Blackmail For Christmas (Blushing Books 12 Days of Christmas 12) Page 2

  "Hush," he murmured, and his lips found hers again, drinking in the tender sighs and tremors. His arm was hard and sure about her waist, and Kate melted into him, one arm draped around his neck. Soon, though, he lifted Kate off his lap and laid her out on the bed, leaning over her. Kate's fingers came up to unbutton his shirt, while Charles impatiently shucked his trousers. Soon he was quite naked, and not long after that, Kate's slip was on the floor beside Charles's clothes. The slide of warm, bare skin against skin was delicious, and Kate gave a little, joyful gasp. For in his arms, like this, how could she doubt anything, least of all her husband?

  "Is this what my sweet girl needs?" Charles said huskily, his hands ghosting from her collarbone down to her ribs before cupping the softness of her breasts, his thumbs rubbing at the hardening nubs of her nipples.

  "Yes... oh, yes," Kate pleaded, arching up into his hands. It was. In that moment, Charles was everything, and there was no room for worry or fear, only the precious communion of body and spirit that existed between them.

  "Good girl," he praised her, and one hand came down over her flat stomach to delve between her legs. Kate spread her thighs more widely, offering herself to him joyously, and she gave a soft, cooing moan as his clever fingers pressed and stroked at the little bundle of nerves there, spreading warmth and need throughout her whole body. He rubbed firmly, making Kate squirm and sigh under his hand until wetness coated his fingertips, and then he took his fingers away.

  Kate did not protest, for almost immediately his hand was replaced by his cock, sliding over her quim and then piercing her in one swift, sure movement. She gave a little cry, but it was wholly one of pleasure. Charles knew her body, knew every sensitive bit of flesh that would make his wife shiver and groan. Bracing himself with one hand, Charles slipped the other under Kate's back, supporting her as he urged her to offer her breasts to him. Kate's head tossed as she arched her back, and soon his hot, delicious mouth was on her nipple, suckling and grazing the tender flesh with his teeth.

  She gave a sharp squeal as he nipped her, and her hands were fisted in the bedclothes as she writhed beneath him, pinned by his cock inside her, his lean weight above her. "Charles... husband... please..." She was quickly incoherent, for though Kate was a quick thinker, and even occasionally a wit, at such a time her brain was not working at all. She was his, quite entirely, and all her flesh and nerves only thrummed the song of desire that he created with each deep thrust and teasing torment of her nipples.

  Charles blew on her nipple, then turned to claim the other with even greater fervor, laving her sensitive flesh with his tongue and punctuating the pleasure with painful treatment from his teeth. Kate squirmed and gasped, and one hand came up to twist in his hair, holding him to her. "Please... please..." she whimpered. His thrusts were coming faster and harder now as he filled her entirely, his hips pushing hard in the restless rhythm that drove them both.

  He let her fall back against the bed and used one hand to grip Kate's shoulder tightly, bracing her for the forceful thrusts. Shifting angles, he made sure his prick was catching the apex of her sweet desire with every thrust. "Let go," he growled, permission and command both. "Now, Kate..."

  Kate gave a loud gasp of acknowledgment and bit her lip hard as she let the hot pressure inside her build to breaking point. Then, quite suddenly, all her control broke, and she shrieked, her toes curling and digging into the bedclothes as she surged up against his body, as wild and demanding as an unbroken mare. "Charles...." she wailed, the pleasure so sharp it was indistinguishable from pain. Her head tossed on the pillow and she bucked helplessly, pinned by his weight and the force of his prick driving into her again and again.

  As Kate shuddered and trembled beneath him, Charles sweated and groaned, fucking her with all the force he could muster, taking his pleasure in his sweet, wanton wife very thoroughly. Soon, he, too, was groaning, and his face, intent on the pursuit of pleasure, went slack and soft as he drove hard inside her and spilled, filling her with his seed. Kate moaned at the rush of heat, tired and sated now, and she opened her eyes to look up at Charles, lifting a hand to caress his cheek, the back of his neck, and the breadth of his shoulders.

  Soon she was snuggled up against his shoulder, kissing his jaw tenderly while Charles stroked her hair lightly. It couldn't be true, she thought very suddenly. No man who loved men could make love to her with such passion, such a knowing touch. But even thinking that spoiled her sleepy pleasure a little and made her cling to him more tightly, as if anxious that the world—or the secrets that lay between them—would wrest them apart.

  Sensing the new tension in her body, Charles turned his head to look at her. "Kate... what is it?"

  Kate shook her head. She could not tell him. He would be angry, and he might be ashamed, and Kate wasn't sure which was worse. Had she been a fool to give Watkins the money? Perhaps, and yet she would have done it again in a heartbeat to protect her husband from harm. "Only I love you so much," she whispered, rather despairingly. Again tears caught at her voice, making it ragged and tremulous. "So much, Charles, please..."

  But though Charles held her close and kissed her again and again, it could not drive away the darkness within Kate's anxious heart, and it was a very long time before she fell asleep.

  *****

  The next day was even worse, for the odd sense of unreality surrounding the episode faded, leaving Kate in full realization of what had happened. Three hundred dollars she had given the man! And now she hadn't a dollar left, and wouldn't have till after the first of the year when Charles gave her the next quarter's housekeeping money and allowance. The Christmas party was next week, and while some provisions could be put on the account, the wine couldn't. And they had invited a whole crowd—so many business and society people it was absolutely essential that Charles impress, and their friends, and even his father. At the thought of George Reid, Kate briefly toyed with the idea of approaching her father-in-law for money, but even as she considered it she shuddered and shook her head. Charles would never forgive her if she did that. And George, though liberal enough with money, was also shrewd enough that he'd insist on knowing why she needed the money. She'd have to either pretend Charles wasn't earning enough to keep them, or worse, tell him the truth. No, that was entirely impossible.

  She would have to ask her own father. He could raise the sum, if he didn't have it ready. Kate grimaced as she realized that after a fashion, asking her father was not so very different to asking George—it was George who had stepped in and saved her father's business in return for Kate's agreeing to marry Charles. But it was not quite the same thing, and Charles would not hate her for it in the same way. It would be less a betrayal. Yes—there was no other alternative, really.

  Kate went to visit her father in the morning, when she judged her mother would likely be out of the house, shopping or visiting with her friends. Mrs. Harris was always in delicate health, and Kate had no desire to worry her. She was in luck; when she asked Frome, the manservant who had been with them since Kate was a baby, he said Mrs. Harris was out for the morning. She found her father in his study, turning over papers with an absorbed air, and she snuck up behind him, laying a gentle kiss on top of his head where the hair had gone thin. "Hello, Dad."

  Jack Harris jumped slightly, then smiled as he turned around in his chair. "There's my girl—but what are you doing here? Your mother is out."

  "I know. I wanted to see you." Kate sat down and waited while her father called for coffee, and when Frome had withdrawn, she took a long draught of the hot drink and tried to think how to begin. Her imagination had carried her thus far, but no further. Finally, she took a deep breath. "Dad, I need money."

  Jack pursed his lips slightly, then said, "Is there trouble? Is Charles..."

  Kate tried to frame her words in a way that was both truthful and discreet. "It's not Charles's fault, Dad, it's all mine. He looks after me so well... but I was careless, and I need money. I can't tell him, and the Christmas party is
next week, and..." Her voice trailed off, thick with tears, all the panicked frustration in her heart rising up to betray her. "If you could only give me a few hundred, Dad, it would mean everything."

  "A few hundred!" Jack's normally mild voice turned sharp. "Kate, how careless were you? Has Charles been gambling again? I can't subsidize his vices..."

  "No!" Kate's hands were cold, and her face was hot—she pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to calm herself. "No, Dad, he hasn't even looked at a gaming table. It really is me—my fault. I made a mistake... oh, please..." She began to cry properly. It wasn't fair; after all she had done to save her father from his own recklessness, that he should question her and make this so hard.

  At her tears, any sternness in Jack's manner disappeared, and he looked helpless and unhappy. That only made it so much the worse. Kate could wish she could explain everything to her father, lay all her troubles before him and have him make things right. But that had never been their relationship, even when she was little. Clever, sensitive Kate had always been stronger than her weak-willed father or her ailing mother, and if her own strength failed, there was no one to lift her. Not until she'd married Charles.

  "I can't get so much right away," he said slowly. "But don't cry, Kate, you mustn't cry... I will give you a hundred today, that will help, won't it? The business still isn't on firm ground, you know, and your mother—well, let's just say you're not the only one who's been careless lately." He made a little grimace.

  Kate dug in her purse for a handkerchief and wiped her eyes roughly and discreetly blew her nose. "It will help," she said in a low, dull voice. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I'd never ask if I didn't have to—you know that."

  Jack nodded, then opened a desk drawer and began counting out bills. He pressed them into Kate's hands and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I do know that," he said slowly. "That's why you've got me worried, Kate. Can't you tell me about it?"

  She wanted so badly to do just that, but the look of distressed puzzlement in her father's eyes was already too much. Kate stood up. "It's nothing to worry about," she said, with the little composure she could muster. "But I can't bear for Charles to know about it. He would be so disappointed."

  "It might be better..." Jack began hesitantly. "It might be better if you could tell him, you know, Kate. If you've made a mistake, Charles will surely forgive you. He hasn't been unkind, has he?"

  "No, no, never!" Kate protested at once. She could bear her father thinking her guilty of any kind of vicious folly, but she couldn't bear for his good opinion of Charles to be hurt. "But I can't tell him this. I can't... I can't tell anyone. I just have to get through it," she concluded, squaring her shoulders.

  "Then I suppose you will," Jack sighed, and thumped her between the shoulders in a kind of helpless fatherly gesture. "I will try to have more for you next month—that will help, won't it?"

  Kate nodded. "It will. I—thank you, Dad. You can't know how sorry I am to have to ask."

  "I think I have an idea," Jack said with gentle irony, and Kate knew he was thinking of his own great failure, and what he had had to ask from his daughter to save him from the consequences. "You won't stay? We could have lunch together."

  But Kate shook her head. "No, I can't. I've got errands to run. But we will see you and Mother for dinner on Saturday as usual." She hesitated. "You won't—you won't mention it to Charles?"

  "Not a word," Jack promised, and Kate gave him a relieved kiss. At least with this she could order things for the party and catch up most of the butcher's bill. It had been sheer bad luck Watkins had arrived the day before she'd meant to go around and settle the accounts. She had hoped to get enough to be able to give Mrs. O'Hara and the doorman proper Christmas presents, but now that would be impossible. Her spirit shrank at the thought of how mean she would look—and Charles too, for they couldn't know that it wasn't in the least his fault. It wasn't, Kate told herself again firmly. She couldn't, wouldn't believe that Watkins's vulgar assertions had any truth to them.

  "Thanks, Dad," Kate said, her voice falsely bright. It would do—it would have to.

  *****

  The champagne was no good; in a false effort at economy, Kate had bought something cheaper than they usually ordered when Charles’s illicit bootlegger came around. It was a disaster—Kate wasn't even sure the stuff was really proper champagne. And there still wasn't enough. It was only an hour and a half in, and the last bottle had just been brought out. Everyone had come; the party would have been a grand success if something as subtly sour as the cheap champagne weren't circulating uncomfortably in the room. It was as though the party were haunted. Though Kate spent the whole evening at the piano playing jazzy dance music, hardly anyone danced.

  No wonder, Kate thought. She was growing more and more anxious as the evening progressed and more than one couple had already left very early, pleading another engagement. Her tension communicated itself to her usually nimble fingers, and there were far more errors and stops to her playing than were excusable. In truth, Kate felt faint almost. She wished for nothing more than to hide in a dark room forever.

  Worse—as though a situation so bad could really degrade much more—both her parents and George Reid were present. Every time Kate looked up from her music, she could see her father's face looking quietly troubled, and George's self-satisfied. Of course, the old bastard. He probably thought Charles wasn't making enough to afford proper entertaining. Her throat was thick and tight from unshed tears, and she played almost manically, unwilling to stop for a moment, even when her good friend Alice Mackenzie came and put an arm around her shoulders and told her she really ought to have a rest.

  "I don't want a rest," Kate said curtly, speeding up the tempo just a little and throwing in some jazzy syncopation just to show she wasn't affected. If she stopped, even for a moment, then what? Then Charles would probably catch her elbow, drag her to the bedroom and ask her what the hell she'd done. She shivered a little at the thought, playing a false note. Lifting her eyes guiltily, she caught sight of Charles speaking in a low voice to Edward. Edward gave a little nod and then left the room. Kate swallowed hard and tried to breathe, her hands moving so mechanically and absently that they didn't seem a part of her anymore.

  But forty-five minutes later Edward returned, and suddenly—somehow—there were fresh bottles of champagne brought out. Startled, Kate looked up and caught his eye. Edward lifted his glass and winked, then came over to the piano to sit beside her. "Fancy a duet?" Without waiting for her to answer, he began playing the harmony to Santa Claus Blues. When Kate mechanically began her part, he said under the cover of the music, "Are you all right, Kate?"

  "I'm—I'm fine. What happened? Where did..." She couldn't bear to ask where the champagne had come from.

  "It's all right," Edward said reassuringly. "Charles asked me to run out and get some more to drink. I took a taxi down to the speakeasy on 42 and stormed in demanding their finest. It was quite fun."

  "Oh." Kate felt strangely sick. Relieved, for playing beside Edward in a quiet, familiar way steadied her, and the guests sensed the change in mood: conversation was growing louder and gayer, and there was dancing now. But she still felt horribly guilty, and knowing that Charles had perceived the fault (but how could he not?) and Edward fixed it only deepened her sense of shame. "I'm sorry," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

  But Edward, who was nearly as good a musician as Kate, did not answer; perhaps he did not hear. When the song was done, he elbowed Kate away from the keyboard, ordering her laughingly to go and dance with her husband. She could not protest, for his elegant hands were already flying over the keyboard as he played a jazzy Gershwin number. So Kate stood stupidly by the piano for a moment, then began making a token effort to circulate—for of all the things she did not want to do at that moment, talking to her husband was at the top of the list.

  Charles was not of a humor to be ignored, though, and he pulled her away from a group of people, saying laughingly, "Do forgive me,
but I have danced with every lady present except my wife."

  Despite his playful tone, Kate could see steel in her husband's gaze, and she didn't dare resist him. They danced to the Gershwin first, and then Edward played a slow number, and Charles kept possession of his wife's hand. "What's going on, Kate? How on earth could you imagine half a dozen bottles enough, and such cheap stuff?" His voice was low in her ear, yet Kate burned with shame, felt as though every person present must know precisely how the faulty young wife was being chided by her husband.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, and would not look up at him. "Please, Charles, not now..."

  His mouth set in a rather grim line, but he nodded, and when the song was done, he went over to a group of fellows from his club, lighting a cigar and settling in with them. Kate continued her efforts to circulate, but sensing that her tension was more a pall than an aid to merriment, eventually she more or less gave up and went to sit with Alice, who was kind and petting, though without in the least understanding what had brought her friend to such a pass.

  The party went well after that, and it was long past midnight when Edward finally leaned back from the piano, flexing his wrists with a slight wince, and said, "Lord, Kate, I need to go into training if I want to try that again. I don't know how you do it."

  Everyone else was gone, and Charles was standing by the window, staring out at the snowy night. Kate kissed Edward's cheek gratefully, thinking with shame of how cold she'd been with him of late. It wasn't his fault, what had happened—for if it wasn't Charles's fault, then it couldn't be Edward's either. But the sight of him continually called to mind Watkins's unpleasant insinuations, and try as she would to be natural, she found herself stiff and formal. "Thank you for rescuing my party," she said in a tiny voice.

  Edward smiled, and he took Kate by the shoulders. "Never mind that. Go to bed and sleep for a couple of days. You look exhausted, and Charles will want his beautiful angel for the tree." Then he went over and said a few soft words to Charles before slipping out the door.