An Excerpt from Michele Bardsley's Life Without Raine  Connor had to wait…had to stay coherent enough to say the words that would make her hate him. As his hands memorized her body, he drank in these last moments of enjoyment with his wife. God knew he loved her. But if she stayed, she would fight by his side. Last night, he’d sought the witch’s counsel; the old woman had given him little hope he could untangle himself from Solomon’s wicked plot. Her hands slid up his chest, her firm body writhing under his touch. He could not lose his beloved to death. This was the only way to be sure she would leave -- and live. She’d find another husband, another lover. The thought of her giving her body, her soul, to another man pained him so much that he stopped stroking her clit and cupped her sweet pussy. She moaned and rubbed her slick flesh against his palm. She knew only ecstasy -- not his anguish. Never would she know the truth. Though their love could not be saved in this lifetime, there was still hope. True love binds the souls, said the witch. True love requires sacrifice. And the first sacrifice was the trust of his wife. He trailed soft, slow kisses down the curve of her stomach; he paused at the thought she might carry his child. He pressed his lips against her belly and prayed to God that his wife -- and any child born from their love -- would live long, happy lives. Sweat dewed her pale skin; he licked the tiny droplets, drawing patterns in her pale flesh with his tongue. His worship of her flesh led him to the nirvana of her sweet cunny. His hands shook as he parted her thighs. “Connor…” His name on her lips was the only permission he needed to taste her. Her swollen clit was as succulent as a ripe berry, and just as delicious. He tugged the morsel between his lips and suckled, flicking the tiny nub to the rhythm of her moans. “Please, my love,” she begged, her restless hands plundered his hair. He slid his hands under her buttocks and pulled her close, breathing in her feminine scent. It was as earthy and intoxicating as the scent of the forest after a long rain. He smiled. This was the scent of his Raine. He stroked her to a higher peak, torturing her clit with flicks of his tongue. She moved against his mouth, taking her pleasure with the same innocence and wonder as the first time she lay with him. Was it only a fortnight ago they had wed? She stilled, arched, and cried out. Her cunt sucked at his chin, releasing the creamy evidence of her orgasm. He soothed her tormented pussy with long strokes of his tongue, drinking her woman’s honey. Raine’s hands were wrapped in his hair and she held him hostage as she rode the waves of bliss. Finally, she collapsed to the bed, sighing contentedly. He reluctantly rubbed his face against the coverlet. He loved her juices, loved the smell, the taste…but ’twas unseemly to kiss her with a pussy-wet chin. She pulled at his shoulders, her smile one of wifely satisfaction. “I am not done yet, my lord,” she purred, drawing him up her body. He positioned himself above her and slowly entered. She was wet and ready and tight…he closed his eyes and moaned. He had no power to utter a word. Another stroke sent more pleasure rippling through him. She pulled him close, grasping with hungry little hands; he thrust harder and faster, her breathy moans battered at his control. One last gift for his wife. One…last…gift… © Michele Bardsley, May 2007 All Rights Reserved