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Chapter 20

20

NUMBER EIGHT (A) AND NUMBER NINE

The whole situation at the Castle wasn't as awkward as Leo had feared. It might be difficult later, of course, but he couldn't think of that right now. No man could be expected to think of potentially embarrassing scenes with his mother, or any other relative for that matter, when faced with the prospect of number eight, or what he assumed must be number eight.

Isabella was so beautiful. She always was, but never more so than now, in the thinnest of muslin nightgowns through which her skin showed warm. It was held up by thin straps, and they were slipping from her shoulders. Her hair was down but not yet unbraided, and lay in heavy honey-gold plaits across her breasts. Her face showed a consciousness of the significance of what they were about to do, but her brown eyes were determined. She was so brave. She took his breath away. She said, ‘I remembered what you told me once, about how you'd like to unfasten my hair, so I left it like this for you. In case you'd like to.'

‘You added it to the list?'

‘I did. It's eight (a), in fact.'

He couldn't speak. But his limbs and his fingers still worked, apparently. He sat down beside her on the soft bed and began to undo her hair, as he had dreamed of doing the first time he met her, and so often since. She'd removed whatever ribbons usually tied off the ends of each plait – she thought of everything – so all he had to do was unfasten each one and comb his fingers through it with care, and spread it across her bare shoulders. When he was done, she looked quite different. More distinctly herself, somehow, her private self, and therefore even more alluring. He gathered up a great hank of her hair and buried his face in its silky, fragrant mass, feeling her hand come out and stroke his head very gently. They stayed like that in silence for a long moment, and then he raised his head to whisper, ‘I'd very much like to see you naked. You know I never have. May I?'

‘Undress me,' she responded without hesitation. ‘You said, I think, that you wanted to see me with my hair loose about my shoulders, but I thought at the time that you weren't being quite honest. Was I right?'

‘Yes,' he said, his fingers already busy with the convenient ties that fastened the wispy garment. ‘Of course you were. I could hardly say I wanted to see your breasts. People don't say things like that. Or I don't.'

‘You just said you wanted to see me naked,' she pointed out, her voice not quite steady as he stripped her.

He checked for a second. ‘So I did. Perhaps I'm changing, growing bolder. I suppose I must be. Well then – I want to see your glorious breasts, concealed by your beautiful hair. I want to uncover them and kiss them. Find them beneath their lovely covering, and feast on them. I've always wanted that, even before… anything.'

‘Really?' Her night-rail was gone, pushed down, forgotten, and she shook out her hair to cover herself; it was almost waist-length, just as he had imagined.

‘Yes,' he said, and hoped she would not ask any more. He didn't want to have to discuss his feelings for her; not how he'd felt before he knew her at all, and certainly not how he felt now. ‘I want to see you naked and magnificent in this bed. It's been an exquisite torture to me, seeing tantalising glimpses of you partially undressed. I want everything.'

She smiled at him. ‘So do I. I want to see you naked too. You've seen a great deal of me, one way and the other, you know, and I've seen very little of you.'

‘You're serious?' He knew she was always honest, but he had to ask.

‘Of course I am. Strip, sir.'

‘I'm very hairy, you know.'

‘I realise that. I like it. Strip.'

His dressing gown was gone in a second. He wasn't wearing anything under it. She was lying back against the pillows, cloaked in her glorious, dishevelled tresses, and he was kneeling beside her. He wanted to drink in the sight of her, small waist, lush thighs, rounded belly, but she was distracting him with her demands on him. Wonderfully distracting him. And after all, why should it just be about him looking at her? She wasn't a painting in a frame, a naked goddess put there for his titillation. She was real. She reached out and placed one hand on his bare thigh, stroking the downy golden hair. He didn't care to imagine what picture he presented to her gaze: naked, hirsute, powerfully erect already, displaying himself at her command. If women chose the paintings, would that be the sort of thing they'd choose to look at? He could hardly believe it could be so, but… Her fingertips trailed slowly, appreciatively, he thought, down towards his knee, and then up again, and a jolt of pure arousal shot through him. ‘They called me Bear, at school,' he volunteered. They had, and worse things.

‘I want to bury my face in it,' she said dreamily. ‘Can I call you Bear too – would you mind? Tell me if you'd mind.'

‘I'd like that. No one uses it now. A private name… No one must ever know, though, for it reveals so much.'

‘Bear,' she said, naming him, running her hand up his abdomen to his chest, and then down again. And then he was on top of her – once again he couldn't have said whether he'd tumbled her back or she'd pulled him forward – and his face was buried in her hair, blindly seeking her breast through the silken locks. His mouth found her engorged nipple and seized on it, his hands were… everywhere. Hers too. Exploring his back, moving down and caressing his buttocks, pulling him to her, owning him. It was even more wonderful than he'd imagined it being, and he lost himself in it for a long time.

A glorious while later he found himself kissing his way up her neck to her mouth – it seemed like years since he'd kissed her – but when he reached her he suddenly became aware that he was crushing her into the soft mattress, and probably his damnably excessive hair was…

‘Am I hurting you?' he gasped against her cheek. ‘My weight, my hair rubbing you – are you uncomfortable? Please tell me.'

‘No,' she said breathlessly. ‘No, I like it, all of it. Your weight on me, your strength – and as for your hair, my God, push your thigh between mine and I will clasp it to me tightly and rub myself against it and you shall see how much I will like it.' No one had ever said such things to him before, and he had not even dreamed anyone might; she continued to astonish him.

She took his leg between her soft thighs, as they kissed fiercely and explored each other with eager hands, and he didn't think he'd ever known anything as raw and animalistic and perfect as her pleasuring herself shamelessly against him. It was not long before she growled in his ear, ‘Now, please, now!'

‘How?' he asked her. He could never forget that she was in control; he needed her to be. ‘How shall it be, my queen?'

‘I find I need your weight on me again. Come back and take me that way; I'll wrap my legs around your waist.'

He was inside her in a moment. It was utterly glorious to slip into her wetness at last, and she locked her legs around him, her heels in his buttocks urging him on as he thrust into her and they moved together in an escalating rhythm. They couldn't kiss as they coupled this way, the height difference was too great, but it didn't seem to matter. She had her face buried in his neck and was kissing him there and nipping him with her teeth. Their bodies were sweat-slicked and in utter harmony, he could have cried at the sheer rightness of it, when she began to clench on him, and her release triggered his, so that they came together in a moment of mutual ecstasy that was the most intense and perfect sensation he'd ever experienced in his life. He could not know how it was for her.

They rolled over together, panting, and he slipped out of her. She laid her head on his chest and he put his arms about her and held her as their breathing slowed and their hearts settled to a normal rhythm. She rubbed her face in the mat of hair that covered the muscles of his chest, and said, a little muffled, ‘I am a loose woman. I probably was before, but I definitely am now.'

‘Are you?' He almost added ‘my love' – he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying it. My love, my love, my dearest love…

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I am. I'm shameless.'

‘I was thinking that, so far as I was thinking anything, while you rubbed yourself against me.'

‘I told you, shameless,' she repeated happily. ‘A hussy. A jezebel. A fallen woman. You're my lover; I'm your mistress.'

He took her hand and kissed it, turned it over and pressed kisses into her palm. How he adored her. ‘You are. In every possible sense, Christ knows.'

She sat up and looked at him. Her hair was wildly disordered, her lips swollen from kissing, and her face and neck and breasts and thighs were flushed with arousal and the friction of his rough body hair upon her delicate skin. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly fucked in exactly the way she liked; she looked like all the things she'd said she was, he supposed. His mistress, if that was all he could have of her. Oddly, he thought, his friend, too. And then she said, devastatingly, ‘That's what you like, isn't it? That's why we're really doing this, or why you are, at least. Because you like me to be in charge.'

He shouldn't be ashamed. Wouldn't. Didn't it suit both of them? ‘Yes,' he said steadily. ‘That's why I said, "you are my mistress in every possible sense". You are always in control. And I must admit I love it.'

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