by Thea Devine
Her breasts—he needed to feel her breasts ... he moved with her to a nearby chair and he pulled her onto his lap, and he filled her mouth and took her taut-tipped naked breast into his hand and he wasn't sure that something didn't give in the heat of his pulsating male possession of it.
He held her tightly, he ground her soft buttocks against his hard heat, he took her breasts, he felt them, he stroked them, he fondled them, but he never once touched her voluptuous nipples.
He felt her squirming, demanding he caress her hot hard peaks, and he responded by stroking the curve of her breasts just to, just until the moment he would have touched her naked nipples, and he heard her groan deep in her throat, felt her arch herself and thrust her breasts into his hands, demanding the last exquisite shaft of pleasure.
He held her breasts and assuaged her mouth, sucking at her tongue the way he would have pulled and sucked at her nipples, and he felt her anger that he would deny her the feeling of his fingers caressing her lush hard nipples.
She did not know who was enslaved by whom. If he would have touched her, there, she thought she might have given herself to him right then if only to feel the rainbow sensation waiting for release in the nakedness of her nipples.
His hands were hot and heavy on her breasts, his fingers delicate as air when he caressed them, his male instinct as unerring as time when he found the perfect place to arouse her and reduce her to the mindless yearning to submit.
And his mouth, even his mouth —the hot wet ferocity of his kisses goaded her, challenged her, demanded that she open her mouth and deepen the kisses, and give him her tongue willingly to
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taste and suck in a swirl of torrid caresses. She knew nothing of men's kisses and she knew everything about them now, and she wanted more and more, and it was as if her mind had disconnected from the avid need of her body and she wanted only the deep hard wet possession of his mouth.
And his hands. And the bold thrusting prod of the iron source of his manhood against the soft curve of her buttocks. And the nakedness of her breast and his hot hands stroking, pulling, feeling its contour, every soft luscious inch of it except her bulging naked nipple.
She couldn't bear it, she couldn't. She wanted to take his hand and show him precisely where he must encircle his fingers; and she thought that such a bold move would be tantamount to surrender to the dazzling seduction of his hands and mouth, and she mustn't, she must not—she must be stronger than he to keep the balance, the equality, the power.
She felt his body go rigid for an infinitesimal space of time, and his mouth ease away from hers, and she had but that moment to quell the insanely voluptuous sensations that possessed her and await what he chose to do next.
"Diana, huntress of desire, with just enough guile to capture a man's soul," he murmured. "You are very good, my dear. Most excellent, in fact. Such beautiful breasts, made to be naked and demanding a man's caress. No, Diana, you don't leave me yet. I like the feel of you writhing with pleasure on my lap, and your nipples, swollen with yearning. But I will not let them seduce me, Diana—not this time."
She felt him ease her to her feet and she moved away from him— she had to or surely she would have struck him for his arrogance, for his insolence and for leaving her with the unresolved ache in her breasts.
"This is but the prelude to the terms of our agreement," he said, and the smug tone in his voice was almost killing. None of it was meaningful, none of the feelings, none of the pleasure—oh, and wasn't that a man to a fault. When a woman believed for one moment that lust fell by the wayside, it was the very moment a man was crowing over his conquest.
She would never make that mistake again. His caresses could
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never be consequential: he was out to use her every bit as she had intended to use him. The bargain was struck, and everything new and seductive about this experience must be savored but never in surrender.
Looking at his impassive face, she was sure there was no other way. A stain blotted the power between his legs. Without it, he could never be forceful, and she would never be willing.
The first test was over and now she needed the long night to reveal to her what it meant.
"When I see you next, you will be wearing something I will send to you, a gift for the delightful surprise of your potency, Diana. Don't take the chance of not donning it every night until I come. Your compliance is part of our agreement, and I expect it."
"As you wish, my lord," she murmured, hating him.
"Very good, Diana. Turn away now and I'll leave you . . ."
She whirled as the door closed gently behind him. When she looked in the hallway, there was no one around.
******************
The gift arrived the morning of the card party, and she wondered which of the myriad of seamstresses in town had stayed awake all night and all day to cut and sew the confection she removed from the box that awaited her silently and secretly in her bedroom when she returned from a morning's drive with Lady Waynflete.
It was blue, a deep sky blue to match her eyes, and it was filmy and gauzy, and cut so low in front there was no way to cover her breasts and still tie the gown around her. The neckline was layered with ruffles and the robe ended in a deep flounce around her feet, and in ruffles around her wrists. There was but one hook, just below her breasts, to close the edges right at her midriff, and one tie to wrap around her waist.
And when she held the creation up to the light, she saw it was so light and translucent that it was certain that when she wore it, she would no longer have any secrets from Southam.
Your compliance . . . Every night she must wear this harlot's robe until he came, and it and his reaction to it would be the prelude to the ultimate conclusion to their bargain.
If she wore it, her breasts would betray her. Just thinking about
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it sent a skimming excitement through her. Just imagining the flame in Southern's eyes to have all of her nakedness revealed to him . . .
Just imagining she could bring him to heel with such puny weapons as her body and a fluffy dress of gauze was laughable. She was more sensible than that.
Or was she?
There was something about the power of her nakedness which sat strong and vibrant deep within her. She knew, deep within that feminine resource, that the power was there, that she could wield it, and she could vanquish him.
She knew it.
Her mouth was swollen with it—and on the succeeding day of his nocturnal visit, she had to spend the entire morning in bed with cold compresses to reduce the swelling before she could face Lady Waynflete.
And she spent all of her waking hours trying to determine just how he had gained access to the house without Lady Waynflete's knowledge.
He was a cat, a slinky sinuous tiger, but it was she who knew how to bare her claws . . . and use them.
She dressed for the evening in a slight fever of expectation, Tonight she wore the new tunic dress with its lavender underdress, and she wore silver on her wrists and at her neck, and the diadem in her hair, and she had again the little tussle with Lady Waynflete over wearing the cape instead of a thin wrapper, and once again they compromised by taking the cape and the wrapper with Jainee's promise to leave the cape in the carriage.
The Westerlys were a stodgy middle-aged couple with a coterie of younger friends who were not loath to take advantage of their hospitality when town was thin of company. The food was excellent, the location of the house impeccable, the social strata impressive, and all in all, Jainee thought, all the Westerlys had to do was beckon and the whole town would obligingly come to call and play lukewarm games of piquet, whist and loo at positively frigid levels of wagering, all to pass a boring evening.
She had to hold herself back from making reckless bets just to liven things up. There wasn't a person of interest in any of the three
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rooms in which the play was engaged, and since she was unmarried and unattend
ed, she had to stay for the most part with Lady Waynflete, and she had to be introduced to anyone, barring Mr. Westerly, with whom she wished to converse.
It was a deadly evening, and she was sure Lady Waynflete was watching her with a jaundiced eye, and so she behaved as prettily as she knew how, minded her manners and closed her mouth when she felt the urge to be forthright.
"Well, I thought Nick and Jeremy would at least put in an appearance," Lady Waynflete said dampingly as the evening wore into a cage of pure boredom. "It would have livened things up some."
"I could read the fortune cards," Jainee suggested with gentle malice.
"Oh my dear, never! Not here, at any rate. Too upright for that sort of thing. No, we will depart soon, I promise. I am impressed with your forbearance."
Oh, she had been so good when her fingers just itched to shuffle the cards and kindle a real round of wagering and gaming the likes of which those people probably had never seen.
Yes, she had been perfect and circumspect, and even colorless, if it came to that, and Lady Waynflete had bleached the fairy tale once again in public and with her respectable face, Jainee had been once again taken into the fold.
"You do surprise me," Lady Waynflete admitted as they headed home.
"I surprise myself," Jainee said, "but look you, madame, I am not without manners or some sense of style. I will not embarrass you, I promise."
"Yes," Lady Waynflete said drily, "I do believe you have that much sensibility at least."
But did she, when she was in a fever to return to the house and lock herself away in her room and languish in the tantalizing existence of the gown that bared her breasts?
Don't take the chance of not wearing it. . .
Was that sensible, that she was even thinking of playing this game with him, and submitting to his sensual demands? She was no more sensible than a doorknob, she thought, and twice as hard-
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headed.
She wanted to . . . try on the gown.
Try it on—or wear it to wait for him?
/ expect it. . .
It was a game, a game of minds and wits, she thought, slipping out of her tunic and the underdress and the thin shift which underlay the whole.
Naked, except for her white silk stockings, she reached for the robe and slipped her arms into the sleeves.
It enveloped her body like a cloud of soft silk.
She fit the hook into its closure under her breasts and felt the tightening of the material around her bosom as the shape of the underbodice pushed and lifted her breasts upward and closer together in a compellingly enticing way, the silky tactile ruffles a flirty frame around them.
Her nipples hardened instantly with the unfamiliar angle of the thrust of her breasts, and her body canted to accommodate the sensuous arch of her back.
She felt liquid with the heat of her body and the naked blatant display of her breasts: she loved it. The feeling swamped her, seduced her, possessed her. Every night as she awaited him, she would feel this . . . this power, this potent femininity, this bondage to the greed of her body.
How sensible was that?
She had only to think of his powerful wet kisses and her body became liqueous with the power she could have over him. She had only to remember his seeking hands exploring the contour of her naked breasts, and she knew that if he had fondled her nipples, she would have enslaved him forever.
She knew, she knew, and she was certain he would fight and fight and make the most domineering demands, and in the end, she would subdue him.
If only he would come tonight, when her body was new to nakedness and velvet with yearning . . .
She slept, waiting in the gown as he commanded and he—he whiled away the night envisioning her just that way, compliant and waiting, naked and dressed and revealed to him all at the same time.
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For that ravishing moment of revelation, he could wait. He could wait... but not for long.
******************
The sensuous night magic evaporated in the morning, and when she awakened, Jainee felt not a little foolish for raising her hopes to a fever pitch and then just falling asleep.
But then, he had to come, and she stashed the gown in the wardrobe case and resolved not to be seduced by the thought of it again.
The rest of the day was spent doing the rounds, visiting, shopping, napping, reading . . . yes, reading was a treat, she had discovered; it kept her mind off of the cold-blooded lord seducer, and it stiffened her resolve to pay him back in his own coin, and so she got through the next two days and nights, even while she slipped into the gown and felt the same overwhelming sense of her feminine source and strength, and the same anomalous hatred of him who had shown it to her.
Defiantly, she went to bed without donning the gown, and she awakened all at once in the middle of the night with the sense something was wrong. And then she knew: she missed the gown and the sweet subtle nakedness of her breasts thrusts forward in that raw enticing way. Instantly, she jumped out of bed, stripped off her nightgown and ran to the wardrobe. Her hand groped for it in the dim ember-lit room and she felt a shuddering excitement as she pulled it from the wardrobe and slid her arms into the sleeves.
And then, and then—the alluring crush of her breasts as she hooked in the midriff and then turned toward the glowing firelight to adjust the set of the neckline and the thrust of her breasts.
And then she looked up—and he was there, his eyes devouring the lush fullness of her naked breasts in the gown he had designed to display them.
She felt like a goddess and he was worshipping at the shrine of her divine femininity. She didn't move. He did not command her.
"You have only just changed," he said suddenly, his eyes still ablaze with heat and desire.
She licked her lips. "I wear the gown," she said, her tone faintly defiant. "I have not reneged."
"If you did ..." he murmured.
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"If I did?" she whispered.
"You would pay the price."
Her body tingled with excitement at the thought of flaunting him, just once, oh just one little time; he might have come just five minutes sooner and found her without her gown and then — what price? She felt herself arching toward him, deliberately trying to seduce him with her breasts. "Would you send me away?"
He didn't answer; he could not keep his eyes from her billowy taut-nippled breasts, and transparent curve of her body through the gown, and the thick tuft of feminine hair so sensually visible. "I would give you a second chance," he said finally.
She moved toward him, one step. "And then?"
"Don't test me, Diana." He did not like her enigmatic smile. Or the way she moved around the room to tantalize and entice him, as if she were in control and not he. But they both knew better. She was testing him already, as she had done two nights before, turning away deliberately, and then letting him see the silhouette of her rounded peaked breasts, and then facing him, to give him a full unobstructed view.
She saw the desire flame to life in his eyes as she moved around the room, arching, bending, exaggerating her movements in order to entice him. She did it out of defiance, out of need. The air was thick with suppressed desire, his, hers, explosive with the combination of the two of them and her lush obedience to his will.
And yet it was a duel to see who would break first.
And she meant it to be him.
"Do you like the gown, my lord?" she asked softly as she flaunted her nakedness deliberately in front of him.
"I gave you the gown."
"And do I look the way you envisioned in the gown?" she went on.
"I have paid you the compliment of the gown," he growled.
Oh now . . . she narrowed her eyes and lowered them to that deliciously telling part of his body. How wonderful were the skintight pantaloons — they revealed every bulge, every thick inch, every throbbing response to her naked breasts. He could not hide. That pulsating iron length of him very defi
nitely wanted her.
He watched her eyes and he could have sworn he elongated an-
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other inch under her knowing gaze. Only a jade could wear such a gown with such aplomb; that smug smile hid a world of experience.
She was exhibiting her nakedness with no sense of modesty at all: she wanted him to look, to touch, to feel. She loved the gown, she loved flaunting her breasts; if he told her to strip the gown off, she would tear it away in a second and reveal her naked body to him.
She was begging to be taken. She knew exactly the moment to tantalize and tease him by turning her back to him. She knew just when to reveal herself to him again. She did it once—twice now, and he felt like ripping the gown away and riding her taunting nakedness to hell and back.
She was the goddess of naked bitches and he was not done with her yet. He pulled a chair away from the wall with the toe of his boot. "Get over here," he commanded, and she came, twitching her hips and thrusting her breasts, her body streaming with excitement.
He pulled her into his wet greedy kiss and onto his lap as he sank into the chair. He had waited for that mouth, that hot honey of lusty avarice, who played the courtesan's games with such consummate skill. Her mouth was ready for him, eager even, her tongue teasing and inviting him to explore its lush nectar.
Hot wet voracious kisses, deep honey-wet taste of tongue, her body squirming and wriggling with the pure wanton arousal of his thick lush kisses, begging for more, arching against him, her naked breasts insistent against his chest, her bottom writhing enticingly against his iron-hard male shaft.
Her body was liquid with sensation. She felt everything all at once: the thick wetness of his kisses, the rock hard length of his manhood beneath her buttocks, the nakedness of her breasts begging for his touch. She felt his hands on her thighs, on her buttocks, on her hips, grinding her down harder and harder against his jutting length. She wanted to strip away the gown to give him all of her body, hot, naked, willing. But only if he caressed her nipples. Only if he took her there . . . only—