Cressida's Dilemma

Dear God, he’d never beheld such a captivating creature, and the fact that she was his wife and that clearly she wanted him brought him so much pleasure it took all his willpower not to close the few feet between them and ravish her on the spot.

Cressida’s frank examination made it clear there was no need to extend the polite preliminaries. A small toss of her head and a knowing look was all it took to have him cross the floor in two great strides to greet her, turning the lock in the door behind her before crushing her in his arms. She wilted like a hothouse flower, pliant and clinging, and the light fragrance of lavender water that seemed then to epitomize her essence of goodness nearly undid him on the spot. If she did not want more children, he knew how to ensure the loving frolics he was so looking forward to could become a daily ritual without ever adding to their family.

The blend of ruse and ritual was a heady combination. How many times had he held Cressida in his arms as adoring husband, passionate lover and comforting helpmate? Never, however, had he done so while pretending both were strangers. It offered license to behave with playful artifice, and as he grazed her jawline with kisses, murmuring, “The lonely widow need not remain lonely.” He was sure he sensed her tacit acceptance, that gone were the rules that had hitherto governed their relations.

God, he was mad to have let her drift away like he had, he reflected as he cupped her shapely bottom, pulling her tightly against him so she could be in no doubt as to his arousal. He would let her know what he wanted now, instead of risking confusion and flight once matters had proceeded.

Her warm, sweet breath tickled his ear as she clung to him. “I’d hoped you’d be waiting for me,” she whispered, offering him greater access to her bosom so he could slip his hand inside her bodice and gently squeeze one taut—and, he hoped, aching—nipple.

In the dim light, the fire crackled and the heat level rose.

“Waiting for you, my love?” He rasped in a breath. “I’ve been waiting for nothing else.” His hands were unable to halt their exploration of her shapely body as he trailed kisses over her décolletage and shoulders. Since Thomas’ birth, she’d grown slender again. Yet it was not only her body that sent him wild. It was everything. He had to make sure she knew. “I’ve been insane with desire…driven mad the whole week at the mere thought of this.”

Her shuddering sigh suggested she ached with the same need that consumed him. He wondered how any woman could combine such sweet innocence with such a provocative manner. He felt doubly blessed. He was a man who could enjoy two wives—the demure angel of the house she presented to the world, and the lust-crazed vixen in the bedroom.

“My beautiful widow has the most magnificent breasts,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip, loving the way she arched against him, thrusting her chest against his in open invitation for more of his tender ministrations. He was pleased to find that the tiny buttons that fastened her gown ran down the front rather than the back. With his right hand still cupping her delectable bottom—she was not part of the daring set who’d adopted the craze of wearing underwear—his other deftly undid the top five pearl fastenings, his senses thrilling to hear her low groan as her breasts spilled out of their confinement, for tonight she was without her constricting stays. Beneath her figure-hugging gown was just flesh.

“I have missed my husband so very much,” she gasped, whimpering as he suckled first one soft, white mound then the other. “So very much,” she reaffirmed on a sigh, stroking his cheek while he rolled her nipple against the palm of his hand before tickling it with his tongue. He felt her tense, then her legs buckled as he gripped her hips, grinding them against his almost painful erection as he took possession of her lips once more.

So much for taking it gently. The pace escalated quickly, yet his response was entirely governed by her own eagerness. He would not hasten this and be caught out by his own urgency when he knew the importance of this first time after so long. Cressida needed to be reassured, though not in words, that she would have no fear of conceiving another child. The fact was that she’d followed him here, choosing to reignite their passion in its rooms away from their own house and their own servants. She’d clearly discovered Justin was innocent of seeking out its pleasures and was here for some other purpose, and now she, too, had daringly chosen to utilize its ‘other’ purpose.

Cressida’s mouth, usually so sweetly yielding for the chaste kisses she’d always enjoyed, was a cavern of unexpected delights. She kissed him back with passion, her little tongue darting, licking, exploring. Her breath came in short, staccato bursts as he led her to the mantelpiece, only just able to restrain himself, and placed her hands on the shelf at shoulder height, facing her away from him so that he could nuzzle her neck, his hands roaming all over her. The grinding of her hips and her sighs of pleasure as he ran his hands over her thighs and skimmed her waist before pulling her against him to suckle her earlobes left him in no doubt as to her enthusiasm.

Sinking to his knees, Justin gently turned her round, lifting the hem of her skirt to trail hot kisses from her ankles, up her calves to her knees. He felt her tense as he reached her inner thighs. She’d not been pleasured like this before, but then she’d been an innocent when he’d married her, and lovemaking was for producing heirs. Now that she’d obviously, and no doubt unexpectedly, learned a thing or two at Mrs. Plumb’s, she’d come to him with the express purpose of indulging in lovemaking with absolutely no desire for procreation, and Justin was determined she’d enjoy it to the full.

She was his paragon of virtue, his vixen of pleasure. She was everything to him, and he longed to be reinstated to the exalted position she’d once held him in. He’d failed her once, but he’d not do so again.

Justin’s explorations to the font of her desire were smooth, slippery and unimpeded. He could never remember feeling his wife quite so excited. Arching her back, Cressida tried to push him away as she moaned her guilty pleasure—clearly she’d not expected to be so enthralled by this new pastime he’d devised for her.

By the light thrown out by the Argand lamp, he could see the ecstasy in her half-closed eyes when, still kneeling, he tipped his head up to reassure himself that the book in which he’d placed the French letter was still on the mantelpiece. It was an observation that sent another spear of lust charging through him.

“Dear Lord, no!” she cried as he kissed her swollen bud. Her movements were becoming jerky, he could tell she was on the cusp of her pleasure, but long experience had taught him how to measure her responses, bringing her to the summit before letting her down again.

He was nearly ready to explode himself. It had been so long, though he thought he’d conditioned himself to a life of celibacy. Now he realized how combustible his responses to his sweet wife really were. She held his heart in the palm of her hand. But he would not let her down. Right now it was only her pleasure that was important, though her excitement merely ratcheted up his own. When she gripped a hank of his hair and did not let go as her pleasure mounted, her excitement traveled all the way down the shaft to spear his heart. Then farther, to his cock, and he had to remind himself once again that it was not his night to indulge in his own pleasure.

Carefully, he continued his honed assault upon her senses, dipping several fingers inside her as he swept his tongue across her most sensitive parts, loving the heat and scent of her excitement. Why had he not imagined indulging in such wicked pastimes with his own wife before? Cressida was in paradise and so was he.

She gasped, one minute begging him to stop, the next minute begging for more. He’d never seen her in such thrall, making his own excitement almost unbearable. He’d counseled himself that he would not i

ndulge in his own pleasure, yet her pleasure was his. He felt he was playing her like a finely tuned instrument, and his success in creating such responses was fascinating. He longed to tear the mask from her face and then discard his own mask, revealing themselves, but he sensed it was this distance from reality which enabled Cressida, for now, to hurl herself with such enthusiasm into their sexual congress.

Later she would accept him back into her bed with her former enthusiasm, now that all restraint had been banished between them and each knew, secretly, the desires of the other.

Her climax was cataclysmic. She bucked and moaned, twisting her hands in his hair as she fought against it, finally crumpling to the floor beside him, her breath coming in short bursts.

Kneeling, he stared at her, a slow grin spreading across his face. Clearly she was determined not to show herself, for the mask remained firmly in place, but she’d know that he’d know her body, her responses, the scent of her desire, anywhere. Justin had never believed in keeping secrets, but tonight was an exception. If secrecy for the meantime gave Cressida the confidence to realize her potential in the marital chamber, she could have as much of it as she wanted.

In a minute, he would retire to regain his composure now that he’d taken her to the zenith of her pleasure. Then he’d meet her back at home, where she would dictate how to proceed.

After that, there’d be no looking back. He would coax her into confessing her fears, and he would reassure her that there were ways other than complete abstinence to achieve her desires. Their desires.

Soon they would be as one again.

He was caught by surprise by her low, wicked laugh as she rolled onto her stomach and clawed her way on top of him, her little fingers clumsy in their haste as she grappled with the buttons of his breeches.

He could hardly believe it. Now she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her soft lily-white body pulsing to receive him. He tried to raise himself to cast a seeking hand for the receptacle which contained the French letter, but Cressida was now nuzzling his neck, kissing his throat. It was thrilling to be the object of her desire like this, but it was certainly no way to ensure they did not to add a sixth little angel to the nursery.

No, tonight he’d imagined a far more cautious return to sexual intimacy. With perhaps a great deal of talking and a revealing of identities to precede a gentle, pleasurable exploration of each other’s bodies.