Roses and Flames

Chapter 35

“And while we are on the subject of your deficiencies,” Patrick said with a smile, “there was one I should have corrected when we spoke in the garden. You are quite wrong about our first kiss.”

“I was not.” If she was sure of nothing else, then it was the moment that changed her life.

 “Our first kiss was about a week before the time that you remember. You were standing in the library, by the big windows, trying to reach a book on the top shelf without using the ladder. I came upon you suddenly with the sunlight outlining your body, and for a moment I did not know you at all. I saw nothing but a beautiful young woman, an Angel in the nimbus of light.”

“I do not remember any of this,” she said shaking her head.

He gave a small snort. “Of course you not. You care for nothing but getting your book.” Then he sighed, lost and a pleasant memory. “But my eyes were open to the promise of manhood. Then you turned your head and you were my little Ambrose again, demanding that I help you.”

“And did you?” She asked, honestly curious.

He gave a small bow. “Every your servant, Lady Ambrosia. I got you the book. He rewarded me with a kiss on the lips. Then you ran off as if nothing had happened. You might have as well ripped the heart of my chest and taken it as well. I have not been the master of it, from that moment.”

“But the time in the garden?” Where she was sure she could remember it very clearly.

“Was the first time I kissed you,” he answered. “I planned for a full week, trying to find a way to ask if you might ever feel for me what I had come to feel for you. But my words failed me, each time. So I let my actions speak. And I had my answer.”

The kiss had made her feel just as she was feeling now. It was as if she was seeing Patrick truly for the first time. He loved her. She loved him. And it had been so for ages. Why had she not seen it before? She had. It was he who had been denying it.

“You said you did not remember.”

“I lied.”

“How very convenient,” she said, still not sure.

“I have told you many lies, since I returned.” But he did not seem the least bit ashamed by his admissions. “Here, I will prove it to you. Would you like me to recite for you? I know the contents of your letters as well as any poem.”

He had heard her, as she pulled out her heart to him for six lonely years. He had not answered, but at least he had listened. “You read them?”

“Every word.” He smiled. “They gave such comfort. He will have no idea. When one went astray or arrived out of order, I sat in a fog of despair, until the next game to cheer me again. You begged me over and over to answer. You grew angry with my silence and at least once a year, you told me I was horrible and swore that I would hear no more from you.”

His smile disappeared. “I dreaded those letters. Suppose, this time, you were sincere? Suppose my negligence had finally cost me my Ambrose?” He relaxed. “But in a week, or perhaps two, you wrote again.” And then set another bad memory. “In November of 16 you were silent the whole month. But December brought another letter and a muffler so hideous that I was to assume that you were the one who made it.”

 Unable to stop herself she gave a small joyful laugh, for he was finally saying what she had longed to hear. “You have come back to me, after all?”

“I never left,” he whispered. “I tried, but I could not.” she had meant only to talk. To consider rationally, take her time and make the best decisions possible. Then she would have to break with one man or another. But she would do it so gently that they all might be friends. Instead, she seized Patrick Hastings by the shirtfront and kissed him.

It took no further encouragement for him to kiss her back. These other cases she had been waiting a lifetime for. More passionate than the speed and more tender than the eager wrapping up the last few days. Quick picks on her face and throat and slow forays into her mouth. His tongue thrust. It circled. It remained perfectly still, resting against her lips. And through it all his mild. His breath came in deep, satisfied sighs and silent laughs of relief.

His arms were about her, neither too tight not too loose. But she clung to his, afraid that he would escape. Patrick was home. Not the strange imposter that had walked in the door. This was her Patrick. And she would never let him get away. He was pulling her back towards the door or to the bedroom. And he was like waltzing, if that dance could be done with bodies so indecently clothes. She rubbed herself against him, pressing her breasts to his chest. He kids are shoulder and cupped her bottom so that their hips bumped together.

For a moment, they put paused in shock. Their brief contact was too good not to repeat. He brought their heads together again and they pressed into another. Their knees buckled at the thought of them, joined. He supported her, still holding her date as he backed into the bedroom and shut the door. Then he shrugged out of his coat, stepping on it and over as it fell to the floor. She kicked out her slippers, leaving them behind as well. And suddenly they were a frenzy of hands undoing buttons, untucking shirts and dropping garments as they came free of them. By the time they reached the bed she was in shift and stockings and he was shirtless and peaking free of his boots.

He had a manly chest. She had known he must look somewhat like the paintings that she had seen off the naked men. But pictures did not feel or taste the way he would and laugh as she ran her fingers over his ribs and he caught at her hands to kiss them.

Then he rolled, pulling her with him, pushing her down on his back as his hands went to his buttons. He kissed her mouth again pulling down his breeches and lying naked on top of her, heavy and hard between her legs.

The curtains were drawn and the room was gloomy, but hardly dark. If she wished, she could see him and watch as he loved her. Why was she closing her eyes when there was so much to learn? She opened them wide, so that she would not miss a thing.

He seemed to sense this, pulling away and laughing again, flicking her nose with his finger before kneeling above her as he untied her Garter rolled her stockings down her legs.

“You are not like the illustrations in the medical books,” she said, amazed.

“I am like them in always that matter,” he said, in a voice that was deliberately lecherous.

“You are not like the books, either. You are the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.” He pulled her shift over her head. “But that is exactly how I imagined you would be. Do not be afraid, he whispered.”

 She laughed at him. From when had she ever been afraid of Patrick? He growled and lay on top of her again, sliding down, holding a breast in each hand and taking the n*****s into his mouth. He meant to be punishing her for laughing, he was doing it exactly wrong. This was only making her more excited, even when he bit her. She would not mind if they stayed like this forever.

He stopped. He kissed her novel. And then he hooked his arms around her legs, spread them and kissed. This was different it tickled. But it was a new sort of ticklishness that seemed to travel over her whole body. She giggled. Then she laughed. She forced her fist into her mouth, trying to keep back the screaming, gasping, silent gales of laughter. She hooked one leg over his shoulder, trying to hold him still, and pounded her fists into the mattress and panted, trying to get a control of herself. His kisses were unrelenting. If he did not stop, she was not sure what would happen.

And then, it did. Suddenly, everything changed. She could breathe again, but she did not want to. Just wanted to lie perfectly still and feel like this forever. He did not seem to be the least bit surprised at what had happened. He pulled away from her and grabbed a pillow on from the bed, lifting her hips and sliding it under her. Then he bent her knees so that her feet were closed her body.

“This will make it easier,” he said.

She could not manage to say anything at all. His fingers where his mouth had been, spreading no witness and slipping inside stretching her. She did not want his fingers, she wanted more. She held out her arms and reached down until her fingers brushed his manhood. She steeled her nerve and explored, running a finger down the length and cup in his testicles.

His fingers froze and then pushed deeper as he leaned forward, muttering. “Damn! I meant to teach you to love me. Did you learn that from anatomy book? Never mind. I do not care. Woman, do not stop.”

She ran her hands over him again. I want this. A moment more. He sighed, letting her carrots him. Then he withdrew his fingers and took her hands, placing them between her legs and encouraging her to touch herself. It felt good. The next moment, he was hovering over her and there was a slow push.

She tightened her body, and could feel him inside her. They were finally together. Her body twitched under her fingers and tightened again, as he moved. His body began to shake, there were a few hurried thrusts and he shuddered a second time, swearing, trembling and collapsing in her arms as she felt the rush of his seed inside her. He lived for a long time still, holding her, as weak and spent as she was.

Then he rolled without leaving her body, pulling her with him so she was half sprawled on top of him. He fumbled the blanket up to cover them. Then he kissed her shoulder. “Then next time will be different.”

 She pushed against him. “I should hope not. I like this.”

He was laughing now, so hard that his body was trembling again. “Show some social decorum, Lady Ambrosia. you are far too eager for a girl who was a virgin only a few moments ago.”

“Well, I was,” she said, with a frown. “And it was most rude to imply otherwise.”

“Darling, I know,” he said, laughing.

“How…?”

“I am a doctor. I would not be much of a one if I could not tell that.”

“I’m sorry if I did not respond according to your assumptions,” she said a little tartly.

“You exceeded expectations,” he assured her.