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  Fallon had to hand it to her mother-in-law. Not a flicker of recognition crossed the older woman’s face, nor did any speculative glances come her way. Perhaps, as Bridge had said, it would be just fine.

  “The portrait is for you, young man?”

  “A surprise for my fiancée. I beg you to keep your council.

  “Certainly.” She arched a questioning look in Fallon’s direction. “Might I sneak a quick peek in the morning, my dear?”

  “You know I never allow anyone to see an incomplete work.”

  “That’s true,” Bridge said. “Even I am not allowed the teensiest preview.”

  They were saved from further chitchat by the bell announcing dinner. Bridge, at his most gracious, offered each woman an arm to escort them to the table.

  Fallon watched approvingly as he pulled out Eloise’s chair and saw her comfortably settled. Mrs. Buttle had outdone herself. The linen was flawless, enhanced by fresh flowers and candles, gleaming cutlery, and the best gold-rimmed china.

  Eloise nodded her approval at their surroundings. “I’m happy to see the room being used as it was intended, my dear. The Captain would most certainly approve. You always were such a gifted hostess.”

  “Mrs. Gilchrist has been making me feel most comfortable here, as well,” Bridge said smoothly, grinning at her rakishly across the table. Fallon started when she felt the pressure upon her ankle beneath the table. Surely that was no accident, the positioning of Bridge’s foot against hers? A quick glance his way assured her it was not.

  She barely recovered in time to signal Mrs. Buttle to begin serving the soup from the silver tureen.

  “You said your portrait is a surprise for your fiancée, Mr. Bridgeman?” Eloise asked as she sipped daintily at her seafood chowder. “When are the upcoming nuptials planned?”

  “We have set no firm date yet,” Bridge said. “She’s off touring Europe first.”

  “How bold,” Eloise remarked.

  No bolder than Bridge, Fallon thought crossly. How had he taken off his boot without anyone noticing? What if the servants saw? For his stocking foot had edged beneath her gown and was busy kneading her calf.

  “I suspect she needed this reprieve before finding herself saddled with me for the rest of her life.”

  Eloise leaned forward, clearly fascinated. “Why on earth would you entertain such a notion? Surely any intelligent young woman would leap at the opportunity to become affianced to a young man such as yourself.”

  “Ours was a union arranged by our parents when we were but infants,” Bridge said. “My lady longs for the excitement of an actress’s life, so I encouraged her to go sow those oats. To return to me only when she is convinced it is her destiny.”

  “You are a most unusual young man,” Eloise said.

  That is beyond certain, Fallon thought.

  “Wouldn’t you say, my dear?” Eloise directed her words most pointedly to Fallon, then paused for a closer look. Fallon cursed the candles’ illumination. “You are flushed, my dear. I hope you are not falling ill.”

  “I found the soup a trifle warm,” Fallon said breathlessly.

  Moist prickles of awareness chased up and down her legs, and tiny droplets of perspiration nested between her breasts. She caught a shallow breath, aware of the way breathing caused her breasts to press more fully against the bodice of her gown, the sensitive nipples boldly ripening, begging for Bridge’s touch, responding to his lingering gaze by budding into almost unbearable tight knots of tension.

  “If you’re quite certain you’re all right?” Eloise turned her attention back to Bridge, chattering like a peahen as she ate her meal.

  Bridge listened and responded only when required as he partook of his meal with gusto. Mrs. Buttle had elected to serve what she considered a “man’s meal.” Slabs of roast beef drowned in rich dark gravy, with light-as-air Yorkshire pudding and a mountain of fluffy mashed potatoes.

  Bridge more than made up for Fallon’s lack of appetite. It appeared that his appetite in all things was insatiable, even if his table manners—at least those below the table—left something to be desired.

  His gaze moved from Eloise to her, capturing hers with telling intensity as he suggestively licked his lips and lovingly sipped his wine, his wordless actions telling her how he would enjoy the wicked act of licking and sipping her.

  Below the table, his foot was now settled firmly in her lap.

  Fallon knew she could pull her chair back and sever all contact, which is exactly what she ought to do. Instead, she found herself caught up in enjoying the gently undulating waves of pleasure at the increased pressure of his foot against her mound.

  She half closed her eyes as she recalled the talented rasp of his tongue against her feminine core, opening her slick inner lips, lapping the honeyed nectar that flowed from within her. His toes were nearly as talented as his fingers, probing, prying, finding their prey, her achy, needy clitoris. As he honed in on that most needful spot she shifted slightly and rocked against him, unable to deny herself the resultant ripples of delight.

  Across from her he watched closely, intent on encouraging her pleasure, reading the shallow rise and fall of her breath, increasing the pressure accordingly, until the dam burst and she shuddered and let out a tiny shocked gasp.

  Eloise glanced up from her trifle. “Oh, dear. Did something go down the wrong way?”

  Fallon swallowed with great effort, then forced a discreet cough into her napkin. “I believe it must have. I’m all right now.”

  Eloise subjected her to a searching glance. “You look far more relaxed than earlier. There’s nothing like a nice meal at a beautifully appointed table, shared with kindred spirits.” Her benevolent smile embraced both Fallon and Bridge before she returned to her dessert.

  Chapter 7

  As they retired to the drawing room at the meal’s end, Fallon sent a pointed glance Bridge’s way. It was time for him to take his leave. When he ignored her look, she took matters into her own hands.

  “I’ll see you to your room, Eloise. Bridge, we have an early day tomorrow.”

  Bridge pulled a little-boy face. “No nightcap to aid our digestion? Surely you don’t expect anyone to sleep on such a full stomach.”

  “I would adore a drop of sherry,” Eloise chirped.

  “Port for me, please,” Bridge said, settling himself on the settee and stretching his long legs before him toward the fire. Just the memory of that foot against her mons caused the heat to flare in Fallon’s cheeks, and she distracted herself by ringing for Franklin to serve their drinks.

  “Sherry for Mrs. Gilchrist and port for Mr. Bridgeman, please.”

  “And f-for yourself, madam?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you, Franklin.”

  “Very g-g-good, madam.” The houseman served the drinks, bowed, and left.

  Fallon couldn’t tear her gaze from the way Bridge held the port glass balanced aloft between his long, talented fingers, admiring the liquor’s rich, tawny color in the firelight. The thought of those hands against her skin brought a most wanton image to mind. Tanned, masculine hands, caressing, probing, inflaming her soft white skin, setting her nerve endings on fire, then quenching those flames with his . . .

  “Cheers,” Bridge said, raising his glass toward her and Eloise. Fallon flushed guiltily, afraid he could read her thoughts. She shifted her gaze to Eloise. Her mother-in-law had seated herself flirtatiously near Bridge on the settee, while Fallon had selected a chair a safe distance from her guest. He appeared to be on his best behavior, which for Bridge was often tandem with incorrigible.

  “To a most delightful evening, in the company of two of Boston’s finest.”

  Eloise simpered like a young girl. “You are a most charming rake, Mr. Bridgeman. Dare one suppose you might be sowing oats as wildly as your fiancée?”

  “Madam, a gentleman never tells.”

  In between recounting outrageous stories of his youthful exploits, Bridge kept himself busy refil
ling Eloise’s sherry glass until her flaxen head bobbed most unseemly against her chest and her speech was so slurred as to be indecipherable.

  “I do believe you’ve gotten my mother-in-law drunk, Mr. Bridgeman,” Fallon said in soft tones.

  “So it would appear,” Bridge said cheerfully. “Which means she will recall little, if any, of this entire evening’s conversation.”

  “Was that your intent all along?”

  “Not at all. Shall I carry her upstairs?”

  Fallon blew out a vexed breath. “She hardly seems capable of navigating the journey on her own.”

  Bridge hefted Eloise in his arms and followed Fallon up to the guest room, where he laid his charge carefully upon the bed.

  “I’ll say good night to you,” Fallon said firmly.

  “As you wish,” Bridge said. “Good evening. And thank you for the most enjoyable time.”

  Fallon flushed, knowing he spoke of stimulating her into orgasm directly beneath the unknowing eye of her houseguest.

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I do my best.”

  Alone with Eloise, Fallon was relieved that her guest was not a large woman. In a relatively short time she had wrestled her mother-in-law into night attire, then tucked her beneath the covers. The old lady was snoring long before Fallon extinguished the light.

  From all sides the house remained quiet, the servants having taken their leave for the evening. It had been a most enjoyable night, Fallon thought as she made her way along the hallway to her room. Perhaps she had been reclusive too long. Perhaps it was time she returned to society, began to accept a few invitations.

  Her room had been readied by her efficient staff, the fire glowing in the grate, the lamp lit on her dressing table. She splashed a handful of cool water onto cheeks which still felt unnaturally warm to the touch. Warmth infused by Bridge’s look. Bridge’s touch.

  She released her hair from its usual knot and ran her fingers through the strands, enjoying the light rake of her nails against her scalp, the heavy, sensual swish of her fair, straight hair against the nape of her neck. She unbuttoned her gown, stepped free, and tossed it carelessly across a nearby chair. She stood before the cheval looking glass in her underthings and looked, really looked at her reflection, feeling as if she were seeing herself for the first time. Observing a stranger.

  In a sudden bold move she peeled away all of her underpinnings, added them to the chair, and surveyed herself critically. A few faint marks showed on her belly from the life she had so briefly carried and then lost. She felt sadness, acknowledged the loss, whispered her fingertips lightly across her belly, and continued her scrutiny. Full breasts, which had grown hard with milk for the infant, then eventually softened up again with no babe to suckle them.

  Yet, how Bridge had enjoyed the suckling. She cupped her breasts in her hands, recalled their intimacy, his urging her to touch herself. She ran an experimental thumb across the full, soft buds and felt their instant response. A surge of pleasure. A prickle of heat. A vague sense of longing.

  She smoothed one hand down the faint curve of her abdomen, and lower into the tangle of curls to that secret place. She felt the warmth. The moisture. The fresh pangs of want. She was fueled with curiosity. How little she knew of her own woman’s body.

  With a boldness she wouldn’t have dreamed herself capable, she repositioned the lantern, seated herself on the edge of the bed facing the looking glass, and spread her legs. Using both hands, she gently probed the pink softness, folded back the outer lips. How lush and pink and ripe she appeared, like the inside of a seashell. Soft pale pink near the entrance, deeper tones farther inside.

  The coolness of the room fanned her internal flames as she opened herself wider. Wide enough to see the one place that gave her such intense pleasure. She slid a finger inside her recesses, but found her digit to be too small and short to elicit much delight. However, rubbing the softness of her inner lips with one hand while caressing her nipples with the other brought about the most delightful ripples of slow-building pleasure. Different from the feelings wrought by Bridge’s touch. Softer, less intense, yet still very pleasant. She increased the pressure of her stroke slightly, imagining Bridge in the room, watching her, and felt a fresh out pouring of heated juices from her pussy. Yes, Bridge would enjoy the sensual act of watching her pleasure herself. She imagined his cock swelling against the confines of his trousers as he watched, his eyes dark with passion as he became further aroused.

  She rubbed herself faster, increasing the pressure against her clitoris. Oh, that felt far too good. Her movements slowed to a subtle tease. She didn’t want to come yet. Not yet! She wanted to continue her thoughts of Bridge. Seeing him watching her. Imagining him unfastening his trousers. Unable to stop himself from seeking his satisfaction as he watched her bring herself to orgasm. She could almost see the swollen redness of his cock, a tiny tear weeping from its eye, the way his hand pumped the organ. His concentrated breathing.

  She flicked her clitoris with her middle finger. It was hard and hot and engorged. So responsive; aching for release. She was panting as if she had run a race. Her vagina was streaming, her clitoris pulsing, and with one final rub her body convulsed and she gasped aloud, falling backward on the bed. Deep inside she felt the tremors pulse, slow, and finally subside.

  She listened to the shallow rise and fall of her breath as it slowed to normal. She watched the play of shadows on the ceiling. Suddenly, one shadow detached itself from the others.

  She gasped. And felt the mattress give beneath his weight as Bridge hovered over her.

  “No!” Mortification ripped through her. What she had done was private, yet he had been there all along, watching her. She whipped her head from side to side, avoiding his lips.

  But his lips trapped hers, his mouth hot and hungry and needy as he took possession. “I love it when a woman isn’t afraid to address her own needs.” With those words, all of Fallon’s shame and embarrassment melted in the heat of Bridge’s embrace.

  She could feel his hard, aroused cock pulsing against her through his trousers, and suddenly she longed to have him inside her. Her body responded with a fresh outpouring of love juice. She was hot for Bridge, wet for Bridge, and nothing else mattered save that he was there.

  “You knew I was watching.”

  “I . . . No. Though I did imagine how it would feel if you were.”

  “And how did it feel?”

  “It added to the excitement,” she admitted, hardly able to credit her honesty. But Bridge did that to her. He stripped away the veneer of polite society, of moral expectations, peeled back everything until she was exposed and vulnerable, with no place to hide, no refuge from simple truth. From shocking, raw honesty.

  “I became unbearably aroused watching you,” Bridge whispered as he nuzzled her neck, tongued that sensitive cord near her shoulder, plundered the soft indentation of her eve’s trough at the base of her throat.

  “So I take it.” She reached for his cock, touching his hard, pulsing length through his trousers. He felt immense. “But you didn’t come.”

  “I thought I’d save it for you. Which required immense self-control on my part.”

  “Such self-control ought not to go unrewarded,” Fallon said.

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  He lowered his lips to hers and Fallon gave herself over to the simple pleasure of kissing. She adored the way his lips molded hers, at once firm and soft, coaxing and demanding. The hot, slippery warmth of his tongue invaded her mouth as if he had exclusive rights to every one of her hot, wet, and oh-so-willing orifices.

  He slid two fingers inside her, the motion mimicking that of his tongue ravaging the softness of her mouth, and she whimpered and raised her hips invitingly, wanting, needing more. Needing him.

  “You are an impatient little thing, aren’t you?” Bridge said. “You’ve already come, yet you can’t wait for the next round. Can you bear to wait?” He reache
d down for a bottle of port.

  “I can when I know the wait will be well worth it.” She had no idea what he intended. “Haven’t you drunk enough?”

  “I believe in saving the best for last.” As he spoke, he drizzled a thin amber stream of the liquor onto her breasts and belly.”

  “Bridge, what ...”

  “Shhh,” he murmured as he carefully commenced to lap up the golden liquid, his raspy tongue greedy against her breasts. Then her belly. He sipped from her navel as if it were a tiny chalice and he didn’t want to waste a drop. “I’ve been longing to do this all night. Ever since my first sip of port I imagined it thus, warmed by your skin, my two favorite flavors combined into one heady nectar.” He trickled more port onto her hips, her mons, rubbed it into her lips, then gorged himself upon her.

  Fallon was unable to do a thing except lie there and ride out the storm of passion he unleashed inside her. Orgasm heaped atop orgasm into one mindless, senseless stream of pleasure, the likes of which she’d never imagined. Eventually he stood and urged her to turn over, prone atop the bed.

  “What . . . ?” She tried to twist around to face him, but he gentled her, pushed her hair aside, and kissed her nape. Fallon lay still and absorbed the sensations. The prickly coverlet beneath her swollen, sensitive breasts and mons. The cool sticky moisture of port, followed by his adoring tongue’s questing heat as it snaked a slow, torturous path down her spine, his hands lightly grazing the globes of her derriere. Followed by his tongue. Licking, lapping, sucking, stirring her to new heights of frenzied anticipation.

  With one finger he gently teased the crease, eliciting a sensation almost like tickling, but far more sensual than that. His touch grew bolder, circled the tiny mouth of her anus. Fallon felt new, more intense sensations as he continued to kiss her back and fondle her rear. She squirmed helplessly, felt her hips rise to his teasing touch, felt herself open in every conceivable part of her being. She was so hot, so wet, so on the edge of something new and different, almost frightening in its intensity.