by Lavinia Kent
“And then your mother died.”
His whole chest expanded as he sucked in a deep breath and held it. Louisa could feel his heart speeding under her cheek. There was something he wanted to say, but still held back. She tilted her head and laid a soft kiss against his throat.
“I lied to you.” He spoke so quietly she hardly heard.
“What?” Dread filled her as she considered all the possible lies.
“My mother did not die in childbirth. That is a story that was told for fear people would think she killed herself—or worse.”
“What?” This time it was more exclamation than question.
“I never lie—and I do mean never. I don’t even tell polite social lies. If you ask me if you look attractive in a vile shade of pumpkin I will tell you exactly what I think. I never lie, but this one has followed me since I was thirteen years old.”
“What happened?”
“Felicity was three days old, and my mother was growing bored in bed. She could never bear to be still for a moment longer than necessary. Bliss is just like her.” He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “A traveling circus had come to town. We’d all attended—except my mother—and while I’d gone back to my studies the others had decided to make it a game. Robert was trying to juggle. The girls wanted to be acrobats. James was pretending to be the circus master and my father was a lion chasing them all about. I watched from my window across the courtyard. I enjoyed their silliness.”
“I can understand that.”
“I not sure how much of the rest is memory and how much I’ve been told. Some parts are so vivid I must have seen them; others I don’t see how I could have known. My mother, as I’ve said, grew bored. She could hear the play from her window and came out on the balcony to watch. She was dressed in some white fluttery thing, her fair hair loose about her shoulders. And then she climbed onto the balcony rail and announced that she would be the ropewalker.”
He closed his eyes. “A moment later she lay on the stones below. I will never forget that sight. That I know I saw.”
“Oh, Geoffrey.” Tears prickled her eyes.
“I’d been just about to come and join them. Even when I saw my mother all I could think was that I had the best parents. I learned differently. My father had barely taken care of us before her death. Afterwards he noticed us not at all. I was sent to Eton within the month and did not return home for nearly a year. He forgot to send someone to get me at the holidays.”
The first tears leaked down her cheeks.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I was the lucky one. When I returned home, the girls were filthy. The servants were eating better than the family. My brother had not had a lesson with his tutor in months. And my father. My father threw parties and drank and danced. And my siblings danced with him. I actually found James downing a bottle of whiskey while my father and his so-called friends looked on. I was only twelve and James was slightly more than a year younger. And not one of them—not my father, not any of his friends, not my siblings—thought there was anything wrong with how they were living.”
“And so you took over.” It was a simple statement.
“Yes. I fired half the servants, went through the accounts, sent all the friends away. I locked my father in his chamber until he was sober enough to sign whatever needed to be signed. Even when I went back to school I kept track of things, and the new manager I’d hired kept the estates in shape. I daresay my father could have wrested control from me if he’d tried, but he never did. He would have had to care to try. And he’s never cared for anything besides his own fun.”
Another soft kiss was laid against his throat, the moisture from her cheeks dampening his skin. “I am so sorry. Nobody should have had to go through that—and you were only a boy.”
He turned his face down so that his lips lay against her forehead. “It was not as bad as that. School was my salvation. I learned about rules and discipline.”
“But I have heard such horrible things about how rough school can be.”
“I never found it so. Even the whippings freed something in me, cleansed me in some way. I always felt guilt that I had not stopped my family’s foolishness sooner, that I had not in some way saved my mother. Oh, don’t worry, even then I knew better, knew the guilt was unreasonable—but still, the whippings helped. I am over it now.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. But, it did begin to explain things.
“Do you still like to be whipped?” She forced the words from her mouth.
“No,” Geoffrey replied, watching her for every nuance of emotion. “I long ago realized that I do not enjoy giving power to another. My mother died because I was not yet ready to take control. It is a mistake I will not make again now that I am more able.”
“I do begin to understand.” Her face wrinkled as she considered.
He waited for the next question. The question that begged to be asked: And do you enjoy whipping others? That answer was far more complicated.
She curled deeper into his lap, her small hands pressed tight against his chest. Her cheek rubbed against him, seeking to give him comfort—and her ass rubbed against him as well, and it did not bring him comfort.
His hips turned to the side as he tried to maintain the emotional intimacy of the moment. This was his chance to tell all—if he did not ruin it by letting his cock rule. This was the moment for the control he had just talked about.
Warm breath seeped through his shirt as she turned her face up to him.
This was the moment.
“It must be very difficult to deal with your family, and particularly with Bliss, when you have such fear that their fun will lead to destruction.” She turned to look at the portrait of his mother. “Bliss looks much the same as your mother if one imagines the hair different in shade and style.”
That was not what he had expected. Could he turn the conversation back to that which he so needed to discuss? Could he explain what he needed?
Louisa continued to stare at the painting. “You must have loved her very much. I understand now why you look at Bliss with such love and worry. Are you afraid that she too will slip from your grasp, from your world?”
He lowered his head and buried his face in her hair. The moment was past—for now. “No. Yes. Maybe. Mostly I don’t want to be responsible for her choices. I know that may seem odd given everything I have just said of wishing for control, but I have realized that Bliss is uncontrollable—at least by me. I think I must marry her off to someone who will hold her with a strong bit.”
“I am not sure that will work. She may resist at every front. Surely you can give her time to make her own decisions?”
“I am not sure that she can. Sometimes I think she actively pursues disaster at every front. I simply cannot chase after her and watch my father and my younger sisters. Duldon has asked for her hand, and I may just say yes.”
She slid across his lap so that she could stare up at him. “Duldon? No, that will not do. She needs somebody more like her. You do want her to be happy, don’t you?”
“Mostly I want her to be safe.” He shifted again. If she was not still he might find the need to demonstrate his wants instead of discussing them. Even talking of his sister did not stop the blood from rushing to his cock when his wife moved her ass upon him. If anything, his vulnerability increased his need to move things back to familiar ground. And, she was doing it again. “Stop biting your lip or I’ll find another use for that charming mouth.”
“When the situation gets tense you use sex to put it back into control, don’t you?”
The breath caught in his throat. How had she come to know him so well, so quickly? She knew in days things it had taken him years to understand. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”
Her gaze held his as she slowly opened her mouth and let her tongue slip out to lick at the red indent her teeth had left behind. The glisten of saliva almost undid him. And then she bit down again, the pearly teeth worrying at the sw
ollen flesh.
She was inviting him, teasing him.
His mind flashed back to that first night, to the magic Grace had worked with those sweet lips.
Emotions were swirling within him. She was right—he did need release, need the chance to regain power and control. “Get on your knees.”
Her eyes widened. Her teeth bit down again, and this time he thought it involuntary. He saw the glimmer of uncertainty, but he did not relent. He had opened his soul to her, given her what she needed. Now it was his turn—and she had invited it.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” he asked.
Chapter Twenty-six
Did he really mean that? He did. She saw the demand in his eyes, felt his cock growing stiff beneath her behind. How had everything changed in a matter of seconds? Was she ready for this?
A familiar ache grew between her legs. Yes, she was ready. Why even pretend?
“I am waiting.” His voice was cold, but she could see the heat in his eyes. She had pushed him far and now she had to pay.
And it was a price she rejoiced in. She did not want to like it, but could not contain the physical excitement that churned deep in her belly. Without thought she slid from his legs and down to her knees. Her gaze remained fixed with his.
Her lungs could pull in only short bursts of air. The heat radiating from his legs surrounded her.
She licked her lips again, her nerves getting the best of her.
“Undo my trousers.”
She swallowed, hard. Her hands reached out and lay upon his upper thighs, sliding toward his waist, toward the buttons at each side that held his trousers closed. Her fingers fumbled with the closure, until finally she was forced to take her eyes from his.
Instantly nerves assailed her. When she met his eyes she could feel his need, and realized that in doing this she was providing him a place of comfort, offering him what he so desired. Once that thought passed, she returned to the moment, returned to what she needed to do—what she was doing.
The band of his trousers was pulled tight, the fabric straining against his large arousal. She’d never undone a man’s flap. It was an odd thought, but true. Always before she’d been met with nudity, or at most Geoffrey’s nightshirt. This was the first time that she needed to free him. She bit down on her lip harder as her fingers twisted the bone button. Why was it so hard—and, she chuckled to herself, she did not mean that as a play on words.
“God, hurry. I am going to embarrass us both if you don’t stop that dithering.” His voice came out in short gasps.
Finally the buttons slipped loose—and so did he. God, he was magnificent, hard and pulsing and strong. Objectively, the penis might be an odd thing, but here, now, she could only regard it as a thing of power and beauty.
Her inner muscles clenched with the thought of what it could do to her, what it had done to her.
“Take my balls out as well.” His voice held strain, but control as well. He wished this to play out the way he wanted.
Reaching out, she freed the large sac. He slid forward so that it dangled loose at the edge of the chair. His soft sigh of pleasure sent tingles through her.
Leaning forward, she examined his cock. This was the first time she had seen it in full light. That first night, with Charles, she’d been so hurried, and there had been only candlelight. During their morning encounters, curtains had shaded the room. And the subsequent hurried glances as he struggled into his breeches did not count.
Did this thing really fit inside her? She reached out with one finger, stroking the thick velvet skin above the steel shaft. His sex jerked at her touch and she pulled her fingers back, but then let them drift forward again, running them up the underside of his cock, following the line of the purple vein that throbbed there. They continued their journey upward until they reached the ridge of the head. A single drop of glistening moisture formed there. She touched her finger to it, then brought it to her lips, tasting the brine of his desire.
Her nipples pebbled tight, straining against the fabric of her dress. The tips rubbing and chafing against the fabric, she eased back slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, every breath she took firing ripples of desire between her breasts and her cunny.
“Take them out. It will bring us both pleasure.”
She looked up as his command sounded. “What?”
Their eyes met for a moment, his burning her with their directness—and then they dropped lower, fixing on the top of her dress.
“Lift your breasts above your bodice. Let me see how much they want me.”
“But …” She glanced nervously at the door. What if a servant entered? She knew the thought was ridiculous, but somehow the thought of baring her breasts in the library in full daylight seemed …
He placed a finger beneath her chin, holding it still. “Are you disobeying me?”
“No.” With trembling fingers, she reached down into her bodice, struggling to lift her breasts. Unlike her costume of the previous night, this gown was not designed for such activities, the high, tight fabric constructed to cover, not display. It took some contortion to pull them up, a seam ripping as she did so. Her breaths grew hot and shallow as she finally maneuvered until she could lift the swollen globes above the fabric, the nipples protruding straight out like cannons aiming for attack. The warm air of the room felt cool against her wanting flesh.
She lifted her eyes back to his. Was that a hint of disappointment she saw? Had he not wished her obedience? And then the look was gone, replaced by burning lust. He reached out and caught one nipple tight between thumb and forefinger, pressing and releasing. She felt herself gasp with each subtle movement. And then he pinched hard, twisting.
It hurt. Oh, it hurt. And yet, the line of fire connecting nipple and cunny sizzled with even greater feeling. Moisture pooled between her legs. The strength of the sensation would have brought her to her knees if she had not already been there.
For a moment he held her there, caught on the edge of something she did not understand. Water welled in the depths of her eyes, but she blinked it back.
He twisted once more. It was like being struck by lightning. A single tear trickled down each cheek.
And then his hands fell to his sides. “Next time do not question me.”
“Yes, Geoffrey.”
His lips curved slightly at her response. His gaze focused upon her wet cheeks.
She drew in a deep breath, her aroused nipples rubbing against the lace that edged the top of her bodice.
His hips slid toward her, his thighs widening about her. “You may proceed.”
A new drop of cum clung to the head of his cock and again she reached for it.
“Use your mouth, only your mouth. Hands by your sides—unless you wish me to tie them behind your back.”
She shivered at his growled words. Why did they delight her so? And did he mean them? He kept mentioning tying her, but he’d never … Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she rather wondered what it would be like.
Closing her eyes for a second, she tried to calm herself, to take just one second to steady herself from the emotions and sensations that shook her to the core. Then, opening her eyes, she reached out and with the tip of her tongue swept up the single drop of pearly liquid.
He shuddered, his body reacting to her every breath. Using only her tongue, she explored his length: the subtle change in skin texture, the ridges and knobs, the pulse of strength and power. Cautiously she moved down to the base and the sac of his bollocks. The deep scent of musk and soap filled her nostrils.
Where had he bathed after his ride? He had not returned to his chamber. The thought flitted away as she gave herself over to her task, but not before she decided she’d rather like him smelling right now of leather, horse, sweat, and man.
The sac was soft save for its dual hard cores. She ran her tongue over it, the harsh bristle of dark hair so different from the smooth skin of his prick. The balls tightened at her touch and she opened he
r mouth, cupping it about one and then the other. He moved restlessly in his chair, the muscles of his thighs bunching beneath her touch. His hands grabbed the sides of the chair, his fingers whitening as they gripped tight. She used her tongue, brushing along the rough surface and sucking softly.
A deep breath whistled from his lips.
With care she released the balls, letting them slide slowly from between her lips. She glanced up and found him staring down beneath hooded lids, his whole focus upon her: upon her mouth, upon the joining of their flesh.
Using her tongue as a guide, she slid it up his hard length. One of his hands left the chair and settled in her hair, firm but not tight, positioning her as he wished. When her lips reached the heavy head, she laid a light kiss upon its tip and then slowly eased her lips about it, stretching wide, taking care to keep teeth cushioned by lip. Her eyes closed at the sensation as his cock slid against the roof of her mouth, the warm flesh filling her. Her thighs pressed tight. She eased farther forward, loosening her cheeks as she strove to take more. Her tongue played against the throbbing vein.
She pulled back, eased forward again.
A groan tore from his lips.
Her eyes remained closed as she concentrated on nothing but him, on nothing but the sensations that filled her, on the steady ache for more that grew and grew.
Again and again she pulled back and thrust forward, her lips and cheeks squeezing with effort. The hand in her hair set the pace, guided her, urged her forward and held her back.
And on each forward move she felt more of him, allowing his length to slip deeper into her throat, the muscles in her neck softening to allow him access.
He groaned again, the sound tearing from his body as his thighs strained from the chair, forcing himself deeper between her lips.
It was too much. Her lips and cheeks ached. It was nigh impossible to breathe—her nose pressed tight against his flesh, her mouth so full not even a wisp of air could pass through.
And yet it was wonderful. She could feel the throb of him against her tongue, the strain of his legs against her chest, his fingers tightening and loosening against her hair.