The Object of His Desire (erotic romance suspense) Page 3

  “Groom’s family, groom’s family,” bellowed the photographer, and Charlie just gave him the kind of stare that must have had his balls crawling up into the pit of his belly. “Oh, erm, I mean, Ethan and Trudy,” continued the man, hurriedly consulting a list.

  Ethan and I stood by the chapel’s east-facing flint wall, me hanging onto his arm. “There’s donuts at the reception, right?” I said, and Ethan broke out into that big boyish grin again and that made me smile. The photographer clicked away and then it was done, over, Ethan returning to Eleanor, who had been watching us with beady eyes throughout that short interlude.

  Will was there in the family shots, which surprised me. Charlie had said he was an old college buddy; he might even be someone I’d met back when I first came over and had then instantly forgotten. A cousin, I guessed, now.

  Then, late in the photo shoot, he threw me completely.

  “Hey!”

  There was something about his voice that carried over the general hubbub of the guests. I turned, and realized he was actually calling to me.

  “Hey, groom’s sister, you’re needed, darling, okay?”

  There were so many responses to that, I was spoilt for choice. I bit my lip, forced a smile, and said, “What... me? Where? Why?”

  “Family pics, darling. Snap snap.”

  He turned away, and I remembered again Charlie’s observation that Will was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  I was about to select from my range of responses when I caught Ethan’s eye and stopped myself. He smiled, shrugged, then gestured, beckoning me towards him.

  Family pictures at his wedding. Of course I would come over, bite my tongue, not rise to Will’s bait. Such an arrogant man.

  I let go of Charlie’s arm. Jeez, had I been hanging onto him all this time? We’d split up a year ago and yet he was the solid rock for me here, at my brother’s wedding.

  I approached Will, smiled again, and offered my hand. Close up, he looked a little ... softer around the edges was the best I could put it. The dark stubble looked deliberate, not just the result of an all-nighter. Those dark eyes that could look so penetrating and beady now looked mellow, a deep brown that hinted at passionate depths, eyes you could...

  I stopped myself. Why did he keep making me go all Jane Austen?

  “Trudy Parsons,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  He took my hand, his grip surprisingly gentle, but with a strength restrained rather than a strength that was absent. He could crush me if he wanted.

  I had a brief flash, incredibly vivid: the image of me folded up in his arms, his naked torso hard against me, his embrace strong – that power restrained, protecting, but always there. A man who could enfold me. A man who could squeeze me dry.

  Damn it, but I was blushing again. Why was I being so damned girly today? It just wasn’t me.

  “Willem Bentinck-Stanley,” he said, giving my hand a brief squeeze and then letting go.

  Bentinck-Stanley . I glanced at Ethan and Eleanor, then back at Will. He was smiling at me now.

  “Brother of the bride,” he said. “Looks like we’re family now, Miss Parsons. Shall we...?” He gestured towards my brother and his sister. “I think they’re waiting for us. Photographs, and all that.”

  I allowed him to steer me towards the two of them, weakening further, enjoying the firm guiding hand between my shoulder blades.

  I stood with Ethan, the four of us smiling for yet more photos.

  I closed my eyes, briefly, enjoying again that little fantasy: Will’s naked torso against mine, my breasts pressed against his ribs, the heat of his skin, the strength of his arms. Then I opened my eyes and smiled, and glanced across at Charlie, who was watching everything closely, minutely, an unreadable expression on his face.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe it was obvious that I wasn’t seeing anybody at the moment. Was my pent-up frustration written all over my face like a tattoo?

  §

  “The reception,” said Ethan, turning towards me as he paused from a conversation with Eleanor’s parents. “Talk at the reception, sis’? So much to catch up!”

  Poor kid. He was almost thirty, and two years my senior, but I still thought of him in those terms. He was the kid in a man’s body who still grinned at the thought of Dunkin’ Donuts and laughed uncontrollably at rude words.

  Poor kid... so many demands on his attention. I smiled and nodded and waved him away. We’d catch up. We’d erase the gap that had grown between us. We always did. I didn’t want him worrying about me now when he was looking so frazzled and flustered.

  “The reception.” I turned, and this time it was Charlie, appearing at my elbow, that hand on the small of my back. I remembered Will’s touch, only a short time before when we were posing with Ethan and Eleanor for photographs. Was there something about today that was bringing out the protective side of the men around me? Or was it more a possessive thing?

  Suddenly I understood something about Eleanor. This was such a conservative gathering, so in-grained with tradition, values passed down through the generations. It was a man’s world. You could see it in the body language, the way people behaved and responded.

  You could see it in the way Eleanor behaved around Ethan: everything for him, focused on him. Ethan, the man she had vowed to obey for ever more.

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s over there,” said Charlie, nodding in the direction of the rather grand manor house I’d noticed before. “Yeadham Hall. The family pile. Not too shabby, eh? Your boy’s done well for himself.”

  The Hall was, indeed, a not-too-shabby sight. It was about a quarter of a mile away, across a field full of dancing wheat and poppies and then a grand sweep of manicured lawn, roses and large, umbrella-like trees.

  “You’re saying we walk?”

  Other guests were already heading off through the pine trees at the bottom of the churchyard. I’d expected horse-drawn carriages, or a gleaming Bentley or Rolls Royce, at the very least. Not a hike across a muddy Norfolk field.

  “It’s the family’s private lane between the Hall and the church,” said Charlie. “It’s special to them. You know. Tradition and all that. It’s not far, Trude.”

  I stared at him, one eyebrow raised, and then, pointedly, looked down. I’d raised one foot, toes pointing towards him. My new Jimmy Choos. Peep-toe. Slingback. Needle-thin stilettos to die for.

  “In these shoes?” I asked. “I don’t think so...”

  Then I grinned. “Let’s drive,” I said. I’d parked out front. It’d probably take us half an hour to find some circuitous route around the country lanes until we found the Hall, but really, I wasn’t going to walk across that field – or along that tree-lined lane, or whatever – and ruin my Jimmy Choos, tradition or not.

  “I’ll drive,” said Charlie.

  I shook my head. “My car. You get a lift if you’re nice. That’s the deal.” It was that possessive thing again, that manly thing, rubbing off on Charlie, although he didn’t carry it well.

  “You don’t like me driving?”

  “I drive,” I repeated. “Deal?”

  That hand again, on my hip, sliding round to my back, drawing me hard against him. His eyes, so intense, all of a sudden.

  I couldn’t help but give a soft gasp. My eyes darted from side to side, and I suddenly realized that we were the last guests remaining in the churchyard. Most of the others were lost beyond the pines, on the Bentinck-Stanleys’ private path to Yeadham Hall. Just three or four guests were still visible through the slender, naked trunks.

  I looked back at Charlie, his face so close to mine.

  “Charlie...”

  He kissed me, his other hand working its way up my spine. I couldn’t move, couldn’t resist. It wasn’t in me, even if I’d wanted to.

  He knew me.

  He knew me so well.

  He knew that when he held me like this I would melt into his arms.

  His lips against mine were hard, possessing my mout
h. His tongue was tender, probing, tasting of mint and a hint of cigarette smokiness. Our bodies just slotted together, his larger frame enclosing me, a scaffold for me to fit into.

  I let him kiss me.

  I was surprised to say the least, although he’d clearly had this on his mind since he’d first set eyes on me today.

  It had been a year! Surely he’d moved on? Surely I had?

  It was nostalgia, a nostalgia kiss, a kiss for old times, that was all.

  A kiss that shifted, worked along the line of my lips, across my cheek. A strong hand on the back of my head, turning me so he could kiss the lobe of one ear, teasing me with teeth and tongue.

  He was hard against me, pressing urgently against my body. I changed position now, turned so that his hardness was pressing against my belly, and then I started to move against him, almost imperceptibly.

  It was a nostalgia kiss. One that worked down my neck, following a familiar path down to my collarbone as his fist in my hair pulled my head back abruptly, a move that was always guaranteed to make me go weak at the knees, so that I melted into his strong, supporting framework even more completely.

  “Charlie...”

  “Hmm?”

  “Charlie...”

  The hand on my back, sliding down, cupping my ass, pulling me against that familiar hardness.

  He was right. It had been a while.

  I’d never done ex-sex, but... It was a wedding, my head was full of emotions, it was horny and intimate and God but Charlie knew how to work me, my emotions, my body, the steady build-up of mind-games so that now I realized the last couple of hours had been inevitably leading up to this. A courtship dance. A seduction.

  “Charlie...”

  We stumbled, staggered, like some drunken four-legged beast up against the wall of the chapel, so that harsh flinty hardness pressed into my back and I had a sudden vision of my Anoushka G dress being cut into cornflower blue tatters.

  I hitched my dress up a little so I could curl a leg around him, grinding myself against him, reciprocating his every thrust with a rolling of my hips and a tightening of that curled leg. The heel of my Jimmy Choo formed a hard line against his calf, and when I twisted my foot the point raked against him, spurring him on.

  His hand moved up and round from my ass, his knuckles playing down my rib-cage, across my belly, and my whole body rode up against the wall as he thrust.

  That hand... changing course, running upwards, hard knuckles against my ribs again.

  My God, I thought that was going to do it, I thought my desperation and bottled-up need was going to tip me over and that touch was going to bring everything to a peak.

  His hand cupped my left breast, squeezing hard so that I cried out.

  Frantic, I looked around. I couldn’t see anyone, but we were in full view of the church doorway. Had the minister gone, too? Had he joined the procession to Yeadham Hall, or was he still inside, just about to emerge and stumble into our urgent, shameless tryst?

  “Not here. Not here, Charlie...”

  He pulled away, his face red, flustered, his eyes staring mad with passion.

  Seizing my wrist, he led me round the chapel to where the churchyard was less well tended, and the graves packed even tighter. Here, a large slab lay, raised from the ground to about knee height, its surface crusted with hard lichen, forming kaleidoscope patterns of yellow, gold and silver.

  He pushed me back against it, his hands tight around my wrists now.

  My legs buckled and I sat hard. My gasp was stifled by his hungry mouth, as he leaned down over me, still pinning my hands to my sides by the wrists.

  I kissed back now. Hungry. Eager. Opening my mouth to his tongue, our teeth clashing, grinding, lips pressed hard against each other.

  I wanted him. I needed him.

  I knew I’d regret it later. I knew it was a spur of the moment thing, a sudden need. Something prompted by the stresses of the occasion, the tense undercurrents.

  Maybe it was the purity, too. The chapel, the ancient family, Eleanor in her virginal white. Set against that... I wanted to assert myself. I wanted to feel just a little bit dirty.

  It was a need. Just a need.

  I wasn’t proud.

  It was a need.

  5.

  He released my wrists, and stood straighter for a moment as he fumbled with his belt, freed it, undid the top button of his trousers.

  White Calvin Kleins, stretched tight with his need.

  God it had been too long!

  That was when I remembered my underwear.

  My suck-it-all-in, flesh tone Magic Knickers; low leg, with a waist right up around my second rib.

  My godawful granny knickers that you’d never want anyone to see you in.

  Certified passion-killers. Yay, Trudy. Good call on the underwear front this morning. Way to go, Trudy babe. Way to go.

  I pulled him down towards me, and he took my wrists again, pushing me back against the slab. God, we were doing this on someone’s family grave... Just how bad was that in the scale of things?

  His knee slid between my thighs, pushing my dress up. His hands pinned me by the wrists, and his body weight bore down on me so that I couldn’t move, could barely even breathe. All I was aware of was his weight on me, the almost painful grip around my wrists, the hard slab against my ass, my back, my head, my arms. And that leg of his, pressing between mine, grinding against me, and his hardness against my hip, the side of my belly.

  “My dress,” I gasped. It really was going to end up in tatters.

  He was oblivious.

  He shifted his position so that he had both of my wrists above my head in one strong hand, and with his free hand reached down, hitched my dress up further, found my hip, my thigh, and then pressed hard against me, the ball of his thumb against my mound, his fingers pressing against the tight fabric of my panties, teasing my opening.

  I groaned. I couldn’t help myself. That bolt of pleasure at his first touch, and then the prolonged pressure of his hand against me.

  I squirmed beneath him, freeing one hand.

  Up to now it had been all Charlie, Charlie in control, but that was going to change. I reached up and pulled at his bow tie, loosening the knot and then pulling it free. Then with a huge effort, I pushed him up, away.

  He looked angry, confused, like a lost animal, and then I rose and kissed him.

  “On your back, mister,” I said, and I turned him, pushed him back onto the slab.

  Mounting him, I ground down. He was so hard in those CKs! Why had we ever stopped doing this?

  The lichen was rough against my knees and shins. I took him by the wrists and pinned him back against the stone, just has he had done to me.

  His hardness lay upright against his belly, his shorts stretched tight. With my dress hitched up, it was just two layers of thin fabric between us.

  I bore down, sliding along the length of him, that hardness sending stabbing bolts of pleasure up through my belly, my whole body alive with his heat, with the sensation of our two bodies working against each other.

  “I told you,” I said. “I’m doing the driving.”

  I kissed him, driving my tongue hard into his mouth, owning him, controlling him.

  Charlie had always liked it rough. He’d always liked it physical. And he’d always liked to receive as good as he gave.

  I pressed down on him. My God this wasn’t going to last long at all!

  The tie... it was slim, but it would do the job. I looped it around his head, tied it tight across the bridge of his nose, tucked the ends in across his eyes.

  Blindfolded, I smothered his mouth with another hard kiss.

  He squirmed against me, as if trying to break free, so I pinned his wrists down again even harder.

  “Okay buster,” I said. “No moving. You hear?”

  I stood and he lay there obediently, his back arched.

  I reached down, pulled my knickers down, stepped out of them, and hurled them away across the
churchyard, as far as I could manage.

  Then I slid Charlie’s shirt up and lifted the waistband of his shorts so that his manhood sprang out to lie flat against his belly.

  I took a wrist, raised it above his head, pinning him against the slab. Then I took his other wrist, and pinned him down with it. I felt a sudden surge of strength, of power. Of control.

  It felt good to be in charge.

  And then – oh my God so slowly! – I lowered myself onto him.

  Pressing down against the length of his shaft, so hard, so wet...

  He opened his mouth to speak and I released one wrist so I could clamp my hand over his face, gagging him with my palm. His freed arm remained where it was, taut, tensed, as if an invisible hand still pinned it to the slab.

  Sliding, slowly upwards, along him. That swelling against me, the engorged mushroom head, sliding across my mound, across my clitoris in a tiny, hot explosion of sheer pleasure, teasing my opening, pressing against me, not quite in, not quite out.

  I pressed down, felt that swollen head press against me, into me, and now when I slid back downwards it was onto him, his length impaling me, filling me... my God he was filling me!

  Down, bearing down until he was deep inside me, until I was full of him, until I could take no more. Those waves of pleasure I’d felt before were as nothing compared to this.

  I held that position, barely moving, our bodies entangled, interlocked, one. Every slight movement sent a tremor of sensation through me, and I could tell from his response it did the same to Charlie.

  He pushed up and I said, “No. Nothing. Who’s in control, Charlie? Who’s in control?”

  He stopped moving, stopped trying to move.

  I tightened around him, clenching, pressing almost imperceptibly down, and deep inside me he pulsed, throbbed, and I thought he was going to explode inside me.

  The hardness of his pubic bone was a focus of sensation as I pressed down. I didn’t have to do anything. Every sensation appeared magnified, intensified. The hardness of the stone on my knees and shins, the tough sinuous boniness of his left wrist, still gripped tightly in my hand. His lips, firm but tender against me when I withdrew my hand and kissed him. His breathing. Every slight movement of his body.