Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

in his throat as she said, “I would marry you if you were but a simple farmer. It matters nothing to me. This is Arabella’s home, not mine. It never was my home.

My home is with you, Paul. I want only to be with you. Forever.”

“I am very glad that you came into my life,” he said, then he kissed her, lightly touching his fingertips to her lips as he took his leave. He doubted he could speak another sensible word if his life depended on it.

Why can I not feel anything? Please, God, let me feel something. Is it your punishment for my sin? Oh, please, let me feel my love for him. Just once.

His lips roamed hungrily over her small uptilted breasts, and she wound her fingers in his short black curling hair to press him harder against her. He thought her gesture borne of a desire that matched his own and suckled hard at her breast. He was young, enthusiastic, and his confidence in himself was profound.

She gritted her teeth at the pain, willing herself not to cry out. She brought her hands up to cup his smooth chin and eased his mouth away from her breast to her lips. His beautiful dark eyes were nearly black with his lust, and she saw a gleam of impatience, she knew it. It was impatience. She wasn’t as other women. She was slow. She wasn’t enough of a woman for him. Oh, God, she had to do something. She was afraid he would guess that all his caresses, his kisses, the stroking of his hands, did not bring her pleasure, indeed, froze all feeling inside her.

Instinctively she moaned softly into his mouth and arched up against him.

She felt a quickening in him, and for an instant knew an overwhelming desire to push him off her, to beg him not to drive his man’s sex into her. She hated it beyond anything. She held her breath, ashamed at such unnatural thoughts, and suffered his grinding mouth and probing tongue.

She must remember that he loved her, that, above all things, she did not want to lose him, to give him a disgust of her.

She tried to relax, to inhale the sweet smell of hay. But all she could smell was him, the musky scent of him, the scent of sex. It is you who are the lucky one, the chosen one. He does not want Arabella or any other woman. To give him your body is proof of your love for him, it’s proof of your worth.

Suddenly he reared back on his knees, clutched her knees, and pulled them apart. She closed her eyes as his fingers fumbled to part her. She heard him growl with frustration, and a red veil of shame clouded her mind. She felt his fingers, wet with his own spittle, rubbing at her, pushing inside her. She winced as his fingers went deeper, widening her, and in a haze of misery she wondered yet again how she would bear that thick shaft shoving inside her.

He poised himself over her, unable to contain himself, and shoved hard inside her, feeling as he did so the eruption of all his senses, a moment’s suspension of thought and time. His seed flooded the small taut passage, easing his way, and he pushed into the depths of her. He felt an ecstatic instant of animal victory, an affirmation of his maleness, his superiority over this female. Her small hands clutched at his shoulders, and he believed yet again that he had conquered her as a man must a woman, possessed her entirely, and by his own passion given her a woman’s fulfillment.

He eased his weight off her, kissed her moist lips lightly, and rolled on his side next to her. The smell of him filled her nostrils. She thought she’d gag. She felt leaden, her body wet and prickly as the cool air settled upon the thin sheen of sweat left by his body.

“I adore you, ma petite cousine,” her said, knowing it his duty as her conqueror, as her lover, as the man she worshiped, to reassure her with binding words that cost him so very little. Certainly it had heightened his vanity to seduce his shy cousin, yet, too, he had guessed that to ensure her absolute compliance, he had also to possess her body. Her furtive virginity had pleased him.

“And I you, Gervaise,” Elsbeth whispered, her body already stilled to its outrage, her memory already hazy from the pain and humiliation of it. She thought how very blessed among women she was, to be loved by one so very handsome as he, with his dark eyes, almond-shaped as were hers, and his flashing white teeth. He was more handsome than the earl, whose very size terrified her, particularly now that she knew what men demanded of women.

Her soaring spirit dimmed. If only she could feel her own pleasure, glory in but a moment’s passion. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask. But perhaps it was. Perhaps it was only men who grunted and heaved and yelled when their lust overtook them. She tried to turn her mind away from her selfishness. If there was a lack, it was in her. She must believe that to have him, to let him delight in her body, was enough for her.

“You know, Elsbeth,” he said after a moment, “I spoke to Lady Ann about your mother, Magdalaine. She knew far less than I had expected her to about your mother’s circumstances and her life here in England.” Elsbeth pulled the edge of his cloak over her and turned on her side to face him. “What do you mean, her circumstances?” Why was he speaking of her long-dead mother? Why didn’t he want to talk about their future together?

He quickly patted her cheek and let his fingers rove over her breast. He had moved too quickly, caught her unawares. Women were strange little creatures. They had to have constant reassurance.