She moaned, her back arching off the mattress. He pulled her legs over his shoulders and settled firmly into the cradle she created for him, lapping up her honey, pleased with how wet she was. He slipped his tongue into her cunt, loving how her muscles quaked around it, clenching at it in desperation. She was close.
“Victor!” she gasped as he moved up her slit and nipped at her bud. Her body shook with need.
She was indeed close, and it took only another flick of his tongue for her to fall over. She screamed his name, her legs clenching against him, her hands in the sheets in a clawing grip. He did not relent on his banquet of her—no, he had not finished feasting on her yet.
Only when her body seemed to calm did he surrender his assault of her swollen flesh. Her honey coated his mouth and all he could taste was her musky scent. It was marvellous—the sweetest taste ever to touch his tongue.
His little maiden lay spread like a human sacrifice, her legs wide, her breasts exposed around the silk that had previously covered them. She looked thoroughly ravished and he was scarcely finished.
Sleep wanted to claim her. This climax had exceeded the last, surpassed it. It had been a blast of ecstasy and one she wanted to relive, over and over. Well, after a long and hefty nap.
Maggie’s dream-filled state did not last long. She became quickly aware of the slow and suddenly agonising caress upon her core. She attempted to close her legs against it, but the body that lay between her thighs hindered the attempt. Victor simply chuckled into her flesh, sending another round of tingles through her core. Her head lolled back into the sheets beneath her. How divine!
Strong, confident hands reached her breasts, the warm embrace sending shivers along her skin, but she welcomed the sensation. She loved his touch.
The lingering caress upon her core lightened still, and he moved away, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. His tongue delved into her belly button, his hot breath warming her skin as he ascended her body. His face soon loomed before hers, his satisfied grin provoking a satisfied smile of her own.
“We are not finished, my Maggie.”
A shiver raked her body at his words. “We are not?”
His lips twitched higher. “We are not.”
Those lips suddenly took hers prisoner, and she did not mind in the slightest. The tangy scent of herself was heavy on his mouth. It reminded her of her folly and how satisfying it had been. Oh, truly divine! Something she would always remember. She would always remember him.
It suddenly dawned on her that this was likely the last—the only—time she would be unaccompanied with this man, a man who was not to be her husband. It put a sudden damper on her mood.
As if sensing her worry, Victor attempted to move away, but she would have none of that. She would not waste any of the time she had left with him. Clamping her hands behind his neck, she pulled him harshly back to her lips. He paused but a moment before a fierce growl left his lips and he nipped at her tongue.
Maggie, unable to control her body, lifted her hips and felt the sudden scalding heat of his cock nudging at her core.
He froze, while she did not. It felt right, felt as if she needed it to enter her. She lifted her hips a fraction more, testing for a measure of pain or for the heavens to open up upon the sin. Nothing happened, other than his heated cock moving farther between her cleft. Victor growled loudly and held himself still, yet he shook almost violently. Maggie looked into his eyes and saw him struggle with his will. She could never have expected such an honourable man at Goodrich Hall. While he was here for the indecency that played out within its walls, he was still a gentleman. He would not take her virginity. She knew it, and it pained her. She wanted him to take her. She needed him.
Victor growled again, moving off her suddenly. She called out in shock, only to squeal as he ripped the sheet out from beneath her in a fierce tug. She was startled by the sudden movement, only to become more so when he laid it over her, covering her before he descended on top of it.
Heat from his cock burned though the thin cotton that now covered her, and he bit at her lower lip as his mouth came down hungrily, feasting on her. It was divine. Victor ground his hips into hers, his thick cock probing at her entrance but unable to gain entry because of the fabric barrier. She gasped as he pushed down on her. Tingles and warmth filled her core, only to strengthen as he continued the movement.
“Victor!” she shuddered as the sensations filled her body at a hasty pace.
Breaking away from her mouth as her head lolled back, Victor watched her, his heated gaze burning her skin. His hips ground into her with each powerful thrust. He fucked her! Oh my, he fucked her without taking her virginity!
She raked his back like the wild beast she felt herself to be, digging her nails into his skin. He growled at her, sounding like an animal himself, his eyes fierce on hers. She gazed back through her passion-filled daze, only to open her mouth in a silent scream as her world exploded, her body shattering around the invisible cock she imagined deep within her.
Victor threw his head back, his hips thrusting into her with a final powerful motion, his call not anywhere near as mute as hers.
As she came crashing down to earth, Maggie was aware of his sudden weight upon her before it was lifted and he pulled her onto her belly, into a warm embrace that held her tightly.
Chapter Five
The gentle crackle of the fire and the firm and raspy strokes of Margaret’s father’s quill were the only sounds to be heard in the large library of Carrieton House. Her mother’s tongue was pulled to one side of her lips in concentration as she embroidered on the settee across from Margaret, who attempted to read a book. The action was not successful. Her mind was elsewhere.
“What time must we leave, darling?” her mother asked her father.
“I believe six will be adequate time, my love.” Lord Carrieton said with a smile aimed in his wife’s direction.
Margaret was perplexed as to what her parents were discussing. “Are you dining elsewhere this evening?” she asked.
Her mother looked up from her needlework, her ageing face creased in a frown. “The opera, dear. We spoke of it last week.”
Last week, Margaret had been seeking as much information as she could on a certain house on the outskirts of London prior to her visit. It did not surprise her that the opera had not registered in her memory. She nodded, trying to appease her mother. She should have known better.
Margaret’s mother was not a woman who missed much when it came to her child, but she had been busy helping with a fundraiser of late—luckily for Margaret. She looked about to enquire further when the door opened and their butler walked in. This was not out of the ordinary, though the people who entered after him were a surprise—for Margaret, a pleasant one.
“Claire!” Margaret called, as she jumped up and rushed past the servant in order to embrace her dear friend.
Claire held on to her tight. “Are you all right?” The whispered words in her ear were laced with worry.
“I am well,” she replied in a hushed tone, as she smiled into the face of the man who stood behind Claire—the man who had captured her friend’s heart. Lord Belfort nodded once in acknowledgement. While he appeared a hard man, Claire assured her he was anything but. As he moved his attention back to his wife, his expression softened. How Margaret wished for a man who would love her so.
“Why, Lord and Lady Belfort, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Please forgive our unexpected arrival, Lord Carrieton. We have only just arrived in London, and my wife was eager to see her dear friend,” the looming Lord Belfort said, with little emotion.
“Of course, you are most welcome to visit,” her father assured the wealthy lord. Margaret knew that while her father appeared undisturbed by Claire’s husband, he was, in fact, rather intimidated. From what Margaret understood, he should be. Lord Belfort was one of the richest men in England, and rumoured to be most ruthless when it came to matters of business, as well.
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br /> Soon her mother departed for an afternoon nap, and Claire and Margaret excused themselves to take a walk around the garden while the men chatted—her father, Margaret suspected, more so than Lord Belfort—about the market in London and around the world at present. She would have to find the time to thank Lord Belfort for his suffering. She knew he was only remaining behind so the two friends could spend time alone.
“I received a fright upon reading your letter,” Claire announced with a glare, as they moved slowly through the courtyard.
Margaret sighed. “I am sorry to have worried you. I wanted you to know where I had gone in the event anything grave befell me. You are the only soul I trust with such information,” she said, with a reassuring squeeze of her friend’s arm.
Claire sighed loudly as they walked. “I can understand that and I’m glad you trusted me with the knowledge. I would never betray you.”
“I know.”
“But I must enquire. You did not give a date for this ball, yet from your talk it seems it has passed?”
“Yes. Last eve, in fact.”
Claire’s eyes widened and she nodded. Their pace slowed, and they sat upon a bench surrounded by blooming roses. Claire fingered the petals around them lightly before she looked back. “And?”
“And it was the best night of my life.”
Her dear friend smiled for the first time since her arrival. “It went well, then?”
“Very. I met a man. A man…” She paused, taking a deep breath. Claire did not comment, merely waited for Margaret, her eyes holding no censure, only concern mixed with intrigue. “I love a man I cannot even name, Claire. A man who held and treated me with so much care I feel I may burst from the pleasure he gave me. What am I to do?” She sobbed the last few words, covering her face with her gloved hands.
Claire pulled her close while Margaret cried and explained all of the previous night’s events, glad to have a shoulder to weep on.
* * * *
The excitement from the lower class as they entered the theatre could be heard through the thick marble as they filed into the pit. Some around him scoffed at those of lower means being allowed to attend, but from what Victor understood the theatre made more from the common man than it did from the ton, by sheer numbers alone.
As he stood, blending into the darkened corner where the candlelight did not penetrate, Victor watched the gentlemen, lords and ladies drink and mingle before the performance.
He cared little for the theatre, though he was here for a reason, after all.
Awakening to a cold and lonely bed this morning had not been his plan. Victor had expected to awake with a lush and eager woman in his arms but, alas, he had not. She had fled while he’d slept.
He’d crashed in upon Anna and Dicky, demanding Maggie’s identity from Anna. She had merely smiled at him and said she did not know it. Victor had been ready to break something and might have, had it not been for Smith.
Smith had been the butler at Goodrich Hall ever since Anna and Dicky had rented the estate. The man might have given off a façade of proper behaviour, but you only had to watch him to know his inner urges were nothing of the sort.
He could stand there, no emotion at all in his features, but his breeches could not hide his true feelings. The man sported a desire like the rest of them, regardless of his status. Some of the ladies, unable or unwilling to control themselves, had taken it upon themselves to break the Goodrich Hall butler’s composure. None ever had. The man would stand there, his hands resting behind his back, eyes forward and displaying no restraint at all, as the woman sucked or rode his cock. All anyone had to do was ask it of him, and all he would say was simply, “Very well, my Lord,” with a nod, before he went about the request.
Victor still got hard thinking about the time Smith had fucked Anna and Dicky had taken Smith from behind. The butler held so much restraint while he fucked. No emotion at all crossed his face. What was even more endearing—and frankly, awe-inspiring—was that the man could hold his fulfilment for a bloody long time. In fact, he never gained satisfaction until he was told to.
That morning, Smith had stood at the chamber door, as Victor had demanded to know Maggie’s true identity. Smith, being the ever-present and loyal servant, had sought her identity in the event she should not maintain their secret. He had informed Victor her hired hack had departed Goodrich Hall well before sunrise, and delivered her to Carrieton House in London.
Victor had stormed home, sending his man of business out to discover more about the house. Upon the man’s return, Victor learned that Lord Carrieton had only one child, a Lady Margaret—an apparently charming girl with many suitors seeking her hand. Victor’s lip curled in distaste at the idea of another claiming what was his.
Whatever the girl had done to bewitch him, he knew she had not done it on purpose. She had come for a night of passion before she was to be sold to the man of her father’s choosing.
It seemed her father was undecided at the current moment, allowing two to court openly—a lord and a gentleman. Both with good connections and prospects, but both were well over twice Margaret’s age.
What father would not prefer his daughter to become a duchess?
If any had told Victor he would decide to wed the night before, he would have called them a fool. He could not name when he had decided but, whilst he had demanded her identity from Anna, his decision had only firmed. He would have her as his wife, and it had nothing to do with his need to gain an heir.
He could not name another time when a woman had enticed him as she did. Her hands, even unskilled as they were, had brought him more fire than he would have thought possible. He needed her, and would have her.
Bringing the Scotch to his lips, he took a sip, scanning the room, searching for the woman who had worked her way into his very soul.
* * * *
Claire linked her arm with Margaret’s as they moved up the stairs into the large foyer to await the evening’s performance. Lord Belfort walked with them, and her parents were ahead.
“I am so glad you are here,” Margaret muttered to Claire as they reached the foyer.
Lord Belfort handed each of them a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before he ordered a Scotch for himself.
“So am I, though for many reasons,” Claire said and took a sip from her flute. “Do you know this will be my first opera?”
Her husband growled something under his breath about Claire’s father, causing Claire to reach out and pat his arm in a soothing manner.
“I had forgotten that,” Margaret said with a sigh. “I shall look forward to experiencing it with you.”
Claire raised an eyebrow before they both let out long breaths that turned into laughter. How grand it was to be around a true friend.
“Will you ladies excuse me?” Lord Belfort asked before he moved away.
“Of course,” Claire said while removing a handkerchief from her purse to wipe away her tears of delight.
“I must say, Claire, I envy you. The love of a good man is something I crave over all else.”
Claire sighed and whispered, “You left while he slept. How do you know love was not on his mind?”
“It was not. Love is not on a man’s mind when he goes to a place like that. Pleasure is, just as it was my only intention as well.”
Despair filled her, as did the knowledge that love was possible. She felt it, knew it. Disappointment cut deep. The truth of the matter was, her love would never be returned.
* * * *
It was Belfort who first gained his notice, then his eyes moved over the two women with him. The taller woman was no doubt Lady Belfort. He had heard talk amongst the ton of his friend’s new wife, though he was yet to meet her himself. It was the girl by her side who held his attention.
Her auburn hair was pinned up high, tendrils hanging around her face. She turned to speak with Lady Belfort and his breath caught. She was stunning! Her high cheekbones shimmered in the soft light as her lips move
d into a smile. He knew those lips—they were lips he’d kissed but a day ago.
His view of her was obstructed by Belfort and he wished for the man to pass, but they did not. He focused on Belfort, only to note he was approaching Victor, his face as guarded as it always was.
Victor nodded to his friend. Belfort said nothing but came up and stood beside him, facing back towards the crowd. Victor moved his eyes back to the woman he was sure was his Maggie.
“You went to Goodrich last night.”
Victor stiffened slightly. Belfort did not phrase it as a question, simply as a comment. “Did I?” he asked, slanting a look at Belfort.
Belfort took a sip of his drink and eyed him for a moment. “Last eve my wife received a letter from a dear friend, announcing she had learned what occurred at Goodrich Hall and had decided to attend. Claire fretted for her safety and demanded we come to London to check on her.”
There was knowledge in Belfort’s eyes adding to what he said, and what he didn’t voice. Belfort knew in depth what happened at Goodrich Hall. He was not one to attend although Anna had tried to convince him. “And is her friend well?”
Belfort shrugged slightly. “That would depend on your point of view.”
“How so?” Victor asked, unsurprised at how demanding his words sounded as they left his lips.
Belfort raised an eyebrow but did not face him. Victor knew at whom his friend’s vision was directed, and it took all of his self-control not to follow it.
“Why are you here, Duke?” Belfort asked, using his title in a malicious tone. “You hate the theatre.”
“I do,” he confirmed, and allowed his gaze to seek out whom he desired. The women were laughing now. Maggie snatched a hankie out of her friend’s hand and dried her eyes as she chuckled. But he still felt a sadness from her.
“Is there a woman you seek tonight, Duke?”
“Yes.”
The Virgin at Goodrich Hall Page 4