. Call her mean-spirited, but Henri owed her.