Passion Over Time Read Online Free PDF Page A

late supper. That wasn’t unusual and she hadn’t taken offense. She understood him. It was always such a relief not to have to worry about entertaining her. To let silence speak for him.
    She threaded her hand through the hair on his chest; her touch was soft, sensual.
    Practiced. Deliberate.
    “I see.” She gazed up at him, her wide, full mouth spread into a toothy smile. “And you are better, n'est-ce-pas ?”
    “ Oui .” His face felt as if it might crack under the strain of his smile.
    It wasn’t like him to lie about his feelings in these situations. He never had to. Not with Marie. They had a basic relationship. She allowed him the use of her body and in return he provided for her. He’d always been rather eager to reacquaint himself with her after spending time away. He usually found his way to this house within a few days of arriving in Philadelphia.
    Now that had changed, and he didn’t want her to know. She would place the blame on some fault of her own. And it simply wasn’t so. She was still a desirable woman.
    He rolled halfway over her, his hip grazing her fleshy belly, her pelvic hair tickling his leg. He put his lips to hers.
    She opened her mouth, allowing him access, letting him take as much as he wanted.
    It was like cold rain when one longed for a blazing hearth.
    For the first time ever, kissing her failed to arouse him.
    He gave up kissing in favor of touching her breasts. They were soft and lush with large dusky nipples. Everything a man could want. Yet the rose-musk scent of her skin grew cloying and a dull ache set up in the center of his forehead. Heaviness.
    She gripped his cock in her practiced way. Efficiently pumping him. He watched his cock surge into a full erection as though it belonged to someone else. He glanced up.
    Her eyes were closed, her pose relaxed, settled into a long familiar routine.
    Had she always been so perfunctory? Surely not. While he’d never been faithful to her—Christ, he’d never even pretended to be faithful to her—he’d been happy with her for—what was it? Fifteen years? No, couldn’t be—wait. Yes, by God, fifteen years.
    Fifteen years.
    It seemed like just yesterday. He’d been a young man in the clover time of his life, with much wealth and limited responsibilities. Marie had been somewhere around thirty, he was never sure exactly. So dark and exotic. So even-tempered and adaptable. So very different from the women his own age.
    Shortly after she accepted his carte blanche, his father had died and the infinite weight of the family business had fallen to him. He’d been glad to have the comfort of her then.
    He’d been glad of her comfort all these years. Yet tonight he couldn’t bed her. Because it all felt so mechanical. So prearranged.
    Good God, he’d rather palm himself off than this.
    What the devil was the matter with him? Maybe he was sick. Indeed, he’d felt a sort of sickness since that day in the bookseller’s.
    He rolled away from her, fell back on his pillow, and threw his arm over his eyes.
    “ Mon chou ?” Marie’s hair tickled as she came to rest again on his chest. She traced her fingertips down his abdomen.
    “On second thought, I am still not feeling so well.”
    “You feel all right to me.” She laughed softly and grasped his shaft then stroked him firmly.
    As though from a distance, he felt his erection grow harder. “Perhaps it’s more a depression of spirit than body.”
    She slowed her strokes. In his mind, he pictured her. The skepticism in her large, dark-blue eyes. The dramatic lift in her already well-arched brow. She knew him as a man with minimal feelings. She’d never believe he could suffer sadness. Yet incredibly, his spirits were about as sour as he imagined they could get.
    He disengaged himself from Marie, arose from the bed, and went into his adjoining dressing room. Despite his still throbbing erection, he felt very cold inside. Empty. Two brandies couldn’t warm him. Nor could a fine cigar.