Cheryl Holt Read Online Free Page A

feet.
    She was naked! And wet! Water sluiced down her pale skin. She was bathing in an outdoor pool. Unclothed! Not a stitch of fabric covered her.
    How outrageous! How shocking! How marvelous!
    Pretty, with a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and full mouth, her hair was long, ebony, hanging past her waist and deliciously curled. Wide at the shoulders, thin at the waist, then wide again at the hips, she was slender, yet curvaceous, her torso shaped to accentuate her feminine gifts, to capture a man’s eye and hold it.
    Her breasts were ample, inviting, the centers dusky and distinct, the nipples erect and pointed. Her tummy was flat, her legs lanky and lean. At the top of her thighs, her enchanting puss hinted at the delights shielded within.
    She was flawless, bewitching, ethereal, and in his disordered state, he wondered if she was an apparition. Out of some suppressed, buried need for companionship, had he conjured her up? Was he pining away, subconsciously mourning the loss of his masculine drives?
    He thought he’d come to grips with what had happened, with his deformities and impairments, but apparently not. She made him rue and regret in a fashion he hadn’t previously.He’d always adored women, the taste, scent, and feel of them, and a smile flitted by as he recalled a ravishing mistress, a Sunday afternoon, scones and wine on the table by the bed, the sun shining in . . .
    Was the temptress before him a hallucination? A delusion evoked out of misery and desolation? He didn’t think so. She seemed very real.
    Though he was a gentleman by birth, nothing about his character indicated genteel tendencies. Without a flicker of remorse or chagrin, he spied on her, and it was obvious this wasn’t the first occasion she’d bathed outside. She was relaxed, at ease, unperturbed by the circumstances.
    During his tempestuous interval as a libertine in London, before he’d joined the army, he’d wooed and seduced and debauched, but in all his philandering, he’d never run across a female who was so complacent with her body, her nudity. It was thrilling to view her, and he couldn’t look away. Like the worst, most pathetic voyeur, he watched, cataloging her every move.
    She retrieved a bar of soap, and proceeded to wash. Raising her hands, she lathered them, then stroked the bubbles downward, under her arms, round and round her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She scrubbed between her legs, the bar passing over and over her sheath, then she spun about, showing him her delectable backside, the cleft of her dimpled ass.
    Feet braced, bum pushed out, she was bent over, open, splayed wide, revealing every risqué inch of her privates. He’d never witnessed such a carnal sight, and he pictured himself dallying with her, advancing on her from behind, seizing her flanks and entering her with a languid thrust.
    She dipped into the pond and rinsed herself, then she clambered out, her skin white against the thick foliage. Sexy, alluring, she scrambled onto the grass and picked up a towel, sensuously caressing herself with it. Arms up, breasts jutting out, she dried her shoulders, bosom, belly, legs, thetowel descending in enticing circles, then she swathed it around herself. The fabric fell to her knees, and she secured it by tucking a corner at her cleavage. The wrap made her appear wanton and untamed, like a native savage.
    His strength gave out, and he flopped onto his pillow, his destroyed torso sinking into the mattress, and he reached down, his fingers at his crotch. A withered stump, his cock lay on his leg, limp and useless as a noodle. Nothing. No blood pounding. No flesh swelling. Not so much as a pulsing vein.
    How could he evince no reaction? How could the lusty display leave him unaffected? From the night at age fifteen when he’d swivved a tavern wench at the Bristol harvest festival, he’d been a randy, robust fellow. His partners raved over his size, his prowess, his stamina, and ability to satisfy.
    Where