Cressida's Dilemma by Beverley Oakley Page B

sweet touch, enjoying to the full his expert exploration of her body as he whipped up within her the shattering sensations that stunned her with their intensity at night but which could shame her by day if she thought too much upon the fact that she, a matron with so many children, should long for bodily sensations so divorced from the realities of procreation.
    She couldn’t talk of it with Justin. That was the dreadful, painful reality.
    Now here she was watching two women enjoying a world full of love and beauty with no pain, no guilt, no terrible consequences. No conception, no pregnancy, no pain.
    The women had not broken their kiss. Gently they swayed in time to the rhythm of the faint music, running their hands over each other’s face and body, caressing breasts and hips as if they were the most natural of gestures.
    All at once the tempo changed. Alertness pulsed through Cressida as she recognized the sudden tense awareness of the women as they stepped apart, and she strained to see what was happening. The faint chanting rose to a crescendo then suddenly ceased, and from a dark corner of the room strode a man, splendidly built, she observed, as a faint light burnished his statuesque silhouette. Cressida drew in her breath in the shadows, surprised and a little ashamed at her own response to the muscled physique and confident bearing of someone seemingly so splendid. Her hands felt clammy and the back of her neck prickled, but she was thinking of Justin and how she would feel if it were he advancing toward her.
    The awe and admiration of her companions was similar as the four drew together, arms linked as they gazed at this being who seemed to command such power.
    The haze cleared a little, both in Cressida’s mind and in the room, though her head still swam with a sense of unreality. One of the women—Minna, she saw—broke away and disappeared into the shadows, returning to place three lighted candles on either side of what Cressida now saw was a large bed in the center of the room, adorned with carved wooden posts and sheets of crisp, white linen. The man stood behind this on a raised dais and he beckoned to the women.
    “I have returned.” His voice was low and mellifluous, and as Cressida strained to see more, she recognized him as the man who’d frightened her in the corridor. Ariane’s husband.
    “Yes… Come to us at last.” Ariane sounded breathless and her face was shining as she pushed back her flowing golden hair. She made her way toward him, climbing what Cressida assumed must be a set of stairs hidden behind the bed, and the stranger caught her to his muscled chest, sliding one hand up behind her neck, the other slowly caressing the contours of her body. With a soft groan, Ariane went slack, and he whisked her up into his arms and placed his mouth upon hers.
    “I offer myself up to your pleasure,” whispered the red-haired siren, and she moved forward and up the stairs, kneeling to kiss his feet, her hands twining up the thick muscles of his legs.
    Cressida remained rooted to the spot in shocked fascination. What was happening? The man was kissing Ariane while the other beauty was kissing his feet. No! Shock galvanized Cressida. This must be a dream. A lust-crazed dream for—Good God—the haze was clearing, and for the first time, Cressida saw that this man was completely naked, and that while he was kissing Ariane, Persephone was kissing his feet, his ankles, the backs of his knees.
    Gently the man placed Ariane upon the mattress before him, rising in tandem with Persephone, locked in a swaying embrace as she twined her arms about his neck, nuzzling his earlobe while Ariane began her own slow progress of pleasuring her husband from his feet upward.
    Cressida glanced at the door. She should not be here, witnessing such a sight. The fog in her brain was clearing, highlighting the wrongness of being in the midst of a scene of such a sexual nature.
    She took a step beyond her hiding place,