Little Red Writing

by Lila DiPasqua

  Her eyes softened. “You overwhelm me, too.” She smiled. “And I rather like it. I want to be overwhelmed some more.”

  He liked her answer. Actually, there was a lot about her he liked.

  “Good. Because I’m going to take you—slowly.” Nicolas pulled off her chemise and dropped it onto the table. “Would you like that, Anne? Would you like to be fucked slowly?”

  Her breathing had begun to escalate.

  “Yes.”

  Nicolas reached behind her and slid her derrière closer to the edge of the table. “Show me how wet you are for me. Spread your thighs nice and wide.” He took a step back.

  She paused, and he got the sense she was wrestling with inhibition.

  “Do it,” he prompted softly.

  Slowly, she parted her thighs.

  “That’s good, Anne. Lean back.”

  His heart raced as he watched her place her palms down on the table behind her, her hips now perfectly angled for his viewing pleasure.

  Her sex glistened with her juices. Unable to resist, he scored his finger from her moist opening up to her clit, stopping to press on the sensitive nub with enough pressure to make her gasp in delight.

  “I’m going to take you right now.” His cock jerked.

  “Nicolas …” Her thighs trembled. “There’s a bed …”

  “Next time.” He hadn’t intended to have her on a hard surface again, but he’d finally quieted his brain. He wasn’t going to do anything to disturb the delicious desire flowing between them or jeopardize this incredible experience with this intoxicating female. “It will be just as good. I promise.”

  He’d make her forget any discomfort she felt.

  Taking his prick in hand, he guided it to her slick entrance. Her head fell back with a soft moan. A tremor of expectation quivered through her and radiated up his cock. He shuddered. Oh, how she turned him inside out. It felt as though he’d waited forever for this. For her. He had to have her. Or die.

  Gripping her hips, he pressed into her, watching as the crest of his cock sank into her wet heat. He was thick and full and she was so deliciously snug. Pleasure roared through his system. His heart hammered hard. He pushed, sinking deeper, her juices coating his cock. Taking his time, he stretched her slowly, savoring the stunning sensations along his prick as she enveloped him an inch at a time. She whimpered and lowered herself onto her back, trembling.

  A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He continued his steady progress, bearing down on her, unrelenting. “You’re going to take all of me, aren’t you, Anne? You want it all, don’t you?”

  She panted, lolling her head to one side. “Yes …”

  Nicolas butted against the entrance of her womb and groaned. At his possession, she made the most sensual sound. He loved that. He loved everything about sex, not just the climax but all things preceding it. Especially the initial penetration, that first thrust—fast or slow—that buried him inside. And being inside Anne, feeling the hot clasp of her tight sex clenched around him, the light quivering of her inner muscles along his length, was more heaven than any man deserved.

  She was primed. He knew it wouldn’t take much to send her over the edge.

  Leaning forward, he grasped the edge of the table with one hand and slipped his other arm under her waist, arching her body to him. He latched onto her breast and suckled hard. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, her sensitive teat instantly distending in his mouth.

  Sucking and lightly biting her nipple, he pumped his cock in her, giving her short shallow thrusts that kept her enthralled, but also kept her from coming. She mewed in protest and strained toward him, trying to draw in him deeper. Her efforts were futile. He wouldn’t acquiesce. He continued, his measured strokes unbroken. Not wanting this to end.

  “Nicolas … please …” She wrapped her legs around him, still desperately squirming and arching.

  Releasing her nipple from the confines of his mouth, he flicked it with his tongue. “Please what? Please, make me come, Nicolas? Please, fuck me harder?” Turning to her other nipple, he lightly raked his teeth across it.

  She gasped. “Yes, to all that. Right. Now!”

  Nicolas lifted his head, softly chuckling. “So fiery. And impassioned. I like that …” He gave her a deep thrust before returning to his shorter strokes.

  She made a frustrated sound. “Nicolas, if you make me wait any longer, I swear, I’ll—I’ll … make you pay.”

  “Mmmm, now that sounds delicious.” He suckled her breast gently with just the right amount of finesse to snatch her breath away. “How will you make me pay?” He drew her hardened nipple back into his mouth.

  “I’m a writer … I have … ahhhh vivid imagination … I’ll … think of something.”

  With his cock dipped in glory, and this passionate woman pleading for more, Nicolas ceded. He slipped his arm out from under her, straightened, and grasped her hips again. Suddenly, he didn’t want to make her wait. He wanted to give her all the pleasure she craved and more. To make this an unforgettable experience for her.

  Tilting her hips, he plunged, driving the full length of his cock inside her. Her sharp cry of pleasure resonated in the room.

  Briefly, he closed his eyes, unable to move or breathe as his own wave of hot pleasure crested over him.

  Tightening his grasp, he plunged again, and began giving her deep solid thrusts. “How does that feel?” By the sultry sounds she made, by the way she flexed her legs and squeezed them around him, he knew she liked the depth and angle of his thrusts, but he wanted to hear her say it. “Tell me, chère.”

  A light sheen of perspiration glistened on her flushed skin. Her eyes were closed, her sweet breasts jiggling with the force of each downstroke.

  “So. Good,” she said, each word rushing out on a pant.

  She clenched around his thrusting prick, tearing a growl from his throat. He reveled in the decadent sensations washing through him. He could never tire of this. Never tire of her.

  She was his. His sensual soul mate.

  His perfect match.

  Nicolas released her hips. “Come here,” he said hoarsely, and grasping her wrists, he pulled her up, dragged her closer, and drove his cock into her with such intensity it made them both gasp. Fisting her hair with his one hand, the other splayed against her lower back, he rode her with fast powerful plunges, holding nothing back. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, wanting to possess every part of her. To his delight, she returned his voracious kiss, feeding his frenzy.

  He felt her arms slide around him, her heels dig into his backside. She held on, her lush form enveloping him completely. Breaking the kiss, she moved her hot hungry mouth along his jaw, toward his ear.

  The pressure in his sac was exquisite torture, his body raging for release.

  “Nicolas, I think I’m going to … I’m truly … actually going to … to …”

  Christ, she was on the edge. So was he. “Do it. Let yourself go.” Her sweet, perfect cunt was quivering around him. Still ramming her, he pushed up against her clit, and then again, adding jolting sensations without breaking his rhythm. “Come!”

  She lurched sharply in his arms. Throwing her hips forward and her head back, she screamed, her orgasm wracking her body. Nicolas tightened his hold and clenched his teeth, glorious spasms suddenly assailing his plunging cock, her sweet sheath sucking at his shaft, pulling and pulsing around him in mind-melting waves. Each knee-weakening contraction squeezed him so fiercely it made his prick throb. He battled back his release, refusing to let go, determined to enjoy her orgasm—the engulfing sensations coursing along his cock—before he indulged in his own.

  He pumped his hips as the spasms faded, but then she jerked and gave him an unexpected firm clench that hurled him over the edge. Hot come rushed down his cock.

  He reared just in time. Semen shot from him with stunning force. Burying his face in her soft hair, he shuddered and groaned, come purging from his prick in draining spurts, euphoria f
looding his body.

  Dieu, he didn’t want this to end, and he knew he was referring to more than just the sex act.

  Finally spent, his legs shaking, his breathing as erratic as hers, Nicolas lifted his head and met her gaze.

  A smile shone on her beautiful face.

  “I’ve never felt anything like that,” she whispered.

  Neither had he. Softly, he kissed her mouth, sounds of contentment emanating from them both. This was unlike any sexual experience he’d ever had. It was more than just a sating of his body. The fulfillment he felt went as deep as his heart and soul.

  He needed more of this. More of her.

  He’d found the perfect bliss.

  *****

  “What do you mean, nothing?” Nicolas asked Thomas, incredulous.

  “I mean, nothing.”

  “You checked every drawer in Henriette’s desk?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all over her rooms?”

  “Yes! I checked everywhere,” Thomas snapped, looking uncharacteristically haggard this morning. “There was nothing.” He slammed the key down on the table in Nicolas’s rooms and marched away.

  Nicolas had hoped all the evidence he needed would be in Henriette’s private quarters. Damn it, where was she hiding her notes, her drafts?

  What if it’s not Henriette at all? His stomach clenched. It would be difficult enough to arrest one of Anne’s sisters. But to have to arrest Anne. Beautiful Anne. His Anne. Images of last night, of her, of her in his arms, filled his mind and made him ache.

  He glanced up at Thomas and caught him raking a hand through his hair as he paced near the windows.

  “What is it, Thomas?”

  Stopping in his tracks, Thomas exhaled sharply and turned to look out the window.

  Nicolas approached. Something was amiss. “Thomas?” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His body stiff, his jaw tight, Thomas met his gaze.

  “You found something in Camille’s rooms, didn’t you?” Nicolas asked.

  Thomas returned his attention to the window, staring blankly at the courtyard below. For a moment, Nicolas thought he wasn’t going to respond, but then, ever so slightly, he nodded. “I haven’t been able to sleep all night.”

  Nicolas’s heart raced. “What did you find?”

  Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Thomas responded, “Camille came to my rooms after supper. I’d just finished invading her privacy, reading the contents of her desk, looking for possible evidence to arrest her, and she was worried about me. Concerned for my welfare. Do you know what that made me feel like?”

  Nicolas had a very strong idea.

  Thomas turned to him, his expression rueful. “I kissed her, Nicolas. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m not like you, my friend. You can kiss a woman, even bed her, and remain detached. You don’t let anything distract you or get in the way of doing His Majesty’s bidding. I can’t do that. I can’t act. Nor be indifferent. I’m a failure as a Musketeer.”

  Nicolas was failing, too. Failing to accomplish his objectives. And worst of all, failing to keep the soft sentiment Anne inspired at bay. He’d made love to her multiple times last night. The more he’d had her last eve, the more he wanted her. Everything she did, everything she said, stirred tender feelings he couldn’t quell.

  He had not remained detached.

  Nor had he used last night’s situation to his advantage as he’d intended—to gain information. He’d never questioned her once the entire night. Hadn’t wanted to.

  Couldn’t bring himself to.

  “Nicolas, I found Camille’s old journal.” Thomas’s voice was quiet. “Many of the entries were filled with venom directed toward her late brother-in-law, the Baron de Pierpont, for his treatment of Henriette, and toward a gentleman named Roland d’Orsay.”

  “Who is Roland d’Orsay?”

  “The third son of the Comte de Galard. Apparently, he charmed Anne, made promises he never intended to keep, claimed her maidenhead, and then married another.”

  Nicolas chest tightened.

  Roland d’Orsay. The man she’d mentioned last night.

  Not only had d’Orsay denied her carnal pleasure in bed, but he’d deceived her. Used her. Jésus-Christ, no wonder she had such a lowly opinion of men.

  And yet, she set aside her biases to be with you.

  Nicolas felt like a scoundrel of the highest order. And though he reminded himself that he was on a mission for his King—it did nothing to combat the self-condemnation welling inside him.

  He was using her. And it bothered him when it shouldn’t. When it couldn’t.

  When there was the chance she was the one he might have to arrest.

  “I didn’t think sweet Camille had it in her to loathe so deeply. I have a terrible feeling that Leduc is Camille.” Thomas shook his head. “This is not just a mission anymore. I’m fond of her. I like all three of them. Seigneur Dieu, I even like Henriette. How can we do this? How can we arrest any of them? How can I arrest Camille?” Thomas hung his head.

  “We have a duty to uphold.” He’d forced each word off his tongue. He was fond of Camille, too. Nicolas had no idea how he’d arrest Camille either. But he knew he could manage it. In fact, he knew he could manage to do just about anything, except arrest Anne.

  “We need something more conclusive than some old journal entries,” Nicolas was constrained to add. “It isn’t enough proof.”

  “I didn’t find anything else. What about Anne? Have you searched her rooms and desk?”

  His body turned rigid. “No. You had the key, remember?”

  Thomas walked over to the table, picked up the key, and returning with it, placed it on his palm. “Well, you have it back. Now there is nothing to stop you from examining the contents of her desk.”

  Nicolas looked at the small gold key.

  Burdened with what he had to do, it felt heavy in his hand.

  It burned his palm.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’ve been cast aside!” Madame de Boutette sniffled, wiping her tears with a lace handkerchief. “I’ve been completely and utterly replaced by that whore, Pauline Pradeau. She’s bewitched him, I tell you.”

  Anne fought back a second yawn. For the last few glorious nights, Nicolas had given her little rest—and more bliss than any heart could hold.

  “I have been with him for years,” Madame de Boutette continued, her tone getting increasingly angrier. “I was his favorite mistress. Now he favors another. After I’ve endured all of his disgusting habits, and amorous encounters of the blandest sort! Do you have any idea how dull and distasteful it is to bed the Marquis de Ranvier?”

  “No, madame. I don’t.” Anne dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote, “Ranvier has disgusting habits. Is dull and distasteful to bed.”

  “Well, then allow me to tell you that I’ve had to moan and carry on as if …”

  Madame’s words drifted away as images of Nicolas and memories of her moaning and carryings-on in his arms ran through her mind and quickened her pulse. Every reaction he drew from her was real and sublime. She loved how insatiable he was around her. How wonderful it felt to be so desired.

  How wonderful it was just to be with him.

  During their short time together she’d transformed. For the better. Her heart and soul felt light, and she had Nicolas to thank. What was just as incredible, she’d begun to do something she’d completely abandoned and had lost all desire for after Roland; she’d started writing poetry again.

  She’d forgotten how much pleasure it brought her. Wanting his reaction, last eve she’d worked up the courage to show Nicolas her new poems. Poems she hadn’t even told her sisters about.

  By his expression, his eyes, and his words, he adored them; his praise of her work filled her with as much joy as his kisses and touch. Everything was so perfect between them, except … something was bothering him. If only she knew what.

  He denied it. Hid it. In fact, he hid it quite
well. Yet she was attuned to it. She sensed it. Saw fleeting flashes of it in his eyes. And she didn’t believe it had to do with his grandmother.

  “He rarely bathes. It’s like bedding a barnyard animal. And his rounded belly keeps getting in the way,” Madame finished with a huff.

  Anne sighed and put down her quill. “Madame, may I be frank?”

  The woman who was only a few years older than Anne raised her brows. “Well … I suppose …”

  “If the Marquis de Ranvier is so unappealing, why bemoan the end of the affair?”

  “Well, because I love him! And he loves another. He’s tossed me aside like a pair of old shoes.”

  “Love? You’ve described your love as a barnyard animal.”

  “That’s because he smells like one.”

  “And his touch is unpleasant to you, correct?”

  “Well, yes.” Madame de Boutette smoothed her skirts. “It is.”

  “Madame, with all due respect, it’s rather clear that it is your pride that’s wounded, not your heart.”

  The woman’s mouth fell agape.

  Undaunted, Anne continued, “If you loved Ranvier, you wouldn’t be repelled. In fact, you’d find him highly appealing. You’d crave to be with him. As much as possible. The thought of him would make you happy, not sick. You’d want his touch. Enjoy his company, and cherish it.”

  Anne knew her speech was about more than the Marquis de Ranvier. It was about her feelings for Nicolas. She was in love with him. How could she not be?

  Why shouldn’t she allow herself to be?

  She’d denied herself happiness long enough. Why shouldn’t she take another chance on love? Love was worth the risk. As was Nicolas.

  After what she’d been through with Roland, after witnessing Henriette’s suffering, after hearing countless stories of other women’s heartbreaks, Anne had become convinced that there wasn’t an honorable man left in the realm.

  But she’d had a change of heart. And she had Nicolas to thank for that as well.

  With love inside her heart, there was no more room for the bitterness she’d harbored there. For the first time, the thought of writing a Gilbert Leduc tale—the particular kind of tale Madame de Boutette wanted her to write—left a sour taste in her mouth.