“Touch me, Jane,” he choked out as he forced her hand to release the cloth, and instead hold him. He groaned, threw back his head and gritted his teeth as her palm engulfed his thick shaft. With little pressure, he moved her hand up, then down. The image of his fingers locked atop hers as he worked his cock made his excitement grow. He was rasping in shallow, hard breaths, which mingled with hers.
She was watching, he could feel her eyes searing into the spot where their hands wrapped around his shaft. It aroused him, not angered him, knowing her eyes were upon him. He did not feel defiled as he once had when his lover had watched him masturbate. His lover had taken perverse delight in ordering him to pleasure himself and come all over his hand. His lover had enjoyed barking out orders. Even now he heard them: harder, faster, now slower, stop…
But Jane did not say anything. Their breaths were the only sound in the room. It had a strangely calming effect on him. Normally he was tense, his big body taut with urgency, but tonight, he felt himself go limp and fall into the thin featherticking mattress. He allowed himself to enjoy the feel of their joined hands on him, and the images that played out in his mind, how she would look like this, taking him in hand and tossing him off.
It seemed forever he lay like that, his pleasure building, Jane’s breaths frenzied. The scent of her wafted over him and he used his free hand to tug at her nipple in the same rhythm she used to stroke him.
“Matthew!”
The sound of his name in her angel’s voice weakened him, and he came, exploding in a hot jet onto both their hands. He heard her cry of shock, but she did not pull away, slowing her strokes instead, watching as his cock pulsed with his seed.
My God, he had not come into someone else’s palm in fifteen years. The shuddering orgasm unnerved him, and he turned his head, not wanting Jane to see his expression of terrified wonder. For he was alarmed by the emotions that suddenly ruled him.
Mercifully she said nothing as she rose from the bed. He heard the water in the basin softly slap against the porcelain sides. It was followed by the wringing of a cloth, then the sound of Jane’s fingers buttoning her gown.
Was she ashamed? Horrified he could be such a beast? He was ill, burning with fever, and yet he was still ruled by the needs of his body and cock.
“The water has turned too cold. Tepid is best for bringing down a fever.”
“Go then,” he said in a hoarse voice. He wanted to add a request that she return to him, but he bit his tongue, refusing to ask or beg. Yet as soon as he heard the door swing shut behind her, he heard her name, whispered in his broken voice, “Jane, come back.”
Scooping the water from the rain barrel, Jane watched as the clear liquid splashed into the bowl. Her hands were shaking, as was her body. The sounds of the wards inside the hospital were a distant whisper compared to the husky groan of male satisfaction that was ringing in her ears, even now.
Good God, what had she done?
Setting the bowl on the steps, she sat down and brought her head to her knees, trying to regain her innate sense of calm and composure. She refused to close her eyes and instead stared down at the starched white cotton of her apron. It was no use. Even with her eyes open she could see Matthew’s fine, strong body lying on the bed beside her, completely naked, the sheet thrust to his thighs, his phallus thick and long, heavily veined, engorged with desire. Desire for her.
Jane still could not understand, or make sense of the way she had instinctively known what he wanted. She had never done such a thing before, yet the feel of him, heavy and hot in her hand, had felt so right, as if she had pleasured many a man before. She gazed down at her palm and studied the lines in the moonlight. She could still feel it in her hand, still hear her own thoughts whispering in her mind, I want to know what this would feel like inside me.
It shocked her to hear such an admission, and in her own voice. She was not a naive prude. She had seen much growing up in the rookeries of the East End. Yet it still shocked her that she could want such intimacy with a stranger. Never before had she looked at a male patient and wondered what it would feel like to take his body inside hers. She had not even thought of Richard in such a way. Strange, since she felt a measure of affection for the young doctor.
Jane closed her eyes and forced an image of Richard to mind. Gray eyes, pale skin and golden hair. He was handsome in a typical English way. He was tall, too, although not as tall as Matthew, and much, much leaner. In all, he was very pleasing to the eye, and there was no shortage of nurses and patients who flirted with him. To Jane’s knowledge, he had never taken up their offers. She knew with one-hundred-percent certainty that Dr. Inglebright would never have touched, in a sexual manner, a patient under his care.
How far she had fallen for the touch of a man. Jane had no idea she yearned for such things. Certainly there were some nights when she felt the urge to touch her breasts and quim. She had found it naughty, in a forbidden way, to touch herself. And it had felt good. Now, those times of self-pleasure paled when put beside this brief, erotic interlude with Matthew. She sensed that what he had done to her, what she had done to him, was merely the starting point of where their shared passion might go.
She yearned to explore it, she realized, giving honesty to her feelings. But to do so could be disastrous. Besides, there could be nothing out of it except a few stolen moments, hardly worthwhile when one thought of what she could lose if it ever got out what they were doing behind that swinging wooden door.
Her job at London College would be lost. Her name and that of Lady Blackwood would be further tarnished. The profession, which she was trying so hard to make credible to the eyes of the world, would be thrust back down. Only old harlots and washerwomen are nurses…that would be accurate, if the truth about what she had just done got out.
No, she could not repay Dr. Inglebright or Lady Blackwood by sullying her name, her profession or the hospital.
Standing up, Jane retrieved her basin of water and determinedly stepped back into the ward, resolute to rid her patient of his fever and survive the long night ahead without further thinking on how much she wanted to lie on top of him and feel him thrusting that beautiful phallus deep inside her.
The tepid water trickled over his skin as Jane changed the cloth that she had folded on his forehead. His fever was higher, despite the hours of sitting at his bedside, bathing him.
“I don’t understand it,” Richard mumbled behind her. “Where is this fever coming from?”
“I do not know,” she whispered, worry clouding her thoughts. “He’s so strong and healthy, I don’t know why it holds him.”
“He smelled of spirits when he arrived. Perhaps he is a chronic drinker. I’ve seen the fever in the gin addicts when they don’t have it.”
Jane glanced at Matthew’s face, which was drawn tight. Occasionally he would frown, as if he was being plagued by dreams. Taking her fingers and dipping them in the basin, she brushed them over his cracked lips, while Richard continued to pace behind her, deep in thought.
“Perhaps it is the head trauma that is causing it. The body’s natural response to pain and injury.”
Jane did not respond. She knew no answer was necessary. This was Richard trying to solve a medical puzzle. Instead, she continued to bathe Matthew, studying the way his body felt taut with tension.
“Don’t touch me,” he suddenly cried, and thrashed in the bed, his