Entangled (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  She lay back, holding her breath.

  But he brought his finger to her mouth again. She looked up and he grinned down at her, a knowing twinkle smoldering in his impossibly dark eyes. Seeing her face reflected in his wide, black pupils, she was astounded. Was that her, smiling like a wanton, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips wet and parted?

  He slipped his finger into her mouth and she sucked it clean again, the cool chocolate sliding on her tongue and down her throat, sweet, thick, and creamy. Again he returned his long finger to her eager sex, teasing and tantalizing, this time with a firmer, steadier caress. She wished he’d remove the rest of her clothes. She was in the kitchen of her grandfather’s respectable hotel and she didn’t care. If anyone walked in on them, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered in that moment.

  Must be the champagne.

  She was ready to blame it on anything, even on the unholy darkness of his wretched eyes and the lean sensuality of his strong hands. And on his rampant manhood swaying against her overheated flesh, pushing at the material of her drawers. She’d never had a hankering for fair-headed men with big shoulders and bossy manners. He wasn’t her type.

  Before this.

  His finger finally parted her nether lips and his flesh was inside her. It wasn’t yet as much as she wanted, but it was a slight salve for the reckless passion careening through her like a runaway horse and cart downhill. At last she could take one breath. Just a little one.

  He touched her core and she nearly exploded. She moved her hips, wanting more.

  He withdrew his finger.

  A curse blossomed on her lips, but she swallowed it down. Don’t let him see how badly behaved you can be or he’ll think you a little slattern.

  At last, he released her wrists, allowing her to partially sit up, resting on her elbows. His robe had slipped off his shoulders and he was naked between her thighs, holding his cock, rubbing his thumb over the broad, purple crest.

  He’s as bad as you are. Look at him. How could he tease like this and expect you to remain still?

  His expression was that of a man on fire, and his eyes looked directly down into hers so that she too caught flame. Shameless, he let her watch him as he worked his hand up and down, slow at first, then quicker. His breath was harsh, spitting out over his lips.

  “Give it to me,” she demanded, fierce as a ravenous tigress.

  “Not until we’re married,” he ground out.

  The man was going to finish without her. Oh no. Not if Daisy Wellfleet had any say in the matter.

  She scrabbled off the table and knelt on the hard floor to take him in her mouth. He fought her at first, but she grabbed his wrists as he had done to her and locked them to his thighs. She felt their strength tensing against her hold, but then he relented. It was her turn to torment.

  First she licked the full length from base to tip. He was trembling. She felt it, saw the ridges pulse, the veins fit to burst.

  Gently she licked and sucked his tight sac.

  “No.” he growled. “You won’t.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her lips moving up again to the proud, bulging head. “I will.”

  His hands shook off her grip at that point, but he didn’t move away. He clasped her head, his fingers splayed around it, lost in her hair, gripping tight.

  She smiled and kissed the thick vein that ran the length of his cock. Looking up at him, she asked innocently. “Now you will give it to me.” She fluttered her lashes. “Or must I bite you?”

  He said nothing comprehensible, although a low growl shook his body and he leaned his upper body back, pressing his shaft to her lips again.

  Daisy hitched up on her knees, opened her mouth and lowered it over him, taking the length in as far as she could without choking.

  * * * *

  He couldn’t stop her. And God help him, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  He knew he had to tell her he wasn’t Lawrence Bailey, but the carnal sensation, the friction and yet the softness was more than flesh and blood could stand. He grabbed her hair again, at first to keep himself from falling on her, then to run it through his fingers and feel it falling like angel’s kisses against his taut, straining thighs.

  Blood thumped a victorious fist inside his temple. Yes. Yes. Yes.

  His legs spread for balance and to lower himself and save her knees a little. Bare feet flat to the stone floor, he swung his hips, losing all other awareness but of that wondrous, demanding sucking of her hot velvet and sleek satin mouth.

  * * * *

  She swallowed greedily. Daisy had never done that before, but tonight she was avaricious, committed, and determined to be in control, to take him in and make him spill within her. She wanted nothing withheld from her and wouldn’t tolerate his refusal. If he came tonight, it wouldn’t be wasted.

  And it wasn’t. She drank down every drop as it jerked out of him and he moaned, digging his fingers into her hair, massaging her scalp.

  “There,” she purred, finally lifting her mouth from him, licking her lips, “it is better with company, just like you said.”

  * * * *

  Panting, he lifted her back to the table, wrenching her skirts to her waist this time, pulling her drawers down. She wouldn’t get away with her insolence. Forcing him to let her do that and making him come while threatening to bite him? Oh she’d pay for that little misdemeanor, no mistake. Holding her skirts bunched up in his left hand, he reached for the remains of his chocolate pudding, dipping his fingers deep into the glass and scooping out a palm full.

  She squirmed, her breasts blushing above the torn material of her bodice.

  He leaned over her, gathering the tattered rags of breath she’d wrenched out of him with her merciless lips and tongue. “I haven’t had my dessert yet. Did you think it was all yours?”

  “Yes,” she exhaled pertly, wriggling against the table. “Give it to me.”

  She was too bossy, too beautiful, too tempting, and she was smoking hot with desire. He saw it in her eyes, felt the lash of those lusty, heated waves scoring his skin. There was no more thought of telling her the truth tonight. His conscience was silent as the grave. He slapped his hand between her legs, slathering her with the chocolate. “My turn now for a little amuse-bouche.” Still holding her skirts up, he crouched and settled in for his own feast.

  * * * *

  She couldn’t breathe. First came the sudden chill of the creamy dessert, then the lecherous wet heat of his tongue lapping it off her steadily, firmly, thoroughly. She pressed herself into his mouth, gasping, desperate. The table under her trembled and rattled, the lingering fizzle of sweet champagne mingled with his seed in her mouth and created a unique potion, a potent liquor that made her drunk, caused the kitchen walls, the shining copper pots and pans hanging above her head, to spin and dance. She tried to reach for him, but that would require sitting up and she hadn’t the strength. Instead, she let herself go limp across the table top, succumbing to his greedy devouring with no more than a soft mewl of half-hearted reluctance.

  Daisy had no idea what an amuse-bouche might be, but she liked the sound of it. And the feel of it.

  He thrust his tongue into her and she closed her eyes tight, sucked on her lips. Her world began to unravel.

  There was surely no more chocolate left to lick clean.

  Showing off his mining skills, however, he delved deep, until the ground shook under his masterful tools and she yielded her hidden riches with a sharp, frenzied cry.

  The champagne glasses fell to the stone floor and smashed on impact, shattering into a hundred pieces, exactly as she did.

  Tomorrow she would look up amuse-bouche in her dictionary.

  Chapter Seven

  “I’m telling you, Miss Wellfleet, we must have rats or mice. They were in the pantry last night after the sugar and that chocolate you like so much. And the muslin was off the cream jug. One of those stupid girls must have left it uncovered. We’re lucky not to have a drowned rat in the jug this mor
ning. And I’ll tell you another thing, there was glass all over this floor when I came in, so the little buggers must have been running about—”

  “Yes, I see.” Daisy interrupted the irritable cook. “You’d better put down some poison for the rats, just in case. But there’s no need to blame Ginny or Violet for the cream being uncovered, I’m afraid that was me last night when I came in.”

  The cook squinted up at her. “You?”

  “I was looking for milk to drink.” She hastily added, “Thank you for being so diligent, Mrs. Smedley. I’m lucky to have you.”

  Usually the cook would agree with that comment and then hobble off back to her work, barely bothering to hide her disdain for the young woman who “thinks she can run a hotel”. Today, however, she muttered a polite, “Well, I do my best, Miss Wellfleet, thank you,” and followed it up by asking if she was ready for a breakfast tray in her office.

  Surprised, Daisy replied that she would like that very much and then watched the short, round figure move about the kitchen with more speed and efficiency than ever before. Ginny, cracking eggs into a basin, shot her a grateful look, and Daisy nodded to her before leaving the kitchen and making her way back to the foyer.

  The clock on the wall read nine o’clock. It was two hours until the wedding ceremony and still no sign of Lawrence this morning. She’d risen later than usual that day, scrambled to get dressed, and came down expecting chaos, but found everything working well enough without her. The staff, all busy about their morning tasks, greeted her jovially. For a moment, Daisy wondered if she was in the same hotel.

  She walked behind the counter and into her private office.

  Where the Devil was Lawrence? Had he changed his mind and left? A fearful chill swept her. Surely he wouldn’t leave, not after last night. He’d carried her up to her room and left her on her bed sometime around one in the morning she estimated. The last thing she remembered was his husky whisper in her ear bidding her goodnight and promising that the complete consummation of their marriage would be even better than what they’d had that night. Then he left her room, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving her drifting to sleep.

  Last night she’d wanted him to stay in her room and make love to her fully, but this morning, in pure, bright, spring daylight, she was glad he saw sense and left her to sleep alone. What they’d done was already more than she should ever have allowed. Guy could never know. As for consummating the marriage, absolutely not! Today she was sensible again, her shoes were back on her feet and she was not dizzy with champagne bubbles. Lawrence Bailey would not render her eyes misty again with his sly tricks. Chocolate indeed!

  She sat heavily at her desk and tapped her fingers on the ledger left open before her. At first she was too busy thinking about what happened in the kitchen last night to focus on the lines and columns of ink figures on the page. She pressed her legs together, her breath coming in short, hard gasps, her face hot. Thank goodness no one had heard them and come to investigate. Was she mad to let him do that to her? Possibly. She hadn’t been herself since yesterday when he walked into her hotel and first put his hands all over her.

  He certainly knew how to massage a woman’s foot.

  Gradually, her gaze sharpened on the numbers before her and she realized it was a list of wages paid to the staff. The writing wasn’t hers, but someone had been in there that morning and noted down not only wages paid to every member of staff but even small raises for each one marked as “groom’s gifts”.

  Now she understood the smiles and all the “good morning, Miss Wellfeets”.

  The bell rang and she slapped the ledger shut. Damn him! The moment she saw him she’d give him a stern lecture on not meddling with the hotel staff. And where did he get that much money to spend on “gifts” for her employees?

  Furious, she marched out to the counter, her mind still on Lawrence Bailey and wondering where he was hiding this morning.

  A tall, raven-haired man stood there, smiling, two very dark eyes looking her up and down with unguarded approval. He seemed instantly familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place him.

  “Harry Blackwood.” He held out his hand. “And you must be Miss Wellfleet. You were out last night when I arrived.”

  Blackwood. Of course, she recalled seeing his name in the guest registration book last night. He shook her hand firmly.

  “I’m off to London this morning. Might I pay my bill?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Blackwood.” She began to walk back into her office to fetch his bill, but then she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Would you be any relation to Randolph Blackwood?”

  He smiled very handsomely. “Randolph was my father. Did you know him?”

  “Some years ago. When I was a young girl.”

  “But you still are a young girl, Miss Wellfleet.”

  Was that a mischievous twinkle in his eye?

  “My father just died, in fact,” he added. “I came to attend his funeral a few days ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” She faltered. “I…didn’t know he died.” It didn’t seem possible, somehow. Randolph was always so full of life and spirit. But how odd that he should have crept into her thoughts lately. It was almost as if she’d felt him near, as if he came to say goodbye to her.

  She made out Harry Blackwood’s bill and he paid it, leaving a good tip for the boy who carried his luggage the previous evening. That was when she realized Albie, too, was missing this morning. The boy was usually there long before now, ready to push her patience.

  “Who was the gentleman who greeted me last night in your absence? I’m afraid I didn’t get his name.”

  She dragged her attention back to the man at the counter. “Oh, that would have been Mr. Lawrence Bailey.”

  “Lawrence Bailey?” She thought, for a moment he might laugh. “Then he isn’t the man I mistook him for. He looked familiar to me, but I must have been wrong.”

  The porter came over to help the departing guest with his trunk, and as she watched them pass through the doors, she noticed the wrapped package under Blackwood’s arm. It was very similar in size and shape to the one Lawrence had brought with him yesterday.

  A surge of curiosity shot through her and since she was incapable of doing anything else constructive today, she took the spare key to his room and went upstairs.

  * * * *

  With Albie close on his heels, Luke came out of the jewelers and strode along the street in search of the post office. The boy’s eyes had grown steadily wider with each visit made this morning, and as each of Miss Wellfleet’s vendors was paid in full, he’d calculated aloud the new total figure spent. Now, with the additional purchase of a gold ring, the monetary figure finally got above even his quick brain.

  “Ain’t you spent enough money today, mister?”

  “Just the price of one stamp left,” Luke replied coolly, glancing down at the letter in his hand. “A penny to cook a goose.”

  “Cook a goose?”

  “That’s right. The dishonorable Mr. Westerfield’s goose to be precise.”

  Albie kicked at the pavement. “I don’t like that feller.”

  “I don’t like him either.”

  “Then let him cook his own goose.”

  Luke chuckled. “Much more fun to do it for him.” He looked again at the address on the letter and imagined the furor soon to take place once Lord Westerfield found out that his son had taken up with a lady’s maid and was paying all her bills. Young Master Westerfield would soon be dashed off to London, or even shipped abroad.

  All in all, a good day’s work.

  Luke was going to marry her. It was decided. At some point yesterday evening, he made his choice. He wanted her beyond anything and there would be no debate in the matter. Marriage it would be and nothing less. He knew last night when he watched her take Guy Westerfield’s arm that he couldn’t have her sharing her time with other men, so being her lover wasn’t enough. She had to be his wife. It was all plain and simple, all s
traight in his mind. He wasn’t a man who expressed himself well with words, but he knew what he wanted.

  Of course, he still had to tell her the truth about his identity. He’d better make certain she was in a pleasant mood first. With his slight experience with women, after what happened in the kitchen, he didn’t think she’d make too much angry fuss about it. Daisy Wellfleet was a tinderbox waiting for a spark of flame, and that he could give her. He’d carefully left her wanting more last night, although it took every ounce of his willpower to leave her in her bed and retreat to his own room.

  Now he just had to make sure she came to the church and didn’t change her mind.

  He looked down at the small figure trotting alongside. “There’s one last thing you can do for me, Albert, and it’s very important, so make sure you do it exactly as I say.”

  Instantly the boy was all ears, eager to help his new idol.

  * * * *

  She stared up at the package he’d placed on top of the wardrobe. Much to her frustration, she couldn’t reach it. He’d deliberately put it high out of her way. If she moved the bed closer and stood on it, she might reach, but the brass bedstead was too heavy to lift alone, and she daren’t ask anyone to help her. She thought about rocking the wardrobe to dislodge the mysterious parcel, but that achieved nothing beyond a broken nail and a nervous sweat. The damned thing remained where it was, one corner sticking out over the carved wood door and taunting her cheekily.