Forever Yours

by

Charlotte Featherstone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Chapter One

Her body was weeping for his touch.

He knew it, understood it, the need growing inside her. She sensed his desire as well; heard it in the way his breath caught then rasped against her cheek in hurried, uneven caresses.

Hands, sliding beneath the cool bedcovers, searched until they found each other. Fingers laced, his long ones slipping between her delicate ones, gripping, clutching, holding…

Look up at me.

He didn’t. Instead he climbed atop her, straddling her thighs with his hard ones as he slid his palms beneath the hem of her nightrail, the pads of his thumbs brushing her thighs in feathery strokes, a silent command to open to him.

Yes, touch me…stroke every inch of me with those beautiful hands.

God, how she adored his hands—all hot, hard palms and long elegant fingers. Fingers with just the right amount of smooth skin and calloused edges. How those hands could bring such pleasure, such exquisite delight.

Slowly, teasingly, his expert fingers trailed up and over her inner thigh. Holding her breath, Elizabeth waited to feel him part her sex with one long, tapered finger, before sinking inside her wet and willing body. A body that had been ready—waiting—for him all night.

As the passion built and the ache in her womb intensified, her mind drifted, fantasizing of all the things she wanted him to do to her. Mentally, she saw his hand roaming every inch of her body then filling her with two fingers, then three…then his tongue.

She moaned, allowing her lashes to flutter closed. How long it had been since he’d made love to her with his mouth. She wanted to put her hands on his shoulders and guide him down her body. To hold his mouth against her and demand that he take his time licking and stroking, leaving no inch of her undiscovered.

Knowing what she needed, he stroked her with the tip of his finger, petting her until she could stand the wait no longer, until she had fisted the sheet between her fingers and allowed the image of his dark head between her legs to take over. She could come like this, with her fantasy and his light, teasing touches. Yet she did not want to have an orgasm by simply remembering what she had dreamt he did to her. She wanted the real thing. His mouth against her, the feel of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the hot stabs of his tongue and breath against her as she arched and shook.

She was weary of fantasizing. Tired of dreaming of sex acts she craved, yet were never performed.

Kiss me, she pleaded in her mind, terrified to give voice to her yearnings, to let him know how unsatisfied she had been these past months. It has been so long since we have kissed like lovers.

Thunder rumbled across the heavens and a flash of lightning lit the sky. Outside her bedroom window, Elizabeth saw the tops of the trees blowing in the wind, which was growing violent. Another roll of thunder…another bolt of lightning.

No, not yet…not yet…please…She moaned, tossing her head on the pillow as his hands cupped her bottom. He raised her hips to meet his hard arousal.

Not yet…

Even she did not understand the truth behind that silent plea. Was the entreaty skipping through her thoughts because she felt it too soon for him to take her, now, when her body was just beginning to heat, or was she praying that Mother Nature could hold off the storm for just a bit longer…just a few minutes longer…

Fuck! He needed to get inside her—now. Goddamn her, why did she insist on wearing a nightgown to bed? All these layers of ruffles and lace were impeding him from finding her quim and sinking his cock deep inside her. And his damned fingers, they were shaking like those of an untried youth, preventing him from doing anything but fumbling like a novice as he drowned in ruffles.

She writhed beneath him, her thighs moving languidly along his. Her soft belly brushed against his cock as she twisted and squirmed. He pressed it against her softness, needing to sink into something until he could once again find the blasted hem of her gown and shove it to her hips.

He should just tear the damn thing from her, ripping it to shreds and exposing her so that he could feel every inch of her against him. All that warm soft flesh…

Thunder cracked, rattling the windowpane. He felt her stiffen beneath him. Heard her stop breathing as she listened to the sounds of the night and the storm that raged outside. No, not yet. He cursed, ruthlessly shoving the hem of her nightrail to her belly.

It was dark in the room. He could see none of her, but he smelt her. Feminine arousal and floral soap. He couldn’t wait. He was on fire for her, for her wet body and the feel of her legs wrapped around him. How long had it been? A month? Yes. A whole damned month he’d been without his wife—even though she had not been away, had been right here at Sutcliffe Hall—their home. But she had been away from him. In fact, she’d been gone from him in one way or another for the past three years.

Sinking himself inside her with one swift thrust, he moaned, feeling her pulsing around him. He nearly came right there. It had been so damn long and she was tight, gripping him greedily with her sheath. Yet he managed to grit his teeth and distract himself long enough to thrust again, filling her fully.

She arched, bringing her knees back to her chest, sucking all his length inside her. He took her in slow, deep stabs that made her moan and sigh. Christ, when was the last time he had heard that sweet sound? So long…

Another clap of thunder was followed by the brilliant flash of lightning. His lips sought her ear and he traced the shell of it with the tip of his tongue. She was panting, scratching her nails down his back, arousing the primitive male in him. For the first time in a long while, he felt like a man with her. Not a duke or a husband. Not a father. Just a man.

Catching her hands in his, he brought her arms above her head so that her breasts escaped the bodice of her gown. Instinctively her hips arched, driving him deeper. He heard her breathing quicken as his chest brushed her breasts. He saw her face in the moonlight, awash in pleasure, and knew she wanted to be taken like this, with her arms held high and his cock pounding into her.

“You like it like this, Elizabeth?” he whispered in her ear. “Or should I flip you over and take you from behind? Do you want me to fu—”

“Mama! Mama!”

“No,” he groaned, pressing his face into her neck. Jesus, not now!

Her hands stilled against his, her body went rigid beneath his. He knew she’d heard the frightened little noise from down the hall. He knew everything they had just done, everything he wanted to do, was now over.

Capturing her mouth with his, he tried to kiss her as he thrust his cock deep inside her, demanding she shut out the sounds and feel—hear—only him. But she pushed him away. Instantly he lost his erection and pulled out of her.

“Mama! Mama! We’re scared. Papa!”

Groaning, Christian rolled off his wife and allowed her to straighten her gown before their children exploded into the room carrying their blankets and bears and Lord knew what else.

“It will only take a minute to settle them,” she tried to assure him, “and I’ll send them back to Nanny.”

“If Nanny had any brains, she would have kept them in their room to begin with,” he snarled.

“Christian!”

He saw Elizabeth’s horrified expression in the moonlight, but he didn’t care. He was tired of this. This marriage. This wife. He wanted more. Something more than what his life had become.

“You know the children are frightened of thunderstorms.”

“And everything else that goes bump in the night,” he said with disdain. “And we mustn’t overlook Richard’s nightmares and John’s bed wetting. And let us not forget how arduous a task it was to get Jamie weaned from your breast.”

Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “They’re only children.”

“Richard is eight. He shouldn’t need to come to his mama’s bed because of a little thunder.”

She shot him a disapproving glare. “They are just children, Christian. You are a grown man.”

“Well, I have needs, too. What about mine? What about yours, or do you not need me inside you anymore? Are you just a shell of a woman now that you’ve born children? Is that it, Elizabeth, you can’t fuck anymore because you’re a mother?”

He looked away from her and wiped his hands along his face as he fought for some measure of control. This was his wife, he reminded himself, who he had once loved more than anything—whom he still loved. These were his children, his own flesh and blood—yet he swore he almost felt hatred for them as they flung the door open and ran into the room crying and sniffling.

“Darlings,” Elizabeth cooed, opening her arms and allowing their dark-haired “darlings” to crawl into their bed. Their youngest, Jamie, who was not yet two, struggled to climb up the tall bed. Christian hefted him up and watched as Jamie scrambled out of his hold in order to cuddle up to his mother. His four children were now nestled against Elizabeth’s generous breasts, their faces pressed into the starched linen of her gown, which concealed the sweet scent of her flesh.

His children were exactly where he longed to be. A place he hadn’t really been since the birth of Rachel, their third child. Christ, had it really been three years since Rachel had been born? Three years since their marriage and sex life had begun to dwindle, then all but grind to a halt? Three years of living with someone he no longer knew or felt close to.

“Papa, your knee is against my back and it’s hurting.”

That was John, their second child. He was only six, but tonight, for Christian, he was much too old to be running to his mama because of a little thunder and lightning.

As John grunted and shoved him away, Christian swore beneath his breath. Snatching the sheet covering his waist he tore it from the bed. Elizabeth glared at him.

“I’m sick to death of this,” he blurted. He saw the blue gaze of his oldest son peeking out at him from the protection of his mother’s arm. Unable to help it, he glared angrily at him—a frightened eight-year-old boy—then turned his back, hating himself for what he had just done to his son.

“Christian,” Elizabeth sighed, the sound so full of confusion and disapproval. “What is it you want?”

A fucking wife! But he could hardly say that in front of his children. So instead he said nothing, only sighed, knowing she would understand exactly what was wrong. Their marriage was over. It had been for some time now. It was well past time they admitted it to themselves — there was nothing left. Nothing except resentment, distance and emptiness.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he stalked to the connecting door to his chamber.

“I’m leaving.”

Silence followed him. There was no plea for him to stay, no tears and whispered words of love. Nothing that showed him she cared a thing for him.

Did she give a damn? Did she care that there was nothing left of their marriage, or was it merely a relief for her to know she no longer had to put up with him?

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