Cheryl Holt Read Free

thrust.
    Emma stared, then stared some more. She couldn’t look away.
    He was so beautiful. So manly.
    Through her extensive nursing duties, she was no stranger to nakedness, and she had seen more than her share of male privy parts, but never like this. The appendage—usually small and withered—had regularlybeen viewed on dying old men or sick little boys.
    His phallus was hard, onerous, proudly jutting out. It appeared so virile, so potent. So . . . so . . . gigantic.
    Go. Go. Get out of here
, a soft voice scolded, but she was immovable, no more capable of departing than she was of blocking the sun in its trek across the sky. Ashamed of herself, but utterly titillated, she scrutinized every second of the ribald display.
    Plainly, Georgina had made love with him frequently, for she knew specifically what he wanted and when he wanted it. She prowled around his torso, until she was in front of him, then she yanked at her robe so that it slipped off and fell to the floor.
    Emma analyzed the woman as though she were a curious laboratory specimen. She had voluptuous, swinging breasts, graceful, wide hips. In comparison, Emma felt downright skinny. Though she’d always deemed herself shapely, with a pleasing figure, next to the statuesque, generously proportioned femme fatale, she felt deficient, gaunt, and ordinary.
    Amazingly, not only was the hair on Georgina’s genitalia absent, but the hair under her arms and on her legs had been removed, as well. She was glossy, sleek, her skin smooth as silk all over. Her slick torso inflamed the man to an incredible plateau, his bodily tension heightening dramatically.
    Gripping her hips, he twirled her and shoved her against the wall so that she had to brace her hands for balance. He kneed her thighs, raised her, then, with no restraint or regard for her comfort, he entered her with a fierce penetration, and he thrust in a deliberate rhythm, providing Emma with a thoroughly enlightening and educational demonstration.
    At the incursion, Georgina inhaled sharply but, as if she were used to such rough handling, she made no verbalcomplaint. Bored, she held on to the wall, staring straight ahead. Obviously, she couldn’t wait to be finished with the tiresome chore, and Emma was confounded.
    How could a woman be mounted by such a dashing rascal and remain so detached?
    It didn’t take long for the man to reach orgasm. As he spilled himself, his legs quaked at the moment of impact, but other than that temporary trembling, he evinced no reaction. He was so apathetic that he might have been sipping his breakfast tea.
    Then, without so much as a word being exchanged, he retreated from her, tucked himself into his trousers, and buttoned them.
    Feeling cheated, Emma scowled. While she was definitely no expert on carnal affairs, she was no simpering miss, either. A confirmed, virginal spinster, she’d never had sex herself, but she’d delivered hundreds of babies in her twenty-eight years, and she’d heard just as many or more stories as to how each of them had been conceived.
    Lovemaking was meant to be indulged with vehement passion, with a profound commitment toward enjoyment, yet this joining had been so devoid of emotion that she was almost disappointed at having stayed for the grand finale.
    She was most surprised by the gentleman’s impassive comportment. He was a lusty Lothario, vibrant and robust in all the ways that counted. She’d expected that he’d be so much more adept. Surely, he knew the pertinent methods for pleasuring a woman.
    Didn’t he hope for more? Seek more? Aspire to more?
    If she was ever offered an opening to unleash his baser instincts, she wouldn’t lightly pass up the chance.What she wouldn’t give to get her hands on that impressive anatomy. She’d show him a thing or two about desire.
    With a start, she noted where her preposterous ruminations had strayed. As time went on, her musings were becoming more exorbitant and outlandish. Spinsterhood was