by Lavinia Kent
The kiss slowed as she moved to explore.
“God, don’t stop. It’s just a scar,” he panted into her mouth. “A boyhood injury.”
“The broken arm?” she exhaled.
“No, earlier. I hit my head on the hearth when I was still in the nursery. A ton of blood, but not much harm. Scared the nanny to death. She took to her bed for a week. Now kiss me. Kiss me hard.”
She should not have given in to his demands, but could not resist, now when her own desires were so closely paralleled. She pressed forward, plunged her tongue deep, felt his answering suck and welcome.
She’d thought she’d known how to kiss, but nothing had prepared her for this. She could have gone on for hours.
Only—she wanted so much more. She forced herself to pull back, forced herself to breathe, to think.
Moving her mouth from his, she trailed kisses to his chin, grated her teeth upon the growth of his beard. She missed being able to see him, to know him, but there was something magical about this world of sensation.
His neck was warm and damp. She kissed and licked every inch of him as she made her way down his body.
His hands caught at her breasts, trying to hold her to him, but she slithered lower. Her tongue delved into the small indent between his collarbones. She’d never known that spot could be so sweet.
Which way to go? Right? Left? If it felt so good when his mouth was upon her nipples, how would he like it if she … Left. She would go left.
The scattering of hair was rough beneath her mouth. She nipped a few between her teeth and pulled.
He groaned, that groan she loved.
Her sex clenched, tight between her legs.
She pulled again.
He groaned again.
She moved on, using her lips to find her way. They climbed up the gentle, hard curve of his chest, targeting in on—aah, there it was. Her mouth found its way about his small, pebbled nipple. She sucked hard. He gasped. Her tongue swept across the nub, enjoying, savoring.
Hips moved beneath her, squirmed, pushed upward.
She ignored them, ignored her own growing, aching want.
Her hand reached out, stroked across his chest until she found his other nipple. She plucked at it. His response was all she could desire, a growl deep in his chest, the sound of patience running out.
Smiling to herself, she nipped at the peak still in her mouth, enjoying her power, enjoying the sensation of knowing she pleased him.
And then she moved lower, abandoning one set of toys, seeking another.
His stomach moved beneath her touch, and as her hand skimmed along beside her face, she left a straight line of kisses to his navel. Pausing there, she played, imitating the things he had done to far more intimate parts of her body.
And then down again, following the thin trail of hair until it grew thicker.
He smelled of musk—musk and man.
It was like drinking the wine he’d referred to earlier. The first taste might give pause, but the addiction grew quickly. She became almost drunk on the scent, light-headed and woozy.
She buried her face in the curls, inhaled and then expelled the breath so that it swept across his flesh. His erection jerked. She could feel it just beyond her lips.
She almost reached for it, but remembering how he’d teased her, she worked lower, moving around its length. Nibbling and licking, she worked down to that tender skin at the fork of his thighs. His whole body spasmed as she ran her tongue along the tender crease between leg and groin. His bollocks hung there, tempting.
With some curiosity, she reached out with one soft finger and stroked them. The texture was most interesting. Wrapping her fingers about them, she squeezed—most softly.
“You’re killing me,” his voice rasped.
“And enjoying every moment of it,” she giggled. It was not a moment for laughter, but she could not help it. At this moment all was joy.
“Get on with it then.”
“Oh, I will. I will.” She ran her tongue across his sac. The bristle of hair made it most odd, but not unpleasant. And the way his body trembled, that was quite delightful.
But she was impatient for the main course, had been waiting far too long for her taste.
She moved up and slowed as she placed one hand around him. How did one go about this? The massive erection felt far too large for more than a few licks.
She would begin there.
Placing her tongue at the base of his cock, she ran it up the lengthy shaft. His body rose from the bed, legs straining. Another lick. His body did not relax, but stayed tight and drawn. Again.
He tasted of salt—and sweat—and some other flavor she could not quite name. Another long stroke of tongue, and as she reached the tip she felt moisture, pictured the single drop that had formed at the tip before, remembered it caught by firelight. She ran her mouth about the end, sucking for his flavor, for that drop.
His moan echoed around the room.
A smile formed upon her lips even as she filled her mouth again. He liked what she was doing. A sense of power took her. He was hers, hers to do whatever she liked with.
She opened her lips wider, taking him in.
He liked this very much. What would it take to make him lose control as she had?
Experimenting, she closed her lips tight, drawing them along his flesh.
Oh, that was good.
“God, are you sure you’ve never done this before?” he panted.
“I’ve never even imagined that such a thing was possible,” she said, lifting her head to speak while running a hand along him, relishing the slick smoothness.
The dark hung about them, creating a private world of scent and feeling. Louisa lowered her lips again, forming an O around the tip. Another drop had formed and she savored the taste. With only the slightest trepidation she moved her lips lower, taking more of him into her mouth. Her tongue ran along the lower side, playing with the raised ridge that pulsed there, his entire body responding to her every move.
Playing, teasing up and down his length, she let her imagination flow, the blackness making her attuned to his every move. When she cupped his bollocks while still holding him in her mouth, he cried, “Grace.”
When she lightly scraped her teeth along him, he swore—but it was not a sound of pure pleasure. She did not repeat the action.
Mostly, though, she sucked and licked, imagining him some great delicacy.
And when she felt his urgency grow, she moved up on hands and knees, trying to hold as much of him as she could in her mouth, wrapping her hands about his base.
“Stop,” he cried, his voice tortured.
Immediately she paused. “Am I doing it wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No. God, no. I am going to come—and you don’t want—in your mouth. It—women, ladies don’t—God, I am going to—”
His words did not altogether make sense, but she caught the gist of it. “What if I want you in my mouth? Want to taste you? To feel you like you felt me?”
“Don’t—know—up to you—Can’t wait, can’t—”
She clamped her lips back about him as his hips bucked up, pushing him farther into her throat than she’d thought possible. Breathing was hard, if not impossible, but she held on, sensing what her actions were doing to him.
His body jerked, and she felt the spurt deep in her throat, felt it along the vein at the base of his cock, felt wave after wave of power and pleasure shoot through him. He called “Grace” again and again, his voice hoarse and strained.
And then he collapsed, his whole being falling back. His breath slowed as he drew in great gulps of air.
Running her lips over him one last time, she released him, falling back herself, as an understanding of what she had just done filled her.
She was glad he could not see the wide smile that spread across her face.
He had died. There was no other explanation for how he felt than that he was visiting with the angels—albeit angels such as n
o saint had ever described. His body still screamed with pleasure even as relaxation took him. There was not an inch of him that was not satisfied.
Reaching down, he pulled Grace up, cradled her against his chest. Her face and hair were damp from exertion. He placed a kiss upon her forehead, pushing aside her tangle of curls.
Life could not be better than it was at this moment.
He let the thought fill him, and examined it. Normally this was a time of escape: The moment had passed, the anticipation had been filled, and he was ready to move on, planning how to leave.
With Grace, that was all turned upside down. Feeling her small body pressed against his brought only contentment and wonder.
How had he ever managed to find her? How could he manage to keep her?
Keep her?
Was he really thinking such thoughts?
She sighed slightly, her nose brushing along the hairs of his chest. He could feel sleep begin to take her. Should he wake her? Return the favor she had just granted him? Further her education along other lines?
Perhaps in a moment—or two—or three.
It felt far too good just to lie here. His eyelids drifted down.
In just a bit, he would decide what to do—figure out how to continue their relationship.
Chapter Ten
The slow glow of approaching dawn beat across her eyelids. She didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to move. It was still early. She could sleep for several more hours.
A heavy weight moved next to her, causing the bed to shift, to sink, to bend, drawing her deeper into the heavy weight of quilts and pillows—and man.
Her eyes sprung open as understanding filled her.
God, what had she done?
God, what hadn’t she done?
Heat rose from toe to cheek as the images and sensations of the previous night came back to her.
That hadn’t been her. That had been some other woman, some other wanton.
Never in her life had she dreamed that such things, such feelings were possible, and now she knew—she didn’t even know quite what she knew, but she knew.
No wonder Madame had thought she needed experience if she was ever going to pretend that her marriage had been a true one in all ways. How could her mother ever have thought that was something to be avoided, to be endured?
Perhaps she truly was a wanton.
Although, if she was, she wasn’t sure she altogether minded. Some things were worth it.
She should have been feeling shame. She had expected to. There might have been a greater purpose to her actions, but she’d long ago accepted that they were sins. She was not married to him, to Charles, and so last night had been wrong.
But never had wrong felt so right.
Stretching, although careful not to brush against Charles, she sat in the large bed and turned to look at him.
He slept on his stomach, arms and legs outstretched, encompassing almost the entirety of the mattress. He surely was not used to sharing his sleep with another. His face was turned to the pillows, buried deep. Soft snores escaped and he mumbled in his sleep.
It sounded like he was murmuring “Grace,” her name for this single night.
Leaning over, she placed a kiss on the muscled curve of his shoulder.
He stirred, mumbled again. Hastily she drew back. She did not want to wake him, not as light began to ease into the chamber through the slight parting of the drapes. Slipping from the bed, she stood, stretched again. Her body ached in many unfamiliar places.
Satisfaction brought a grin to her lips.
She had done it. And it had been wonderful.
Her virginity was no longer.
Twirling slightly, she grabbed her gown from where it lay in a pile on the floor and pulled it over her head. Her toes performed their own little dance.
She should go. She should go.
She didn’t want to.
Turning back to the bed, she slowly approached. Charles snorted in his sleep, his chin pushing from beneath the pillows. It would be a simple action to reach out and carefully remove the pillow. She could look upon him and he would never know. Was he as handsome in reality as in the images her mind had wrought? It was not possible.
And, therefore, was it not better to dream? To let this night forever remain a fantasy?
And it was only honorable.
Charles had granted her a great gift. She would not betray him.
Wrapping her arms about herself, she slipped into the hallway, seeking the small room in which she had left her clothing the previous evening.
Was it only the previous evening?
It seemed like it had been a year and a day ago.
She was a different woman than she had been those few hours past.
Swanston awoke with a groan as bright sunlight filled the chamber and the smell of strong coffee filled his nostrils.
“Damnation, Peters. Cannot a man sleep in his own bed?” he hissed at his valet.
A low feminine chuckle was the reply. “Not when he is not in his own bed.”
He bolted up, his eyes flashing open. “What the …”
Ruby stood beside the bed, a great mug of coffee in her hands, a slow easy smile upon her face. “It is going on one and I didn’t know how long you wished to linger.” Her eyes swept down to his lap, to his standing cock.
“Bloody hell.” He grabbed a sheet and pulled it over his nakedness. His eyes darted about the room. “Where is she? Where is Grace?”
“Grace? Aah, Grace. She’s been gone these many hours—left at first light. And she was bloody glowing. I see I chose quite well. She said the task had been accomplished to her satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction. You better believe she was satisfied—many times.” He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so angry, why he was acting the cad.
Ruby shook her head. “Now, do you want your coffee or not? I’ve better things to do than listen to a braggart in the morning.”
He had a dozen replies to that, but he held them back. Why had she left? Why had Grace fled before they had a chance to talk, to make further arrangements? Didn’t she realize that there was something between them, something that had to be explored? “Tell me how to find her.”
Ruby shook her head, the sunlight glinting off her cherry-colored curls. “I cannot do that. No more than I could tell her who you are. Would you want me to do that? To give her your name?”
He considered it. He actually considered it. Why not? What did he have to lose?
But who was she? What if she talked? What if she shared his secrets with others?
Could he risk it?
Grace would never do that. Only what did he actually know of her?
Nothing beyond the shape of her breasts, of her ass. Nothing beyond the new skills of her mouth.
“No, I would not want you to tell her,” he said.
Still, there had to be other alternatives.
With some trepidation, Louisa approached the door to the Madame’s house one more time. She had not meant to come, but when her footman had brought the note this morning, she’d found herself unable to resist.
What could Madame want? Did he want to see her again? Did Charles miss her, long for her in the dark hours of the night?
And what if he did?
What if he wanted her again? She could hear his command, his desire. Her heart thrilled at the thought.
She knocked hurriedly upon the door, puffing a breath of air against her heavy veils. Her body sang with the anticipation of seeing him again—of feeling him again.
The footman, liveried in crimson velvet, opened the heavy door and escorted her down the hall to the same elegant parlor where she had first met Madame. Her toes almost skipped along. Would he be there?
He was not. Madame sat alone, the tea tray before her, the elegant platter of pastries to her side. “Come sit,” she said, gesturing to a chaise longue.
Looking about the chamber, wondering if Charles would suddenly appear from behind
a curtain, Louisa sat.
“You must be wondering why I requested that you visit,” Madame asked as she poured a cup of tea without spilling a drop. Many a society matron would have wished for her elegance.
Louisa accepted the proffered tea and took a single sip. She glanced up at Madame over the rim of the cup. “I had wondered.”
“First, I simply wished to be sure that all went to your satisfaction.”
Heat rising in her cheeks, Louisa focused on the tea in her cup. “Yes. Everything was satisfactory.”
“You were satisfied?”
A day ago she would not have understood the meaning of the question, but now … “Yes. Quite satisfied.”
Madame took a sip of her tea. “And do you have any questions? About the events of the evening?”
So many. But none that she would ever ask. “No. I do believe I understood all.”
Madame placed her cup back on its saucer, her eyes glancing to the pocket doors that separated this room from the next.
And with no more than that, Louisa understood. He was there. Charles was in the next room, waiting. She squeezed her thighs tight as the now familiar ache began deep in her belly. He was there. She could feel him, sense him. If she stood and opened the door she would see him, know him.
Madame caught her glance and nodded. “He wishes to see you again, to continue your relationship.”
“But how? I mean … it was one night—how would we even …?” Louisa’s mind spun with ideas.
“I do not know, but he—Charles believes that all things are negotiable. If you wish to continue, then the two of you will find a way, either here or somewhere else. He has offered to take a house for you to meet.”
And with those few words, reality returned.
Charles was not talking about a life together. He was talking of a few hurried meetings, something illicit and dark, something hidden from the world.
She had done what she did for a reason. She had not done it for herself, but for John.
To do it for herself would be wrong, would be sinful.
Only she didn’t believe that.
Whatever she felt about that night, she did not feel it was wrong.