Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  “Don’t be shy. I can see you squirming. You’re wet and hot and wanting my cock inside you, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “I want—”

  “This cock.” He unbuttoned his breeches and drew out his erection. “Say it, Miss Leslie, if you want me to put this inside you and make you come again.”

  She shut her eyes and softly said, “I want your … cock … inside me.”

  “Now open your eyes and look at me when you say that.”

  “Please—I want your—cock … inside me.” The heat in her voice matched the heat in her eyes.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve said that before.” She shook her head.

  “No more than you’ve ever felt a prick inside you.”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast.

  “You’re very quiet when you’re aroused, Miss Leslie. I do believe I’ve found a way to muzzle your tongue.”

  Her gaze came up, the heat in her eyes fueled by more than passion, such spurious mockery galling. “How insolent you are, my lord. It almost makes one inclined to show you exactly what I can do with my tongue. Perhaps I’ll take the initiative,” she remarked, beginning to undo the tie on her robe. “What do you think of that?”

  “I was only teasing, darling.”

  “I’m not.” Rarely docile, she’d already exhausted her quota in the previous few exchanges with the earl. Rising from her chair, she walked the few steps to stand directly before him. Slipping his robe from her shoulders, she let it slide to the floor. “Look now, my lord, and if you’re very good, I may let you touch me.” She slid two fingertips down the cleft of her mons. “Would you like to feel this with your cock,” she murmured, gently massaging her sleek, heated passage. “I’m not sure how far I’ll let you go. Maybe I’ll let you in only partway.” She shrugged minutely and her breasts quivered. “Or if you’re very good, I’ll let you put that cock of yours all the way inside me. Do you think you’d like the feel of that?”

  “You’re pushing the wrong man.” His voice was flat.

  “And you the wrong woman,” she sweetly replied.

  “So you’re going to fuck me?” The words, however softly put, held a distinct challenge.

  She glanced down at his lap. “It looks like you’re ready. All I have to do,” she said, moving a step forward and beginning to lower herself over his thighs, “is see if this lovely penis wants what I want.”

  His hands closed around her waist, and lunging up, he lifted her bodily, carrying her effortlessly at arm’s length. Striding to the bed, fire in his eyes, he tossed her down and growled, “Don’t move.”

  “I have no intention of moving, my lord,” she purred, looking up at him with a correspondingly theatrical gaze. “Do come join me.”

  His breeches were tossed aside in seconds, and he smoothly lowered himself between her legs with the finesse of considerable practice. “Now then, Miss Leslie, I believe I’ll be going in all the way.”

  Her lashes lifted marginally. “If I let you.”

  He softly snorted. “No question of that.”

  “Well, then?” Her blue gaze was insolent, perhaps triumphant.

  And he immediately took issue with her victress look. “Perhaps I’ll make you wait after all.”

  “Dermott!” she wailed, suddenly throwing her arms around him. “For pity’s sake! You win, you win … you’ll always win. Now, just make love to me before I die….”

  The tension left his shoulders as he lay braced above her, and his flashing grin warmed her heart. “You beautiful, hot little puss,” he whispered, bending his head to brush her mouth with a kiss.

  “Hot, darling, is the operative word. If you don’t mind.”

  “Hell no,” he cordially answered, cheerful once again, his joy out of all proportion to the simple act of intercourse. “I don’t mind at all.” Because of who it was, he thought, because this tantalizing beauty touched some hidden source of pleasure within him. Easing himself forward, he forced her thighs wider with the pressure of his hips. “Relax now,” he murmured.

  “I am,” she breathed, clinging to him, letting her thighs fall open, her pulsing interior wet with desire.

  But he was scrupulously cautious as he advanced forward, easing his erection into her sleek warmth by very slow degrees, watching her face for any indication of pain. She squeaked in the merest breath of sound when he struck the barrier of her hymenal tissue, and he paused, not sure himself the degree of brutality required.

  “Dermott …” Her soft cry was urgent, feverish.

  Feeling like some plundering barbarian, he took a deep breath.

  “I need you….”

  She was gently writhing beneath him as he hesitated, his erection clasped tightly in her heated passage, the friction intense on the very crest of his penis.

  “Dermott!” she cried.

  He suddenly plunged forward, his momentum propelled by the full force of his lower body, the resisting tissue swiftly pierced, rent, his erection smashing through, driving in so deeply, he was fully submerged before she screamed.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, utterly motionless inside her, feeling the worst of brutes, the echoes of her cry ringing in his ears. “I’m sorry….”

  Her nails cutting into the flesh of his shoulders loosened. He felt her take a deep breath, saw the color return to her face. And then her eyes opened.

  “That’s the worst of it, I think.” Regret colored his voice.

  Her smile gave him heart. “And now I’m an heiress again,” she whispered. One brow rose in teasing query. “Are you going to do anything else for me, my lord?”

  He softly chuckled. “I’m ready if you’re ready.”

  “Try.”

  His talents for finesse were put to the test, but then, he’d passed that test a thousand times before, his expertise in the boudoir both a gift and a skill. He moved by infinitesimal degrees, prudent and deliberate at first, until her arms eased their grip, until the rhythm of her breathing altered to a more natural state, until he felt the liquid heat of her desire flow around him. Until at last she arched up into his downstroke.

  “Better?” he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek.

  “Very, very good, my lord,” she murmured, her hands sliding down his back, resting at the base of his spine. “Exceptionally good …” she purred, her palms pressing down hard to hold him in place for a lush second more, the sweet ache spiraling outward, the intensity of sensation filling her brain. “I’m going to keep you here forever.”

  He found the thought appealing at the moment, his own desires beginning to peak, the only question that of timing. He took the briefest moment to insert a sponge to prevent conception, something she’d learned at Molly’s as well. And then gently entering her again, he carefully watched her face as he moved within her, listened to her breathing, matched the increasing urgency of her rhythm, repressing his own eagerness—waiting for her.

  And some moments later, she clutched at him, whimpering, and understanding the merits of opportune harmony, and he drove in, buried himself deep inside her, held himself hard against her womb. As she cried out and melted in orgasmic delirium, he too climaxed, flooding her, filling her, experiencing a primordial ecstasy so deep and pure and thrilling, it seemed as though they were meant to mate by some grand design of the universe.

  “Don’t plan on sleeping tonight,” Isabella whispered a moment later, intoxication still stirring deliciously in the core of her body. “I’m going to need you as stud.”

  “Your devoted servant,” he urbanely replied, wondering if they’d been touched by some mystical karma and this woman who’d stumbled into Molly’s one rainy night was the Circe of his soul.

  “Ahem …” The voice was Pomeroy’s from the other side of the door.

  Isabella went rigid in his arms. “Go away!” Dermott shouted.

  “Away, sir?” A very real indication of tears echoed through the door.

  “Does h
e cry often?” Isabella inquired, surprised a man of such hauteur succumbed to emotion.

  “Never to my recollection. Don’t go away,” Dermott murmured, kissing her lightly. Gently withdrawing, he wiped himself on the sheet and was shocked to see blood. “Jesus,” he muttered, turning to her, having forgotten. “I’m really sorry. You’re going to need some hot water.” Jumping from the bed, he shouted, “Wait, Pomeroy!”

  Quickly throwing on a dressing gown, he strode to the door and threw it open just as Isabella hid herself under the coverlet.

  “We need hot water. And I’ll take the food too,” he said, glancing at the numerous footmen holding trays, all of whom must have heard Isabella’s screams, for they looked either sheepish or entertained. “I’ll take the trays in myself,” he quickly said. “Just leave them.”

  “How much hot water, sir?” Pomeroy’s face was expressionless.

  “A bath, I think.”

  “Now, sir?” His master’s wishes were difficult to read.

  “Yes, now.” Dermott glanced at all the food. “I suppose the chef is in a temper.”

  “He has taken to his bed, my lord, with a bottle of brandy. My apologies if the food isn’t up to the usual standards. The sous-chefs have done their best.”

  “Thank them for me, Pomeroy. Things are a bit—er—irregular tonight.”

  A moment of strained silence ensued.

  “You may give all the servants a bonus,” Dermott abruptly said. “Talk to Shelby in the morning.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And once we have the bath, we won’t require any more service tonight.” “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Dermott nodded. “Good.” Picking up a tray, he walked back into the dressing room and shut the door.

  “A bonus no less,” one of the footmen gleefully remarked. “It sure be worth it when the master fucks a beauty like her. He be in a right fine humor afterward.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” another flunky noted. “She be as fine a piece as I ever saw—and scarce dressed at all, with her boobies near to fallin’ out.”

  A third man pronounced with relish, “I hear tell she were trained at Molly Crocker’s by the very best and she be able to do most anything at all that a man do want.”

  “The kitchen maid at that there brothel where the master spends so much time,” another said, adding his tidbit to the stew of gossip, “told her cousin at the Duke of Portland’s, who told her cousin Meg downstairs that that beauty we all saw with hardly no clothes on be herself a great heiress.”

  “That will be enough of such ridiculous gossip,” Pomeroy ordered. “An heiress indeed. A female dressed in such a fashion is far from an heiress. Now, I want everyone downstairs immediately, or you won’t see a shilling of that bonus. The master doesn’t wish to be disturbed—you heard him. And if a word gets out about his visitor tonight,” he warned, “I’ll sack you all.”

  Everyone nodded respectfully, but everyone also knew the story would be about town by breakfast the next day, the tittle-tattle of society’s indiscretions the lifeblood of daily conversation. From the breakfast rooms of dukes to the penny sheets sold on the street to the common man, gossip was adored, dissected, embellished, and passed on. And the Earl of Bathurst did more than his share to fuel the salacious flames of scandal.

  9

  “I SOMETIMES THINK I have too damned many servants,” Dermott grumbled, walking toward the bed. “You can come out, darling,” he added, glancing at the shape under the coverlet. “They’re all gone.”

  Isabella’s blond curls first appeared, then her flushed face, and last her creamy shoulders. “You do have too many servants,” she agreed, the coverlet clutched to her chest, wary still of visitors. “I suppose they heard everything.”

  “No, not at all,” he lied. “I told them I’d bring in the trays myself. So you needn’t see anyone. I’ll bring in bathwater as well. I have a pool and steam room downstairs along the lines of the Roman ones at Bath, but I don’t suppose you wish to go down there.”

  She looked alarmed. “And have everyone see me?”

  He nodded. “I thought not. You should probably stay in bed … with—that is, until you feel better … and can bathe. I’ll bring the trays to you.”

  She sat up and he placed the first tray on her lap. “I suppose … it hurts,” he gently said, looking apologetic. “I feel like hell about—well, about what I did.”

  “I’m not very sore … really,” she appeased. He looked so uncomfortable. “You were very kind.”

  He grimaced, feeling awkward in his role of despoiler. “I don’t know how … there are men who have a proclivity for virgins. I’ve never understood it.”

  “In this case, you did me a real service. Don’t feel guilty.”

  “Lie down and I’ll take the sponge out. Thanks to Molly, I’ve a good supply.” And as she lay down, he slipped his fingers inside and drew out the sponge, tossing it onto the bloodied sheet he’d pulled from the bed. “Should I have the housekeeper find some salve or balm?”

  “I’d be terribly embarrassed,” she answered, reaching for the hand he held out for her, easing into a seated position.

  “You might need it.”

  “Let’s wait until after the bath. Do stop apologizing though. I’m very pleased, not only that the deed is accomplished but that there was so much pleasure in it. You are very talented, my lord,” she teased.

  That he knew, but he was pleased she was in such good humor. “I’ll get the rest of the food.”

  “Then join me, darling. You must be hungry, too, after all your work.” Her grin was infectious.

  He was smiling as he walked from the room, the word darling having a particularly intoxicating sound when she uttered it. He began re-counting his drinks, wondering if he was that drunk or just that happy.

  Isabella knew she was happy. But then, every woman he made love to felt that way, she suspected. A shame he was so unavailable.

  Knowing better than to dwell on the unattainable though, she lifted the silver covers from the plates before her and took note of a luscious array of tiny shellfish on a bed of aromatic chutney, a compote of tropical fruit obviously greenhouse grown, and scallop-shaped buttered toast. Picking up a steaming shrimp with her fingers, she dipped it into the chutney and popped it into her mouth. Reality was quite pleasant enough without further contemplation of the earl’s inconstancy. The mingled flavors were delectable on her tongue, she was about to be fed with a degree of luxury that matched the splendor of Bathurst House, the delicious heat of her recent orgasm was still shimmering through her senses, and in short order the beautiful Dermott Ramsay would return to entertain her.

  If this wasn’t paradise, it was verifiably close.

  Bearing a second tray, the earl reentered the room. “You like the food.”

  Her warm gaze met his. “I could be smiling for other reasons.”

  “I’m reassured, then.”

  “That you haven’t lost your touch?”

  “That whatever pain I caused you has diminished.”

  “Rest assured, I’m feeling no pain, my lord. Au contraire.” She waved a hand over her tray. “Your sous-chefs are outstanding.”

  He set the tray down on a small table, then lifted the table nearer the bed so she could easily reach the food. “I hope you’re hungry. There are three more trays.”

  “Then I hope you like plump women.”

  He looked at her propped up against his pillows, pink and flushed from lovemaking, her nudity only half covered by the disarray of bedclothes. “I like you any way at all.”

  “How charming you are. I almost feel as though you mean it.”

  “I do.”

  A small silence fell while the earl speculated on his novel honesty and Isabella wondered if she could allow herself to believe so graceful a rogue.

  He glanced away first, uncomfortable with such frankness when his liaisons of late had studiousl
y avoided sincerity. “I’d better get the remaining food.”

  “Of course.”

  Her cool murmur brought his gaze back. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “No.” She had no right to take offense. They both had agreed to what they’d agreed.

  “You’re not angry?”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She inhaled faintly and smiled. “Me too.”

  “Friends?” Strangely, it mattered.

  “Of course.” Her voice was different now, warm, not cool, pleased.

  He felt relieved, when he hadn’t cared about much for a very long time. “Good.” Grinning, he dipped her a small bow.

  “I’m glad we had this talk,” she teased, lifting a scallop of buttered toast from the tray.

  He laughed. “You’re a demanding woman.”

  She flung the toast at him.

  He caught it midair, his reflexes superb. “If you want to fight that way, darling,” he murmured, “I’d be happy to accommodate you….”

  “I warn you, I’m very strong….”

  “Really.” He slipped the morsel of toast into his mouth.

  “I unload freight in our warehouses.”

  He chewed briefly and then swallowed. “Do you now.”

  “You won’t find it easy to wrestle me down.”

  “But a pleasure, I warrant …”

  “After I eat and bathe, I may allow you to try.”

  His smile warmed his eyes. “How nice.”

  “You needn’t sound so smug. I’ve arm-wrestled some of my grandfather’s sailors and won.”

  “I see.”

  “They were powerful men, I assure you.” “I’m sure they were.”

  “You’re beginning to annoy me, Bathurst.”

  He dipped his head infinitesimally. “When I’m trying my utmost to be agreeable.”

  She snorted softly. “Men aren’t always strongest.”

  He’d fought guerrilla troops for months on end in the foothills of the Himalayas, and while he agreed with her in principle, they were far from evenly matched. “I understand,” he pleasantly said.