An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance Read Online Free Page A

covered her mouth, more than a
little afraid for her cousin. But far from appearing to feel any pain, Frances’
moan sounded ecstatic. The muscles of the man’s back rippled as he lifted
himself off the bed, arching back as he pulled out of Frances, affording Isobel
an unimpeded view of the glorious mechanics of an act that until now had meant
nothing more to her than late night whispers in the school dormitory.
    Something
disturbing and darkly pleasurable stirred in her. She had never imagined the
act of love would be anything like this. To have a man inside her, penetrating
her – what did that feel like?
    Her
body heated as she imagined a man’s hands on her skin, the weight of his body
on hers, having him move inside her, in the place so private even she dared not
touch.
    Frances’
face contorted in aching need. She pressed her hips up against Carlo’s, urging
him deeper as he plunged into her.
    Isobel’s
heart beat hard against her ribs. Her muscles clenched as wet heat gathered in
the apex of her legs.
    Frances
cried out her pleasure, a sound intensely joyful.
    “ Silenzio ,”
Carlo hissed. His voice, rough with passion, broke the spell that wove around
Isobel. She turned and ran.
    In
the silence of her bedroom there was nothing but the gentle song of the rain
falling on the tiled roof above to drown out her cousin’s carnal moans. Though
she buried her face in the pillows, Isobel could still see hear that cry, and
see their naked bodies entwined, as though the image had been burnt against her
retinas. The need still ached within her, unleashed for the first time, darkly
disturbing and yet so wonderful.
    What
did it feel like? Isobel rolled onto her back and raised up the edge of her
dress, sliding her hand beneath her silk drawers, into the secret cleft between
her legs. Her body was warm and moist and the need to rub the delicious itch
was irresistible. She stroked between the silky soft lips, as Frances’ lover
had done, slowly, firmly, then as the blood began to pound in her head, faster
and harder.
    Images
flitted in and out of her head, of Frances and her lover. Only the woman was no
longer Frances but herself, and the man had Stefano’s face.
    Her
heart raced. The sheer impossibility was a sweet, torturous delight.
    Was
this how Frances felt: deliciously naughty, enthralled by the pleasure?
    She
slipped a finger inside, exploring the soft warmth, feeling herself tighten
around her finger. The sensation was dizzying, more intoxicating than limoncello .
    Her
palm rode against the folds of her womanhood, the friction sending waves of
pleasure through her, rising like a storm. And like a storm the climax broke
through her, wiping out all thought, all resistance.
    She
lay unmoving on the thick quilt for an age as the world slowly righted itself
again. She should feel guilty about what she had witnessed, about what she had
done. So why did she suddenly feel so alive, so excited and eager for more? The
world seemed to have become coloured by her illicit act, as though every sight
and sound and scent had grown more vivid.
    You
need to feel the passion , her art
teacher had once said. You bring no soul to your work .
    Well
now she had felt passion. She knew what it was like to have her heart beat
faster for a man, to feel her body grow warm at the mere thought of him. She
knew what it was like to give herself pleasure.
    It
was a start, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted the slide of a
man’s body against hers. She wanted to both give and receive pleasure. And the
man she imagined sharing the moment with wasn’t Christopher.
    She
closed her eyes against the tumble of alien emotions, and breathed in deeply.
The only way she could sort her feelings was on paper. She reached for her
sketch pad on the bedside table and opened it to a clean page.
    Without
thinking, the pencil moved across the paper, capturing the soft curves of a
feminine body, and the harder, more powerful lines of a masculine