by Jade Lee
Penny must have seen the confusion on her face, and she paused. "You know how it's done, right?"
Francine bit her lip. She had read things, but they weren't detailed enough. She didn't know exactly how it was done.
Penny cursed under her breath, but then got a very stern look on her face. "He puts his thing in you. They say it hurts the first time, but that it's wonderful the next time." Penny leaned forward. "Has he put it in you yet?"
"No. We've just kissed. And he's touched..." Her face. Her breasts. "And I want to do it again," she whispered.
"That's how it starts. But listen, there are ways to prevent a baby. I can help you. I can get you some things to put on his thing that will stop a baby." She looked sad. "Babies are wonderful, but they're an awful lot of work. You don't want one early."
Francine nodded. "Can you make a pair of slippers quickly? And put the... things in them?"
Penny nodded. "I'll do them first thing. You can have them day after tomorrow."
"So soon?"
Penny grinned. "I already thought you might want a pair. And I need the money."
"Well, you'll have lots of it because I want a dozen slippers! And walking shoes and boots and—"
Penny laughed and held up her hands. "We'll start with the slippers. And I'll just charge your father for the other things. I'll call it a special leather fee. And whenever you need more of them, you just tell me or Mrs. Mortimer. Say you need the special leather, and I'll be sure to get it to you."
Francine blinked, overcome by the friendship this woman had offered. She couldn't believe how easily they were talking of these things, but it felt as if they'd been friends forever.
"Thank you," Francine said.
Penny grinned, and this time, she was the one who hugged first. Then she quickly stepped back. "Here, you stand over there, by the mirror. Let your hair drop back just like this." She fluffed Francine's hair. "Now, Wendy will be gone for hours, and I know Mrs. Mortimer has some errands to do after she's done with Lord Redhill. I'll make sure to go with her, so you and Anthony will have an hour alone at least."
"An hour!" Francine gasped, already thinking of what they could do in an hour.
Penny giggled. "You stay right here. I'll go get Anthony."
Francine did exactly as she was told as Penny disappeared, but it was a hard position to hold. She was trying to look alluring, but her neck started to strain after a little bit. Her shoulders started to ache too, so she rolled them. Then just as she was doing this—with her breasts lifted and her head dropped back—Anthony stepped around the corner. Worse, she didn't even hear him come in. She didn't notice him until she straightened up, and he was standing right there watching her.
"Oh!" she gasped, as she scrambled to right herself.
"No, don't move. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
He didn't mean to startle her? He spoke so stiffly, as if she were a client or countess or something. He hadn't spoken to her like that since the very first day they'd met. No, not even then, because he'd thought she was just a cook then.
She looked down at her pretty gown and she sighed. "You don't like it, do you?"
He stepped forward, right up where she could see his boots next to her skirt. Then she felt his finger underneath her chin, lifting her face up to his. She went slowly, but he insisted. In the end, she was looking right into the dark intensity of his eyes.
"I think you're beautiful. I always have."
"But you don't like the gown. I can see it in your eyes. You don't like it."
"It's a perfect gown for you," he said, though his tone of voice suggested the exact opposite. "I always knew Mrs. Mortimer would design something wonderful for you. That's why I sent you here."
"I don't understand. I can tell you don't like it."
He sighed. "I don't like it, because now everyone else will know what I know. Everyone else will see your beauty and..." He grimaced. "And just like Lord Redhill says. They'll all think the wrong things when looking at you."
She blinked. "What wrong things?"
His eyes darkened, and his gaze dropped to her lips. Then it slid even lower. She knew it, because his breath shortened and she thought of all the other times he had touched her breasts. She felt her nipples tighten and her blood heat. She heard him groan, and she knew he was thinking of the same things.
She stood up so they were face to face, nearly touching. Nearly kissing. "I don't care what other people think, Anthony. What do you think?"
"I think what I've always thought, Francine."
"Wha—"
He kissed her. Not just a kiss, but a thrust and a demand. She didn't even have the chance to finish her question, but it didn't matter. He had taken possession of her mouth, and she reveled in it. Because his message was very clear: he wanted her. And she wanted him.
She wrapped her arms around him, trying to pull him closer. She arched her body into his and wondered how she could get him to do all the delicious things that Penny had been hinting about.
Meanwhile his tongue was like desperate thing, thrusting, touching, taking. His hands were no less firm as they stroked her back and gripped her hips. Then abruptly he pulled away. He used the placement of his hands to push her hips backwards as he gasped for breath. But his eyes were so dark, and his breath was a loud rasp. She couldn't catch her breath, but neither, it seemed, could he.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head.
"Don't speak," he said.
She slowly closed her lips together, but she didn't understand. He was like a madman, the way he stared at her.
"We can't do this. It's not right."
She touched his face. "I want to," she whispered. "I—"
He shook his head and pulled back. It was clear he was trying to gather his thoughts, trying to distract himself from her.
"Anthony—" she began, but he interrupted her, his words disjointed.
"I've been trying to tell you something for days. But we always get distracted into..." His voice trailed away and she knew exactly what he meant. They always started kissing and everything else disappeared.
"You can tell me anything, Anthony," she said.
"I have done something you won't like," he said.
Francine frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't be angry with me," Anthony said, looking miserable. "I took some of your tarts—the ones you gave me in a basket two days ago—and I sold them."
She frowned, not knowing what to think or what he meant. "For the money? You sold them for coin?"
He nodded. It was a quick slash of his chin. "I sold them at a butcher shop. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I had them as I was doing the books. And I let him have one."
"Who? The butcher?"
He nodded. "Mr. Petham. He liked them, and he wanted to see if he could sell them to his customers." He flinched though she hadn't said a word. "I suggested he try to sell them. And he did. And he wants more."
"Of my tarts?"
"Yes. Your tarts."
She just stared at him, her blood still pounding from what they'd been doing but her mind was churning. A butcher wanted to sell her tarts? The words didn't make any sense to her.
"Don't you understand?" he rasped. "I have made you into a tradeswoman. I want to make you into a tradeswoman. I want you to leave your home and your family. I want you to bake tarts and cakes. I want you to sell them and..."
"Be independent," she whispered.
"Be mine," he returned.
She froze inside. Her entire body went rigid with surprise, but then a strange thing happened. Her belly began to tremble, like a tiny shake deep inside. It wasn't the ache she was so familiar with, but a quiet form of excitement. Then when she tried to fight it, it just expanded. Soon her entire inside felt like it was squirming. Then her knees went weak, and she found herself collapsing onto the bench.
Anthony went with her. He steadied her with his arms, his eyes anxious.
"Are you asking me to marry you?" she interrupted. "And become a... a..."
"A tradeswoman. Yes. Yes, that is what I want."
She closed her eyes. A man—not just any man, but Anthony was asking her to marry him. She wanted to say yes. She wanted it desperately. But he knew—just like she did—that her father would disown her the moment that happened. Disown her, sack Anthony, and likely sack Anthony's father.
"You have a sister, too," she whispered. His parents, his sister, all of them depended on her father for food and shelter. "How much money did the tarts make? Was it a lot?"
He sighed. "No. A few shillings."
"A few shillings!" she gasped. "But I can make a lot of tarts! I can—"
He shook his head. "You have to think of the ingredients. Your father pays for them now. But you would have to buy them, and that costs money. You need a kitchen and—"
"And an oven. Pots. Spoons." All the things she'd give up if she left her home. She sighed. "Would those be very expensive to buy?"
He nodded. "So you see why I am sad. I know what I want, Francine. I look at you in that dress and I see everything I want. But—"
"Maybe we can convince my father." She said the words, but she didn't believe them. Her father had been planning her future since the day she was born. Marrying Anthony and becoming a baker was not part of his plan. "I am of age. We could marry anyway. We could go to Gretna Green."
He touched her cheek. It was a slow caress that left her skin sizzling where he touched. "Think of everything you would be giving up."
She did. She was. Certainly she'd lived poor before. As a child. But that was a long time ago. She hadn't been without food or clothing or a home... ever. She saw beggars on the street. She even gave them coins sometimes. Would she end up being one of them? Wretched, freezing, many of them ill? Would that be her? Her children?
"Anthony," she whispered, his name more of an aching call than a word.
He understood. He always understood her. He wrapped her in his arms, and he held her. And soon he was kissing her forehead, her eyes, her tears. It was all happening so fast. She had just realized she wanted to be strong like Penny, but the reality was scary, especially since she didn't really know what it would be like. She just had fears and the certain knowledge that she would hate being hungry and cold.
How lowering that the very day she decided to be strong was the very day she figured out that she wasn't strong at all. She was afraid. Too afraid to be bold.
He kissed her. It was a kiss of longing—achingly tender—and she sank into it. She met his mouth, she clutched his shoulders, and she took his hands and put them to her breasts. She didn't want to think about what she was doing. She just wanted to feel him with her, doing the things they'd done before, back when she hadn't realized she was too cowardly to marry him.
"I shouldn't," he gasped against her mouth. But even as he said it, his hands flowed over her breasts. But she had a corset on, and it was interfering with what she wanted. The fabric was too thick, the boning too strong for her to feel what she wanted to feel.
"Shhh," he said against her lips. "It's all right."
"No, it's not!" she cried. "I want to know. I want to feel."
He pulled back from her, his eyes dark, his lips moist. He appeared to be thinking about something, and his eyes darted around the room. They were alone.
"Don't worry. Penny is keeping everyone away," she said. "We have at least an hour."
He nodded. "There is something I want to do," he said. "Something..." His voice trailed away. "It is not something an honorable man would do, but—"
"Yes," she said. And when he didn't move, she repeated it more firmly. "Yes."
He swallowed and let his hand trail down to her thigh. "I want you to know what it should feel like between a man and a woman. So many women don't know, they don't... They don't know."
"Tell me," she said. Then she shook her head. "Show me."
He nodded. "You will have to be quiet. You will have to let me touch you places no one has ever touched you before."
"Yes," she whispered, her body tightening with excitement.
"I want to be the man to show you this. I want you to remember that it was me," he said, a note of possession in his tone.
She smiled, liking what he said. Liking that he wanted to be the man for her. "I want it too," she whispered.
"Then you need to lie back," he said.
She looked around, trying to see how she should—
"Lie back on the bench." He grabbed a pillow. "Just lie here."
He helped her, and in a moment she was stretched out before him, lying flat on the bench.
"Francine," he whispered.
"Yes?"
He grinned. "Thank you." And then he slid his hands up her skirt.
Chapter 9
Francine felt his hands on her calf, slipping just underneath her skirt. She felt the heat of him and the quiet tremble in his fingers. But looking into his eyes, she saw a silent anguish. And though he touched her leg, he did not move beyond that.
"Anthony?"
He closed his eyes, and she felt him shudder. "This is not the way. We are too exposed here." He squeezed her leg. "You deserve so much better."
She pushed herself up, latching onto his biceps to hold herself upright. She felt the strength of his muscles, and she also remembered the way he kissed her—all banked desire and a quiet ownership that never failed to thrill her. Never had she thought she'd feel such possessiveness from a man. Not for her. Not fat, ugly, mean Francine.
"Now, Anthony," she whispered. "Don't stop. I want to know. I want to..." She cut off her words, but in her mind they echoed loudly. Special. She wanted to feel special. And only he gave that to her.
"But—"
She kissed him. Then she did the boldest thing she'd ever done in her life. She scooted forward on the bench. She widened her legs and the abruptness of the movement brought his hand high on her thigh. Higher than her garter.
She tensed, but she didn't stop. She kissed him with all the wishes she had stored up inside her. Every little girl dream, every womanly fantasy was poured into that kiss. And he responded just as she wanted. His hand tightened on her thigh, his mouth became a thing alive, his tongue thrusting and tormenting her.
And while she was dueling tongue to tongue with him, his hand started to move. Over her thigh to the center between her legs. She gasped at that. No one else had ever touched her like that. It was too secret, too intimate. But he was relentless, and soon she felt his fingers tangle in her hair.
She gasped. Oh, the dangerous feel of him there! Forbidden. And he didn't stop. He curled his fingers into his palm, using the backs of his long fingers and his knuckles to press deeper between her thighs.
She opened for him. She didn't mean to, but their position on the bench forced her to. And as she widened, he pushed deeper, separating her folds, opening her as she never imagined possible.
She pulled away from his kiss, her eyes wide and her hands clutching him. She held on to his arms, clinging as what he did between her legs became all consuming.
"I... I don't know," she whispered, not even knowing where the words came from.
"It's all right," he said as his free hand stroked her hair away from her face. "I know."
"But..."
"Shhh. Just look at me. I have you safe."
She did as he wanted. She looked into his dark brown eyes and felt safe. Better yet, she felt an incredible excitement build in her stomach. She licked her lips, and his eyes riveted there. And when she tightened her hold on his arm, he smiled.
"Do you want to know what I am doing?" he asked. "Do you want to see?"
She blinked. See what? See... herself? She could barely comprehend it, but he pressed a kiss to her lips. A hot swift sweep of his tongue into her, and then he broke away to whisper into her ear.
"Trust me."
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br /> He waited until she nodded, then he slowly stood up from the bench. His hand didn't leave where it was, deeply embedded between her thighs. But as he moved around behind her, his fingers twisted, his knuckles rolling over every part of her and forcing her more open.
Then he was behind her, supporting her back as he urged her to lean against him. And as she rested backwards, he used his free hand to draw up her skirt.
Up, up, up it went until she was fully exposed to the dressing room mirror. She knew she shouldn't look. What they were doing wasn't proper, but she couldn't not look.
She was spread wide, her thighs white and open. And between her legs was his hand, lightly tanned with his long fingers wet and so active.
"Oh..." she whispered.
"You've never seen yourself this way have you?"
She shook her head.
"It's beautiful. You're beautiful."
She lifted her gaze to his reflection, searching his face to see if he lied. She saw simple adoration in his expression. Then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her neck, nipping there before laving it with his tongue. The sensation was sweet and intimate. Tingles sparked beneath his lips. And while she was relaxing back to the sweet, familiar feel of his mouth, his hand began to move.
Long, slow strokes between her legs. And each stroke had her legs trembling wider and her breath tightening. Another long caress had her gasping as he rolled over something wonderful at the top. Her buttocks tightened and she gasped.
"That's it," he said against her ear. "Feel it."
"Yes," she said, though he hadn't asked a question.
"Say my name, Francine," he whispered against her forehead. "Tell me you know it's me."
She didn't understand what he wanted. Of course she knew it was him. She wouldn't let anyone else do what he was doing. But his expression was so fierce, she couldn't deny him anything.
"It's you, Anthony," she whispered. "Oh!"
When she started speaking, he'd been on the downstroke. At his name, he penetrated her. He pushed his finger inside her in a swift thrust. She arched, lifting her whole body higher on the bench so that he would push deeper. How she wanted him deeper.