of his penis.
It was not seed that he cried, Rose realized—heartbeat accelerating, womb contracting—but desire.
His legs—long, muscular legs that were covered in fine, red-gold hair—shifted . . . parted. Gaslight poured between his thighs and cupped his testicles.
More confidently, the long, tapered fingers smeared glistening essence down and around the thickly swollen crown . . . ducked under a rim of foreskin . . . traced blue veins . . . circled pale flesh that graduated into dark red.
Rose felt the smooth skin. Rose felt the slick friction.
Rose felt the deepening desire.
Making a fist of his left hand, he gently pumped.
Up . . . down. Up . . . gathering more moisture . . . down.
Rose clenched her thighs, vagina weeping at the pleasure Jack Lodoun took in his touch.
With his fingertips he teased the small opening that cried crystalline tears, while with his left fist he steadily pumped. Up to the crown . . . down to the dangling testicles aureoled by gaslight.
Fingers caressing.
Fingers stroking.
Fingers pumping.
She wanted to speak of how utterly beautiful he was—touching himself—but she had no words to describe what she was witnessing.
Rose had seen naked men in the form of statues and paintings and photographs; neither marble, paint nor chemically treated paper compared to skin caressed by light and shadow. To flesh that cried for sexual expression. To human need that burned deep inside the body where moral and marital obligation did not penetrate.
The swollen glans jerked underneath a probing fingertip. Rose’s clitoris jerked in sympathy.
Soughing breathing interspersed the hiss of gas and the crackle of embers and the slick rub of skin.
Something was happening . . . something that quickened her breathing and heated her skin.
His fisted fingers tightened. Rose tightened her two fists until her nails bit into the palms of her hands.
Abruptly the fingers that rhythmically rimmed the tiny opening to his urethra leapt downward and cupped the testicles that had drawn tight and close to his body.
A small, stifled groan snapped her gaze upward.
Jack Lodoun’s head was thrown back, eyes squeezed closed in—her heart contracted in empathy, even as her vagina convulsively clenched—agony.
Rose saw on his face the joy he had experienced, loving another man’s wife. She saw the loneliness he now escaped, living on the memories of the pleasure they had shared.
His penis pistoning deep into her vagina. Her vagina—crying with need as his penis now cried—welcoming . . . embracing . . . treasuring the flesh that filled it.
One man. One woman. Two bodies. Two heartbeats.
Each straining to achieve that moment when they would cease to be two, and in their shared pleasure, would become one.
It was an intimacy Rose had dreamed about but had never before experienced until now, watching a stranger love another woman with his hand.
Without warning, the clenched eyelids snapped open. Purple-blue eyes pinned Rose.
First came the orgasm. Then came realization.
Rose was not the woman he loved. And the woman he loved was dead.
Silently she rose and left Jack Lodoun to his grief.
Chapter 7
“Hats off, strangers!”
The police inspector’s traditional bawl ricocheted off white marble, stained glass and encaustic tile.
Jack did not watch the Speaker’s Procession that began the day’s sitting in the House of Commons. Instead he watched the men and women who for the first time witnessed the ceremony that daily occurred inside the Houses of Parliament.
He saw their awe, gazing wide-eyed at the Serjeant at Arms who bore the five-foot-long gilded mace that symbolized royal authority. But the wonder the spectators radiated was eclipsed by the raw emotion that coursed through Jack.
Rose Clarring had watched him orgasm. She had cried the tears Jack had not cried for Cynthia Whitcox.
Not when he had read about her death on the front page. Not when he had read about her funeral in the
It was not seed that he cried, Rose realized—heartbeat accelerating, womb contracting—but desire.
His legs—long, muscular legs that were covered in fine, red-gold hair—shifted . . . parted. Gaslight poured between his thighs and cupped his testicles.
More confidently, the long, tapered fingers smeared glistening essence down and around the thickly swollen crown . . . ducked under a rim of foreskin . . . traced blue veins . . . circled pale flesh that graduated into dark red.
Rose felt the smooth skin. Rose felt the slick friction.
Rose felt the deepening desire.
Making a fist of his left hand, he gently pumped.
Up . . . down. Up . . . gathering more moisture . . . down.
Rose clenched her thighs, vagina weeping at the pleasure Jack Lodoun took in his touch.
With his fingertips he teased the small opening that cried crystalline tears, while with his left fist he steadily pumped. Up to the crown . . . down to the dangling testicles aureoled by gaslight.
Fingers caressing.
Fingers stroking.
Fingers pumping.
She wanted to speak of how utterly beautiful he was—touching himself—but she had no words to describe what she was witnessing.
Rose had seen naked men in the form of statues and paintings and photographs; neither marble, paint nor chemically treated paper compared to skin caressed by light and shadow. To flesh that cried for sexual expression. To human need that burned deep inside the body where moral and marital obligation did not penetrate.
The swollen glans jerked underneath a probing fingertip. Rose’s clitoris jerked in sympathy.
Soughing breathing interspersed the hiss of gas and the crackle of embers and the slick rub of skin.
Something was happening . . . something that quickened her breathing and heated her skin.
His fisted fingers tightened. Rose tightened her two fists until her nails bit into the palms of her hands.
Abruptly the fingers that rhythmically rimmed the tiny opening to his urethra leapt downward and cupped the testicles that had drawn tight and close to his body.
A small, stifled groan snapped her gaze upward.
Jack Lodoun’s head was thrown back, eyes squeezed closed in—her heart contracted in empathy, even as her vagina convulsively clenched—agony.
Rose saw on his face the joy he had experienced, loving another man’s wife. She saw the loneliness he now escaped, living on the memories of the pleasure they had shared.
His penis pistoning deep into her vagina. Her vagina—crying with need as his penis now cried—welcoming . . . embracing . . . treasuring the flesh that filled it.
One man. One woman. Two bodies. Two heartbeats.
Each straining to achieve that moment when they would cease to be two, and in their shared pleasure, would become one.
It was an intimacy Rose had dreamed about but had never before experienced until now, watching a stranger love another woman with his hand.
Without warning, the clenched eyelids snapped open. Purple-blue eyes pinned Rose.
First came the orgasm. Then came realization.
Rose was not the woman he loved. And the woman he loved was dead.
Silently she rose and left Jack Lodoun to his grief.
Chapter 7
“Hats off, strangers!”
The police inspector’s traditional bawl ricocheted off white marble, stained glass and encaustic tile.
Jack did not watch the Speaker’s Procession that began the day’s sitting in the House of Commons. Instead he watched the men and women who for the first time witnessed the ceremony that daily occurred inside the Houses of Parliament.
He saw their awe, gazing wide-eyed at the Serjeant at Arms who bore the five-foot-long gilded mace that symbolized royal authority. But the wonder the spectators radiated was eclipsed by the raw emotion that coursed through Jack.
Rose Clarring had watched him orgasm. She had cried the tears Jack had not cried for Cynthia Whitcox.
Not when he had read about her death on the front page. Not when he had read about her funeral in the
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