"Alexander," she gasped, and then they were hip to hip, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. She murmured his name once more against his heated mouth.
He took that as a sign of encouragement, and cupped her breast with erotic intent, kneading gently, stroking and titillating, until she daringly parted her robe and clasped his head, letting him suckle and nibble at her tender flesh.
Her body rose up to meet him, her nipples on a quest of their own, fitting into his mouth as though they were made just for his delectation as he alternated between them.
She clung to him urgently, weak in the knees, her whole world spinning as his tongue twirled and teeth teased. She could feel a building tension between her thighs, a peculiar moistness she had never experienced before, and a torrid heat and tautness in her abdomen.
He moved away slightly and she whimpered, fearful he would leave her. But he was only moving toward the other breast again to give it the same sensual attention. Her nails dug into his bare shoulders as she desperately tried to right her reeling world. His hand moved down to splay against her bare stomach, one finger parting her robe still further to explore her navel in a most suggestive manner.
"Alexander!" she whispered again.
Her hips thrust against his rock-solid thigh convulsively. She was almost begging for some kind of release from the tension that had built within her so rapidly and was now coiled like a spring.
Sensing her urgency, and his own need as well as ambivalence, he gave one last long lingering lick to each nipple, and lifted his head. He kissed her collarbone, the side of her throat, her chin, lips and eyelids, schooling himself to be tender, so that she would not feel any shame. Nor ever suspect what the matter really was. The mind was a powerful thing, but not where the flesh was weak. And they would both hate him if he were ever so selfish as to try to go beyond what he had already allowed himself to in his longing for closeness, feminine warmth. She was Sarah, his friend, not some trollop. But he would ruin her irrevocably if he dared touched her again, despite his body's failings.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I can't- I went too far. I had no right. I'll go downstairs and keep them busy. You come down when you're more composed. I'm sorry. Please don't blame yourself. I was playing with fire, but you were the one who got scorched. Go, now."
He led her toward the door quickly. She was as unresisting as a rag doll, and made no demur when he practically pushed her out the door, then shut and locked it.
She stood on the landing in an agony of shock and indecision, stunned at all that had happened. And how quickly. And how he had got rid of her even more rapidly. She gasped and finally fled to her room, horrified at what she had allowed to happen, and at the fact that she had let him.
That he had been the one to do the decent, sensible thing and stop before things had gone too far. And just how far they might have was not something she really wanted to stop to consider.
She sat quaking at the foot of the bed. If he had begged her, said he couldn't live without her, would she have let him? she thought, shivering like a wet pup. Isn't that what all seducers said?
Except he hadn't said a word. He'd asked for one kiss. Had accidentally brushed her breast. It was she who had melted like butter in the bed. And had gone off like a Congreve rocket with one touch of her nipple, the pulling caress of his mouth sparking off the powder keg she had never even suspected lay within.
Lord in Heaven, how could she ever face him again? But of course she had to. He had nowhere else to go, and they were supposed to be friends, after all. He had been her friend, caring enough to not allow her to fall any further into folly. At least she would not have to face the embarrassment of him having seen her naked flesh, or put up with any pitying or reproachful looks from the man who had just witnessed her begging for his lovemaking like a Haymarket whore.
She shoved her heavy fall of raven hair out of her eyes and grabbed some fresh clothes from of the wardrobe. Instinct made her snatch up her riding habit. Like many of the women in her rural area, she dressed most sensibly, the habit being little more than a voluminous split skirt over a pair of breeches, the better for her to sit astride.
She found sidesaddles far too precarious, and not something every household took the trouble to invest in. A simple white cotton blouse not much more fancy than a man's shirt, a dark jacket with a full skirt, and a small hat perched atop her dark hair completed her ensemble. She pulled out her riding boots, and dusted them off.
All her restless energy could be expended upon a good gallop in the country, she was sure. Anything had to be better than being confined in a small chamber, a small house, with the man she had almost allowed to bed her.