Andrew Lord of Despair(22)

He moved in her with measured strokes, minutely changing the angle of his hips to effect an ever more gratifying penetration. She bowed up, trying to be closer, feeling pleasure bearing down on her again. Andrew braced himself on his forearms, but reached both hands to cover hers where they rested beside her head on the blanket.

“Come with me, Astrid. Come with me now.”

She recognized all his previous attention as so much generous teasing, because now he was moving in pursuit of mutual pleasure. He drove into her more deeply, kissed her more carnally, and laced his fingers through hers more tenderly, until she was helpless in the throes of gratification so intense she lost the sense of being in a body separate from her lover’s.

Andrew groaned softly into her mouth, a sweet sound of intimacy and relief, and Astrid felt a wet heat where their bodies joined.

They lay naked in the sunshine, serenaded by the stream and the breeze for long minutes. When Andrew shifted as if to spare her his weight, Astrid stopped him with a firm hand on his lower back.

“Where are you going?” For she never wanted to let him out of her sight, never wanted this moment of intimacy and pleasure to end.

“Not far.” He eased his body from hers, leaving Astrid on her back, feeling again the sunshine on her naked breasts, and a pervasive lassitude of both mind and body. Her eyes flew open, however, when she felt Andrew swabbing gently at her with a damp cloth.

“For goodness’ sake, Andrew,” she hissed, scrambling up to her elbows and reaching for the cloth. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He regarded her curiously for a few heartbeats, a linen serviette in his hand.

“If your husband were not dead,” he said quite seriously, “I would have to kill him for his neglect of you. Lie back and let me care for you.”

Confused at his irritable tone, Astrid did as he told her.

“He wasn’t a bad man, Andrew, just starchy about certain things.” Or thoughtless. Exceedingly, exasperatingly selfish too.

And hypocritical.

Andrew huffed—a disgruntled version of a sigh—and splashed more water onto the cloth. He surprised her by tossing it onto her stomach and lying back with an arm across his brow.

“My turn, sweetheart. You can’t lie about all day when your lover needs attention.” Astrid sat up and shot him a confused glance. He smiled back at her, looked pointedly at the damp cloth, and then at his own wet, softening member. “Don’t tell me you’re horrified at the very sight of the goods.”

“The goods,” she said. “Yes, well…” Horrified, she was not. “The goods,” she repeated, running one finger gently over his length. She was horrified to think of two years of marriage wasted on the wrong man. What had she been thinking?

She was fascinated and appallingly grateful Andrew could be this way with her: sensual, frank, relaxed, and arousing as perdition. She indulged her curiosity, slipping his foreskin over his glans, combing her fingers through the down at the base of his shaft, and shaping him in her fingers. To her consternation, her touch was effecting changes.

“Andrew?” she asked, holding his growing erection straight up from his body, as if to show it to him.

“Astrid?” he replied from behind closed eyes.

“Whatever are you about?” She gave his erection a wiggle to emphasize her point.

“I am enjoying your touch, sweetheart, and thinking of swiving you again, though I shouldn’t, God knows.” His tone held regret, almost bitterness, which Astrid registered through a haze of curiosity.

“You mean you can swive more than once?” she asked, sleeving his length with the circle of her thumb and forefinger. Had she uttered the word “swive” to her late husband, the poor man would likely have swooned with shock.

“We can,” he said, looking like some Roman faun on a midsummer’s afternoon, “when you arouse me so, but only if you’re willing.”

“Why on earth would I not be willing?”

“Because what we are doing, Astrid, is wrong,” he said with something approaching anger. “It isn’t wrong for you to want to be pleasured, appreciated, and cherished; it is wrong for me to be the one to afford you those things, though I have to admit, I’ve never enjoyed sinning more.”

How could he sermonize and incite her to argument like this? When they were naked? When she was touching him?

“I do not sin with you, Andrew. I understand you feel pity for me, or perhaps compassion, nothing more. I am grateful to you, and a woman grown. And”—she let go of him, when what she wanted was to wrap her fingers around him more tightly—“I believe—I have always believed—we are friends. Friends are kind to one another.”