4. A Tryst
CHAPTER 4
A TRYST
M eanwhile, in a third-story room at the DeSoto House Hotel
“I cannot decide if you are fascinated by my bosom or with my gown,” Emma said, angling her head to one side as she regarded her fifty-three-year-old husband with an arched brow.
Robert jerked out of his reverie, the words exactly the same as those she had said to him the first day they had met. He remembered how her gown had him worried someone had set up another dry goods store in Galena without his knowledge. How her British accent had intrigued him. How it had him believing she was high-born.
“Uh…” He chuckled softly. “Of course I was staring at your bosom, my lady,” he admitted. He rushed to gather her into his arms. “I hope you you know I’m going to spend this entire day ravishing you in this…” He turned to take in the bed in the small hotel room, his brows furrowing at seeing it was no larger than the one in their master bedchamber. “This poor excuse for a bed,” he finished.
Emma tittered. “Whatever had you thinking we should spend our anniversary here ?” she asked, moving to undo the buttons of his sack jacket. “And telling the children we were going to Dubuque of all places?”
“I wanted us to do something… different,” he replied, glancing down to see she was already undoing his waistcoat buttons.
“I thought we’d all be going to St. Louis,” she said, giving him a pointed glance as she pushed the garments from his shoulders.
“Next year. For our twentieth anniversary,” he promised, turning her around so he could undo the fastenings of her gown. He could feel the crinolines beneath her bell skirt press against his legs. “By then, perhaps you won’t have to wear hoop skirts,” he added hopefully. He had seen what was to come in the way of ladies’ fashion, and he was looking forward to a time when the large bell skirts would go the way of panniers.
She giggled. “I am not looking forward to my bottom appearing as if I’m bent over and sticking it out as I make my way down Main Street,” she argued, turning around to undo the knot of his neck cloth.
“You can continue to wear your current gowns. I shall not mind,” he replied, although he made sure he didn’t sound enthusiastic about the prospect.
A quelling glance was her first response. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“You could wear nothing at all, and I wouldn’t mind a bit,” he whispered, his lips feathering over her forehead and down to her cheek and then to her lips.
“I’d be covered in red clay when I leave my studio,” she argued.
“I would bathe you,” he offered, a brow arching in a tease.
She giggled as her gown fell to the floor. “Robert Michael Montgomery,” she said, feigning indignation.
“I love it when you scold me,” he murmured, undoing the ties of her crinoline and her corset before lifting her chemise from her body. His gaze darted to the floor. He half expected a cat to come out from under her gown. The large calicos seemed to favor hiding beneath her hoops.
“I hardly know why,” she countered, her blonde brows once again arching.
He cleared his throat. “It reminds me that I can occasionally behave in an improper manner and still expect you to sleep in the same bed with me.” From her widened eyes, Robert realized she had anticipated a different answer. “What?” he asked, all innocence.
“I am rather glad you agreed to feature my pottery in your shop all those years ago,” she stated.
He blinked. “How could I not? General saw to it all the pots I had on the shelves were destroyed,” he claimed.
She dipped her head but regarded him through the curtain of his lashes. “Despite the injuries you sustained as a result of that debacle, you didn’t seem to mind.” She reached for the hand where she’d had to stitch up the nasty cut, the scar from six stitches still visible in the middle of his palm.
Nodding, he pulled her into his arms. “Not a bit,” he admitted. “I think I fell in love with you the moment you stepped into my store that day,” he claimed.
“I certainly didn’t get that impression,” she countered. If anything, she had thought he was annoyed by her visit. A woman speaking with a British accent and implying his pottery wares were substandard, even if they were and he knew it. Or perhaps it had been her calling card, the elegant white pasteboard engraved in black.
Avalon Pottery
Premiere pottery in the style of England’s finest
Emma Avalon, Proprietress
He had even had the audacity to suggest she was from D.A. Sackett and Co. The Dewey Street pottery manufacturer hadn’t produced a single utilitarian pot at that point, but once they did, she’d had competition. Eschewing creating utilitarian pots in favor of more decorative ceramics, the sales of the finer creations proved she had made the right choice. Her wares were a popular product in Montgomery Dry Goods.
“Lust, then?” he prompted.
She tittered. “I suppose I can believe that,” she admitted, remembering how it hadn’t been long after she had stitched his wound before they had kissed. A few minutes later, they had rushed up to his rooms above the store and were frantically undressing one another.
“I wish to make love to you, Mrs. Montgomery.”
Glancing down between them, she realized he was still wearing his shirt, trousers, and black shoes. His trousers were tented where his manhood jutted out from his body. “Well, then I suppose I need to divest you of the rest of your clothes,” she replied.
He was quick to move to the edge of the bed, leaning against it as he removed his shoes and then pushed his trousers from his body.
In the meantime, Emma lifted her gown from the floor and tossed it over the back of a chair, giving a start when Admiral darted out from beneath the crinoline and hid under the bed.
Robert heard her scoff and paused whilst undoing the buttons at his wrists. “What is it?”
Emma’s gaze went from the carpeted floor to him. “Uh, nothing, but I do believe I need to see to your shirt,” she said, lifting the linen garment from his torso. “Mr. Montgomery,” she breathed.
“Yes, Mrs. Montgomery?” he responded, glancing down between their bodies.
“The time for talk seems to have come to an end.” She arched a brow.
Robert lowered his face, his lips capturing hers in a scorching kiss at the same time one of his hands smoothed down the side of her body to the globes of her bottom.
When he briefly pulled away to take a much needed breath, Emma murmured, “Actually, I should say one more thing.”
“Oh?” he muttered, kissing her cheeks and then the side of her neck down to her shoulder.
“We’re not alone.”
In the middle of kissing the top of her shoulder, he paused. Straightening, he glanced around the room. “Did you… did you see a ghost?”
She gave him a quelling glance. “Something like that,” she whispered. “Admiral is under the bed.”
Robert blinked. “How?”
“He was hiding under my skirts.”
Rolling his eyes, Robert was about to scold the cat but decided it wasn’t worth it. If it hadn’t been Admiral, it would have been General. The two felines seemed to take turns making mischief. “He’s the luckiest creature on the planet,” he commented.
Emma rubbed her bare breasts against his chest, the tips of her nipples parting the whorls of dark hair. “Even now?”
Robert inhaled sharply. “It’s my turn to be the luckiest,” he whispered, pushing her back until the bed was directly behind her. Lifting her bottom, he had her seated on the edge, her legs wrapped around his hips as his manhood sought her opening. “Apologies, but I really need you right now,” he whispered. He thrust into her and let out a groan of satisfaction.
Admiral meowed loudly, and Emma tittered as she supported herself on her elbows.
Cursing softly, Robert thrust into her again, which had her quickly sobering. She dropped back onto the bed and moaned as he placed a thumb where their bodies met, his thrusts increasing in speed and intensity. When she gasped—his ministrations had her experiencing a sharp and pleasurable orgasm—he growled with his own release. A moment later, he collapsed atop her. Between labored breaths, he asked if she was all right.
“I’m perfect,” she purred. “And it will be perfection when we’re actually in this bed,” she hinted, grinning.
Admiral purred loudly from where he sat at the end of the bed.
“Purrfection, indeed,” Robert murmured.