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“Yes,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “Again—when I tell you.” He withdrew slowly, then stopped. “Now.” He thrust downward, cupping her hips as she arched up to meet him.
This time she sobbed aloud, and Eric gave a feral shout.
“Again,” he commanded. “And again, and again, and—”
His voice shattered, along with his control. Gripping the headboard, he plunged into Brigitte, over and over, and she met his wildness with her own. The bedsprings grated with each frenzied thrust, the sound punctuated only by their broken cries and labored breaths.
Something was about to happen. Brigitte could feel it. It was as if she’d scaled a magnificent rainbow and now hovered just shy of its exquisite peak.
“Eric …” She moaned his name, silently willing him to take her where she so desperately needed to go.
He did.
Clenching her bottom, he lifted her up—hard—drove deep into her core, ground himself against the very damp, throbbing flesh that yearned for him.
Brigitte splintered into a million fragments, explosion after explosion crashing over her, radiating out in hot, convulsive spasms. As if from a distance, she heard Eric groan, felt his grip tighten as he fought to prolong her pleasure.
Until holding back became impossible.
Lunging forward, he surrendered to his climax, swelling to massive proportions before he erupted, shouting Brigitte’s name in conjunction with the pulsing surges of his release.
Please God, Brigitte prayed during that brief, final instant when Eric was truly hers. Let this miracle last. Please.
—
Hers were not the only prayers being offered by a resident of Farrington at that precise moment.
Two halls away, tucked in her bed, Noelle cradled Fuzzy on the pillow beside her. “She’s still in his room, you know,” she advised her plaything with a sage nod. “And Uncle’s not angry, or we’d hear his shouting way down here. We have to pray, Fuzzy.” She squeezed her eyes shut, accomplishing the same for Fuzzy by covering his button eyes with the palm of her hand. “God—I know I do lots of bad things,” she began. “But I promise I’ll stop. I’ll listen and I won’t break stuff, and I’ll never need chest-izing again. Only please”—her lips quivered, and two tears slid down her cheeks—“please don’t take Brigitte away.”
Six
“NOELLE, NOT SO CLOSE TO THE POND,” BRIGITTE INSTRUCTED, simultaneously reaching up to collect another sprig of holly.
“But Fuzzy wants to learn how to sail.” Flat on her stomach, Noelle crept a bit closer to the water’s edge, straddling Fuzzy across the piece of driftwood she intended to serve as his boat. “And he wants to learn now, before it gets too cold and the water freezes.”
“How very ambitious of him.” Abandoning her task, Brigitte approached Noelle with a pointed lift of her brows. “But tell me, can Fuzzy swim? Or, more important, can you?”
Noelle frowned. “No. We can’t.”
“Ah. Well, you’re in good company—neither can I. And, since I suspect that pond is far taller from top to bottom than either you or I—and certainly Fuzzy—I’d prefer not to tempt fate. All right?”
“All right.” Grudgingly, Noelle rose, rubbing her dirty hands on her mantle, thereby transferring stains from the former to the latter. “What are you doing?”
“Gathering holly.”
“Why? You said Uncle won’t let us celebrate Christmas.”
“He won’t.” Brigitte grinned. “I’m hoping he’ll change his mind.” She squinted at her rapidly growing collection, visualizing Farrington’s sitting room alive with the spirit of Christmas: its barren walls decorated with wreaths of holly and mistletoe, its fireplace reawakened and aglow, its floor piled high with gifts. And in the center of it all, she, Eric, and Noelle, standing about a glorious evergreen heralding the season.
On cue, Brigitte’s gaze shifted to the magnificent fir she’d selected for that all-important role, the perfect nucleus of a perfect fantasy.
“Brigitte?” Noelle’s voice interrupted her daydream. “’Cept at his window, I haven’t seen Uncle for more than three weeks—since the day you talked to him. Have you?”
The fantasy shattered into bitter shards of reality.
“No, love.” Brigitte shook her head. “I haven’t. Apparently, your uncle needs more time alone.”
“More time? He’s always alone. He didn’t even come out when your grandfather visited. Though I’m positive he knew the vicar was here—I saw him watch the carriage arrive.”
