Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1

by Victoria Vale

  His harsh breaths panted against her neck as he lowered his head, kissing her chin, her jaw, her neck. He snatched open the belt of her dressing gown, revealing every bare inch of her from neck to toes. Evelyn tensed beneath him, squeezing her eyes shut as he came up onto his hands and knees, studying her with a gaze that missed nothing. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that men found the forms of women pleasing to look upon, but at the moment she could not help but wonder how many others he’d seen unclothed and how she compared.

  Those thoughts fled the moment she heard his harsh intake of breath and opened her eyes to find him studying her as if he’d never seen a naked woman before. She shivered when he trailed his knuckles down the valley between her breasts, stroking gently across her belly and pausing at the patch of hair at her groin.

  “Christ, could you be any more perfect?”

  She couldn’t conjure the words to respond, because then he was lowering his head, his mouth aimed at her breast. Her breath came out on a gasp which melted into a sigh as his lips brushed her nipple. He was still just kissing her, only now the touch of his lips had become far more wicked, turning her into the unrestrained, wanton creature she had been last night at Vauxhall. There could be no room for doubt or fear, not when the touch of his lips upon her body felt so good she never wanted him to stop.

  “Good?” he murmured, darting a glance up at her, his lips hovering inches from one hardened nipple.

  “Yes,” she moaned just as he drew it into his mouth and flicked at it with his tongue.

  He slid his hands beneath her arching back, poising her at the angle he wanted as he moved from one to the other, leaving soft, short kisses in his wake. She cried out when he latched on to the opposite nipple, sucking it deep and hard in a way that sent a lightning strike of pure pleasure straight between her legs.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and held him there, unable to remain still as he subjected her to such wondrous torment. His lips wandered at will, tracking a path down the center of her belly. She’d never imagined anyone kissing her there, but, oh, it felt nothing like she might have imagined. It should have tickled, but it only added more heat and urgency to the sensations building within her, making her desperate to feel those lips of his everywhere.

  She suddenly felt too hot, as if she might go up in flames at any moment. Even the open dressing gown was too oppressive, so she snatched her arms free of it. Hugh paused to pull it from beneath her and cast it aside before crouching back over her, his attentions now centred on her legs. Her face flamed hot when he pried her knees open, but she submitted with eagerness to the stroke of his tongue and press of his mouth against her inner thighs. Each kiss left her feeling drugged, as if she floated on the surface of a languid stream.

  The shock of him nuzzling at her groin brought her out of the trance, and her eyes went wide with alarm as she gazed down to find him lying between her legs, his face level with her quim. He stole a glance up to find her watching him, and gave her the most decadently wicked grin she’d ever seen. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he thrust his tongue into her slit, lapping at the little nub buried within.

  She clenched her teeth around a strangled sound, trapping it in her throat. When she had agreed to kissing only for the night, she had never imagined he might go so far as to kiss her there.

  “Shall I continue?” he murmured.

  Evelyn could not form a single word, so she simply nodded. Hugh lowered his eyes and went at her again, this time without holding back. The groan she’d muffled before came spilling out when he put his mouth on her, wrapping his lips around the delicate flesh hidden within the thatch of dark curls. He moaned as if pleased with the taste of her, palming her thighs to push them farther open. Her head fell back onto the pillow, her limbs turning to jelly and her insides unfurling into a torrent of near painful pleasure. Just as she had last night amongst the ruins, she felt as if the inevitable ending would tear her in two, yet she strained toward it, wanting it more than she’d ever wanted anything. There was no time to be embarrassed over how wet she’d become, the ministrations of his tongue coaxing more and more of that telltale moisture from inside her. There was nothing to do but cling to the coverlet and ride the cresting swells of her culminating bliss, growing stronger and stronger with each flick of his tongue.

  When he latched onto her clitoris and suckled with deep pulls, she splintered, her entire body stiffening and her toes curling as climax unfurled violently through her.

  Could those high-pitched, wanton sounds be coming from her? They must be, for the moment she sagged to the bed, sated and spent, her mouth fell closed and the sounds ceased, replaced by her harsh, labored breaths. Hugh gentled his tongue strokes against her, lapsing into soft, soothing licks as she melted. If before she’d felt as if she floated on the surface of a body of water, she now felt as if she’d plunged into its depths, her form weightless, the very air stolen from her.

  She sighed as he kissed his way back up her body, pausing to tease a nipple before laying over her once more. His hips fitted in the cradle of her pelvis, he gathered her in his arms and took her mouth in a searing kiss. Evelyn’s head spun as the sweetness of it took on a more carnal nuance with the taste of her own arousal slicking his lips.

  The urgency of his cock against her thigh reminded her that while she had been brought to a satisfactory end, Hugh had not, and for the second night in a row.

  Pressing a hand to his chest, she gazed up at him and gathered the courage she needed to go through with the thought that had just dropped into her mind. While she might not be ready to allow him into her body, she did not wish to leave him unfulfilled for yet another night.

  “Evelyn,” he rasped when she allowed her hands to travel lower, toward the buttons of his fall. “You shouldn’t.”

  Her hands shook, but she forced them into action anyway, loosening the first button. “I think now would be a good time for you to call me Evie.”

  It wasn’t a name anyone outside her family used, but the man had just had his mouth on her most secret of places. Surely that warranted the use of the shortened version of her name.

  “Evie,” he groaned, when she loosened another button, then another. “We agreed to kissing only.”

  “I make the rules, remember?” she reminded him, surprising even herself with the command in her voice. “I have decided that I want to touch you as you touched me last night.”

  Patience had told her how, mentioning that many men did it to themselves but seemed to like it so much more when another person was doing the frigging.

  “Only if it’s what you truly want,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel as if you have to.”

  Her response died on her lips as his cock fell free, hard and flushed. It thrust out at her from a nest of coarse black hair, its flared head glistening with the same sort of wetness that now smeared the insides of her thighs. He sucked in a breath when she took hold of it, finding it hot to the touch, the skin soft with hardness like iron beneath it. The contradictory nature of the organ fed her curiosity, making her wonder how he would respond to her ministrations, what his own crisis would look and sound like.

  “Is it painful?” she asked, inclining her head and studying the pulsing vein running along its side, thrumming with its own heartbeat.

  He issued a snort of laughter. “It will be if I am forced to remain like this for much longer.”

  She could see how that might be uncomfortable. He needed relief, and Evelyn was determined that he would have it.

  Wrapping her other hand around him, she gave his cock a squeeze, testing him. His head dropped and he let out a tortured sound, as if someone had plunged a dagger into his heart. Evelyn snatched her hands away, horror washing over her as she realized she’d hurt him.

  “Oh, I…”

  He took hold of her wrist and urged her hand back to his erection. “For the love of God, don’t stop. Please.”

  Relief eased her tensed limbs, and she took hold of him on
ce more, realizing now that the sound had been one of pleasure. She stroked him as she’d seen the women do in the drawings she had studied. Tightening her fingers around him, she found a steady rhythm, pulling and caressing with a tentativeness that melted away the longer she stroked his cock. He responded with fervor, groaning and thrusting his hips into the sheath of her hands.

  The cords of his neck tensed and stretched as he threw his head back, urging her faster, wrapping one of his hands around hers to help guide her. She learned the amount of pressure he liked, and the rhythm that made guttural sounds emit from deep within his chest. Her gaze fixed onto where his pulse beat hard and fast in his throat, unable to resist for too long before she put her mouth there, kissing and nibbling him like he had done her.

  He jerked and stiffened atop her, muttering a string of unintelligible oaths as he reached his crisis, his cock pulsing in her hands and releasing the font of his seed, hot and sticky across her belly.

  * * *

  Hugh glanced up at the woman who had become the subject of his sketchbook once falling into a deep sleep. He had gotten very good at catering to the wants and needs of women while stifling his own urges. With virginal women being a specialty of sorts, he’d grown used to going unfulfilled for as long as it took to prepare them for intercourse. She’d shocked him with her willingness to please him, and now instead of returning home restless and agitated, he sat in a chair near the fire, content to linger until she awakened.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave without saying good-bye, and after cleaning her up and tucking her into his arms for a little while she had drifted off. As well, he wanted to ensure he did not leave her feeling confused or ashamed after what they’d done. Reassuring her now would circumvent another incident like the one that had begun the evening. Before he left, he would ensure she understood that things ought to continue happening just the way they had tonight—at the pace she set, and with her steering them in the direction she desired.

  With nothing to do but wait, Hugh had recovered his satchel from where he’d dropped it upon entering the room. He’d taken his chair from dinner and positioned himself for ideal lighting—drawing on the glow of the fire as well as a lamp resting on a table nearby. He had begun with a few simple practice sketches of hands, which he executed only a little better than he had earlier this week.

  Then, he’d glanced up to take in the sight of Evelyn, finding her to be the perfect subject of the moment. Hair splayed over the pillows, the coverlet pulled up to her chest, head tilted at just the right angle to flaunt her jawline, he couldn’t resist the urge to put her on paper. So, he’d flipped to a fresh, blank sheet and begun; first the bed with its four posters and curtains, then Evelyn and the drape of the bedclothes covering her. He took his time with her limbs, one of which was bent so that a hand lay near her face, the other laid over her middle atop the coverlet.

  So intent was he upon his work, he didn’t notice she’d awakened until he heard the rustle of sheets. He winced, not ready to lose that perfect pose before he’d finished, and he was so close.

  “Don’t move,” he said without looking up from his sketchbook. “I’m almost done.”

  Her voice reached out to him, thickened from sleep. “What are you doing?”

  “Sketching you,” he mumbled, glancing up to study the curve of the hand near her face.

  He met her gaze and found her watching him with a heavy measure of interest and curiosity. Even so, she remained perfectly still, just as he’d instructed.

  “I did not know you were an artist, though that does explain the stains on your fingernails.”

  With a frown, he studied the back of one hand, finding smudges of yellow ochre that hadn’t washed off when he’d prepared to come here. “Deuced hard to wash out, but it’s one of my best pigments. And don’t worry, no one ever sees the inside of my sketchbook except my instructors at the Royal Academy, and your face isn’t detailed enough for anyone to recognize you.”

  “No one would recognize me, anyway,” she whispered as he went back to his work, biting the inside of his cheek as he worked to get the length of her fingers just right. “No one hardly ever looks at me.”

  He paused, charcoal poised above the page, and looked up at her again. For reasons he didn’t understand, the fact that she went about life feeling all but invisible annoyed him. He wanted to sketch her face in full detail, paint it in a way that would show her to her advantage—in the way he saw her. He wanted to hang portraits of her on walls and plaster the outside of buildings with drawings of her and force the world to see what he saw, what they’d been missing by failing to pay her any heed.

  “So, you are a student of the Royal Academy,” she said, breaking the tense silence that had fallen between them. “That sounds very exciting. You must be quite talented.”

  He smirked. “My instructors might say that the perception of talent is purely subjective. But I like to think I am at least adept at it.”

  Something akin to humor lit in her eyes and a small smirk played over her lips. “May I see when you are finished?”

  He was usually hesitant to show anyone the contents of his sketchbook. Paintings were different, as no one ever saw them until he felt they were perfect. He was surprised to realize he didn’t mind showing her his sketch in the last.

  “Of course…nearly done. You’ve lovely hands by the way. Perfect fingers, long and slender.”

  And they weren’t only nice to look at. His cock began stirring again as he thought of the way she’d used those hands on him. Shifting a bit in his chair, he focused on the task at hand. Thinking overlong on what had just happened would drive him back into that bed with her.

  “I’ve never given thought to such things,” she mused aloud. “The beauty of something as innocuous as a pair of hands.”

  He pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and tilted the book, his charcoal moving with swift, precise strokes. “Studying art teaches you to see the beauty in everything and find a way to translate it onto paper or a canvas or clay.”

  “You sculpt also?”

  “Occasionally, though I am better with paint and charcoal. It is my—”

  He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d nearly crossed a line. His previous keepers had expressed only a cursory interest in his work, most not caring beyond asking him to immortalize them in sketches. It was a separate part of his identity, anyway. With his keeper, he was an object of amusement and pleasure. At the Royal Academy and within the walls of his studio at home, he was an artist. The two seldom merged.

  “Yes?” she prodded.

  He paused, glancing up to find her staring at him, anticipating his next words. Hugh might have expected her to grow restless from having to lie so still, but she merely watched him, patiently awaiting what he might say next. In her eyes he saw curiosity and an earnest desire to know what he’d stopped himself from saying.

  What could be the harm in it? After tonight, they were more intimately acquainted, and he found that he actually liked her.

  Going back to his sketch, he examined the details of the hand lying over her belly, finding he was quite satisfied with his work on the other one.

  “It is my wish to become a portraitist,” he replied. “That is my primary aim in attending the Academy. I’m currently working on a painting for the Summer Exhibition. My third year submitting my work, and hopefully my first year having it accepted.”

  “I have the utmost faith in you.”

  He smiled at that, giving her a look over the top of his book. “You haven’t even seen my work yet.”

  Raising her chin a tick, she winked. “I don’t need to see it. I can tell by watching you sketch that you’re a proper artist. So serious as you look upon your work, your hands moving just so...such a look of concentration upon your face. Besides, even if you were a terrible artist I would still hope for you to have what you wish. You seem like a good sort of person, and I believe good people should have what they desire.”

  At t
he moment, what he desired was to climb into that bed and find his way between her legs again with his tongue once more, then his fingers, then his cock. The stirring in his breeches was distracting, but he managed to finish off his sketch with a flourish, signing it with his initials in the lower right corner with swirls on the R of his last name.

  “All done. Would you like to come see?”

  With a nod, she moved to leave the bed, using the coverlet to keep herself shielded for as long as possible before she bent to pick up her dressing gown. He wanted to tell her it was no use; now that he’d seen her without clothing, he could imagine her naked whenever he wished. But he simply reached for her as she drew near and pulled her down onto his knee.

  He put the sketchbook in her hands, glancing up at her as she studied his rendering. Pride swelled in him as her face took on an expression of awe, lips parting.

  “Oh, Hugh,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

  He kissed her shoulder. “I had a beautiful subject to work with.”

  Ignoring his compliment, she went on studying the sketch. “Your family must be proud. You’ll be quite famous someday, I’m sure of it.”

  As always, the mention of his family put a bitter taste in his mouth. He urged her to her feet and stood, crossing to the table where he found his goblet still partially filled with claret. After taking what was left in one swallow, he winced and turned to face her with a shrug he’d meant to come off as nonchalant. He was not certain he succeeded. Yet again, she’d begun prodding deeper than he usually preferred when speaking of his life to a keeper. But, after the things she’d shared with him he could hardly refuse to tell her anything.

  “They aren’t, actually. My father is an earl, and as you know stooping so low as working for a living is simply not done...even if I’m only a fourth son...even if my work is a dignified profession such as painting.”

  Her mouth fell open, then one hand came up over her lips as she looked at him as if he were a kicked puppy. This was why he never discussed his family. He hated the pity, the looks, the way people didn’t seem to know how to interact with him after finding out he’d been disowned.