silk-lined wool that smelled of cold spring night and hot sexual man slithered off her shoulders—and flung open the lid of the trunk that carried everything she had taken from Jonathon’s home. Feverishly she located the book of love sonnets with which her mother had gifted her upon completing finishing school, and the picture tucked inside it.
Turning—cotton gown swirling, swollen breasts bouncing—she thrust forward a French postcard. “Look at it, Mr. Lodoun.”
Long, thick lashes shielded his gaze; dark shadow carved out his cheeks.
Rose studied Jack Lodoun while he studied the postcard.
A lone clip-clop of hooves rang out in the darkest hour before midnight.
“What do you see?” she demanded harshly, tensely waiting for his condemnation, he a man who had accused her of wanting a divorce for no other reason than to commit the adultery of which he himself was guilty.
Slowly his lashes—reddish-gold tips glinting in the flickering lamplight—lifted. “I see a man stroking his cock.”
“Does not the sight disgust you?”
“Why should it?”
Why should it not?
Rose’s heartbeat quickened, too fast, too hard, too dangerous. “Do you touch yourself, Mr. Lodoun?”
“Yes.”
The admission was reluctant.
“But only when you do not have a woman in which to spend yourself,” she challenged.
Shadow tautly delineated sharp cheekbones. “Not always.”
“When?” Rose’s voice rang out over the hiss of gas and the popping crackle of burning coals. “When do you touch yourself? When you imagine a woman’s sex overflowing with your ejaculate?”
“No.”
Deliberately she reversed Jack Lodoun’s earlier accusations.
“You don’t get hard when you imagine a woman’s belly swelling with your seed?”
“No.”
“You don’t get stiff and erect with desire when you imagine”—coldly, purposefully, Rose emphasized—“fucking a woman who is big with your child?”
“No.”
“Are you hard now, imagining a woman suckling your son, warm milk dribbling down her swollen breasts?”
“No.”
But the dark imagery she conjured lingered inside the purple-blue eyes.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Lodoun,” Rose tautly charged, “that the only way you feel you will ever have worth as a man, is if you impregnate a woman?”
“No.”
The harsh masculine denial was unequivocal.
Gaslight flared, light battling darkness.
“Touch yourself, Mr. Lodoun.”
Touch yourself echoed in the shrinking confines of the naked, unadorned drawing room.
“Show me,” Rose said, and wondered what would happen if he did not comply. Jack Lodoun had turned away from her outside the courthouse; she could not bear for him to turn away from her now, when she had alienated her family and her husband embraced his dreams rather than her. “Show me that a man can take pleasure in his flesh and not in his seed.”
"+//ISBN 0-9673008-1-9//DTD OEB 1.0.1 Document//EN" "http://openebook.org/dtds/oeb-1.0.1/oebdoc101.dtd">
Chapter 6
The faint chime of a Westminster bell rang out, announcing the half hour . . . or the three-quarter hour. The world outside the four walls of the drawing room had ceased to exist.
Slowly—the black of his pupils eating up the purple-blue of his irises—Jack Lodoun reached for the front placket of his trousers.
“Everything,” Rose said jerkily. “I want to see you naked.”
Like the man in the postcard who unashamedly loved himself.
Dark color edging his cheeks, he shrugged off his black wool jacket.
A silk, gray-striped waistcoat hugged a starched white shirt and rode a band of black wool trousers.
The shape underneath the tailored clothing was undeniably masculine.
Rose had never before watched a man undress; she catalogued Jack Lodoun’s each and every motion.
Long, tapered fingers freed the four pearl buttons fastening the gray-striped waistcoat. Wide shoulders bunched; at the same time, white-cotton-sleeved arms—there a shadow of flexing muscle—slid through silk. A dark
Turning—cotton gown swirling, swollen breasts bouncing—she thrust forward a French postcard. “Look at it, Mr. Lodoun.”
Long, thick lashes shielded his gaze; dark shadow carved out his cheeks.
Rose studied Jack Lodoun while he studied the postcard.
A lone clip-clop of hooves rang out in the darkest hour before midnight.
“What do you see?” she demanded harshly, tensely waiting for his condemnation, he a man who had accused her of wanting a divorce for no other reason than to commit the adultery of which he himself was guilty.
Slowly his lashes—reddish-gold tips glinting in the flickering lamplight—lifted. “I see a man stroking his cock.”
“Does not the sight disgust you?”
“Why should it?”
Why should it not?
Rose’s heartbeat quickened, too fast, too hard, too dangerous. “Do you touch yourself, Mr. Lodoun?”
“Yes.”
The admission was reluctant.
“But only when you do not have a woman in which to spend yourself,” she challenged.
Shadow tautly delineated sharp cheekbones. “Not always.”
“When?” Rose’s voice rang out over the hiss of gas and the popping crackle of burning coals. “When do you touch yourself? When you imagine a woman’s sex overflowing with your ejaculate?”
“No.”
Deliberately she reversed Jack Lodoun’s earlier accusations.
“You don’t get hard when you imagine a woman’s belly swelling with your seed?”
“No.”
“You don’t get stiff and erect with desire when you imagine”—coldly, purposefully, Rose emphasized—“fucking a woman who is big with your child?”
“No.”
“Are you hard now, imagining a woman suckling your son, warm milk dribbling down her swollen breasts?”
“No.”
But the dark imagery she conjured lingered inside the purple-blue eyes.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Lodoun,” Rose tautly charged, “that the only way you feel you will ever have worth as a man, is if you impregnate a woman?”
“No.”
The harsh masculine denial was unequivocal.
Gaslight flared, light battling darkness.
“Touch yourself, Mr. Lodoun.”
Touch yourself echoed in the shrinking confines of the naked, unadorned drawing room.
“Show me,” Rose said, and wondered what would happen if he did not comply. Jack Lodoun had turned away from her outside the courthouse; she could not bear for him to turn away from her now, when she had alienated her family and her husband embraced his dreams rather than her. “Show me that a man can take pleasure in his flesh and not in his seed.”
"+//ISBN 0-9673008-1-9//DTD OEB 1.0.1 Document//EN" "http://openebook.org/dtds/oeb-1.0.1/oebdoc101.dtd">
Chapter 6
The faint chime of a Westminster bell rang out, announcing the half hour . . . or the three-quarter hour. The world outside the four walls of the drawing room had ceased to exist.
Slowly—the black of his pupils eating up the purple-blue of his irises—Jack Lodoun reached for the front placket of his trousers.
“Everything,” Rose said jerkily. “I want to see you naked.”
Like the man in the postcard who unashamedly loved himself.
Dark color edging his cheeks, he shrugged off his black wool jacket.
A silk, gray-striped waistcoat hugged a starched white shirt and rode a band of black wool trousers.
The shape underneath the tailored clothing was undeniably masculine.
Rose had never before watched a man undress; she catalogued Jack Lodoun’s each and every motion.
Long, tapered fingers freed the four pearl buttons fastening the gray-striped waistcoat. Wide shoulders bunched; at the same time, white-cotton-sleeved arms—there a shadow of flexing muscle—slid through silk. A dark
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