The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part One

by Merry Farmer

  “Please do not look at me as an innocent maiden who does not know what she is doing,” she made her final arguments. “I do know what I am proposing. I am not a pure virgin. I can assure you that I will conduct myself with the utmost discretion. No one will know. I already live under your roof and am around you for much of the day. It will be a small thing to extend the nature of our connection, and not a soul in this hotel or out of it will have a single reason to think anything untoward is going on between us. You have my word on that.”

  She was right. Terrifying as it was, she was absolutely right. No one would blink an eyelash if they saw the two of them conversing. She’d been in his office, straightening his belongings, with the full knowledge of the rest of the staff. The two of them had been alone in a room with the door closed, as they were now, and not one person had thought anything of it. As a maid, she had every reason to be anywhere in the hotel at any time of day or night. If she was seen in the hall outside of the door to his room, she could say she had been called to attend to a guest. More than that, if she was seen going into or coming out of his apartment at any time, she could say she was fetching clean linens or shaving soap or cake from the kitchens for him. It would be unusual, but it wouldn’t be unexplainable. Her alibi was built into the very nature of the job she performed in his employ.

  Worst of all, in the lone week that he had known her, Jason had come to trust Flossie with his life. It was a shock to realize it, but there it was. She was the solution to his torment.

  “Come to my apartment at midnight,” he said, hoarse and full of disbelief. He didn’t know where he found the will to say it. But it was said.

  “Thank you, sir,” she breathed out on a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” Her eyes went glassy with tears, and she smiled.

  Smiled and wept because she had just agreed to martyr herself in his bed.

  “Go,” he croaked, his shaking growing worse by the second.

  “Yes, sir.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, then turned and swished out of the room.

  The moment she shut his office door behind her, Jason let out a breath and the unbearable tension that had strangled him. He collapsed onto the desktop, his head buried in the crook of his arm. He wanted to weep, to pour out the sorrow he felt for himself at everything he was about to do, but he couldn’t. Because underneath the dread and the shame and the gloom, a seed of happiness and relief blossomed in him. Thank God above for Flossie.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. Jason sat at his desk, completely bewildered, staring at the far wall, at the pictures Flossie had hung just a few days before after organizing his room. His mind was in a million pieces. He couldn’t have accomplished anything even if he’d tried. It wasn’t until Samuel knocked on his door—scaring him out of his wits—and brought him an invoice that needed to be signed that he pushed himself out of his chair and out of his office. He needed to move, to leave the fear and the expectation behind for just a few minutes.

  As he crossed through the lobby again on his way out to the garden, he caught sight of Flossie, working with Dora in the dining room. He couldn’t bear to look at her, didn’t dare lest he give himself away. He bolted for the outdoors, marching down the street to the livery. He had his horse saddled, and for the next few hours, until afternoon bled into twilight and twilight hushed to evening, he rode as hard as he pleased, giving his mount full head.

  Even that wasn’t enough. He returned to the hotel after dark, marching straight up to his apartment without looking at or speaking a word to anyone else. He took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time, turning left at the top and striding around the corner. The door to his apartment looked like that of every other guestroom in the hotel, save for the fact that it did not bear a number. It stood in the middle of the juncture between the hotel’s two wings.

  The apartment itself was directly above his office and the storeroom beside it. It was every bit as luxurious as the grand suites at the end of each hall in the building’s two wings. He’d spared no expense for himself, and in addition to electric lights, he had installed a complete bathroom with a flush toilet and large porcelain tub. He went straight to that tub and turned on the taps, drawing himself a bath. If he was going to damn himself and Flossie together, the least he could do was wash himself first.

  He bathed, then he dressed again. He shaved as if starting his day instead of ending it. He checked his bedroom, stripping his bed and making it again with clean sheets. He opened the windows in his bedroom to let the fresh air in, then closed them again, worried that if he truly did lose control and made sounds, anyone who happened to be in the garden would hear them. He paced around the apartment, straightening books on the shelf and making sure the furniture was in perfect alignment with such intensity, that in short order he was drenched in sweat again.

  Then the knock came.

  He held his breath, sprinting for the door. Through the peephole, he saw Flossie standing in the hallway, still dressed in her uniform. He threw open the door, beckoned desperately for her to come in, then shut it fast and as silently as he could. He turned, pressing his back against the door, panting like a trapped animal.

  “You came,” he said.

  “I did,” she answered with a shy smile.

  He was going straight to hell for this, damn every part of him. No, damn just one part of him. Either way, he was going straight to hell.

  “I wasn’t sure if you would,” he said, feeling as lame as he sounded.

  She shook her head. “Once my mind is made up, sir, it stays made up.”

  “I see.”

  He stood there. Paralyzed. Aching. He couldn’t breathe, but how his heart pounded!

  Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

  She took a half step toward him. “Would you like me to….” She swallowed, her shaking hands lifting and reaching for the top button of his coat.

  His coat, his armor, which he’d donned again after taking a bath, as if he was going out and not staying right where he was. His breath came in tight, shallow gasps as she undid the top button, sliding the thick ebony through its woolen loop. She moved down to the next one, repeating the process, then the next one. Her hands hovered at the level of his stomach, tied in knots as it was, then his abdomen, tight as a drum, then lower. He stifled a cry of fear and pleasure as she undid the button over his erection, then moved to undo the final button. Then her hands lifted again to push aside the thick wool as though drawing back curtains to reveal the horror of the freak show.

  Sure enough, his trousers were tented, beyond obvious. The white cotton of his shirt was damp under his arms. She looked up at him, sympathy—no, pity—in her eyes. Those eyes shone a deeper blue now than they had in the daylight.

  “It’s all right.” She spoke softly, resting a hand over the fury that was his beating heart.

  “No, it’s not,” he said, his voice weak.

  She smiled, standing close enough to him that he was certain she could feel the shame as it poured off of him. “You’re only wearing a shirt,” she said.

  “I…I didn’t think more was needed.

  “I had hoped to see one of your waistcoats.” He blinked, and she went on. “I see only the slightest glimpse of the collar, but I can tell that they are fine.”

  “My waistcoats?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her eyes. “But I understand.”

  Of course she could. How could she not when he was stiff as a flagpole, mere inches from her.

  All at once, the dam broke.

  “I’m so sorry for this, Flossie,” he breathed out in a torrent. “I’m sorry for all of this. I shouldn’t put you in this position, but if you heard me at the churchyard, then you heard me say that I think I shall go mad if something isn’t done.”

  “I know.”

  “The truth of it is, I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

  Her eyes snapped up to meet his.

  “How could I not?”
he went on. “You’re beautiful and clever. You see right through me. I’ve wanted to kiss you and touch you and possess you in every way possible, but the truth is, I’m a terrible lover. Just wretched. I don’t have the patience for it, only the drive. Forgive me for being a selfish brute, unable to bring you the pleasure you deserve. It’s such a waste, such a bloody, awful waste.”

  “Ssh,” she silenced him, touching her fingertips to his lips.

  If he didn’t get her into his bed soon, the whole thing would be even more embarrassing than it was already doomed to be.

  “I have an extensive collection of French letters,” he informed her, grasping for the last possible bit of sense he could find. “So you will have no fear of unwanted pregnancy. And if the worst does happen, I swear to you, I will provide for whatever you decide to do about it. I will not abandon you simply because I am sated.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “That’s the only reason I have considered this. I know I can trust you.”

  No one had ever spoken words so far from the truth in his life. But they were all he had to hold onto. They were all that would keep him from losing his mind and himself with it.

  “Then will you be so, so kind as to accompany me to the bedroom,” he whispered.

  “I will,” she said.

  She took his hand and led him on.

  Jason hadn’t allowed another soul into his apartment since the crew that had installed its furnishings. He had completed decorating himself, made his own bed, folded his own clothes, and did his own tidying. It was soothing to do so, to know that this intimate space was completely private. Having Flossie there now, crossing through the front room to the bedroom as though she had been there a hundred times before, was as unnerving as it was intriguing.

  He’d kept the light on in the bedroom, had left the corner of the bedclothes turned down when he’d made the bed. He’d even arranged a selection of French letters on the bedside table, like the fool he was. Everything was in place, waiting, beckoning. He shut the door, closing them an even smaller world of intimacy.

  Flossie turned to face him. “Would you like me to….”

  “What?” He’d never been so nervous in his life.

  “Would you like me to undress you?” she asked.

  Hot embarrassment flooded him, from face to toes. “No, no, I can manage.”

  “Let me help with your coat, at least,” she said and reached for his shoulders.

  He caught his breath as she slid her hands under the lapels of his coat and pushed it down his arms. As the weight left him and air rushed in around him, he thought he might float away, all grounding lost. Forget the rest of his clothes, as Flossie stepped around to take the coat from behind him, searching for a place to hang it, he felt naked. His hands trembled as he undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged out of his suspenders.

  Damn him, he had never been this nervous with any of the countless whores he’d been with. But then, Flossie was no whore, no matter what she said about herself. She would argue with him, but she was as honest a woman as they came. The first honest woman he had ever been with. He lifted his shirt over his head, folded it, and draped it over the back of the chair in the corner of the room.

  When he turned around, Flossie had removed her apron and unfastened the buttons down the back of her simple black uniform dress. His mouth went dry as she shrugged it off, tugging the sleeves off over her hands. Her shape was every bit as perfect as he’d fantasized. Her shoulders were creamy smooth, and the swell of her breasts as the strained against her corset begged him to touch them. She stepped out of the dress, revealing long, shapely legs clad with simple black wool stockings held up by garters.

  She must have felt him looking, for she peeked up at him. Her eyes rested on his bare chest for a moment. She must have liked what she saw. Her cheeks colored. He was aware that he was fit. He kept himself that way on purpose, but it seemed too much to imagine that she thought he was attractive. She, on the other hand, was gorgeous.

  He drew in a breath when she started on the hooks of her corset. She stopped, meeting his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, did you want to?” Her question faded.

  He shook his head, unable to speak. To undress her himself would be an act far too intimate for what he knew would come next. He would be a bloody fool if he promised her anything even close to romance.

  As soon as she lowered her head to focus on unhooking her corset, he turned and removed his trousers. His cock sprung free as he did, reminding him of just what kind of a monster he was. Shame trickled down his spine as he sidestepped to the bed, sliding between the sheets before Flossie could see his ugliness.

  It didn’t help that as soon as he was settled, he looked up at her just as she was drawing her chemise up over her head. He ached at the sight of her breasts, full and round with rose-hued nipples, already pert with anticipation. Her stomach was flat, the faintest line of dark hair pointing below the waist of her drawers. As soon as her chemise was off, she bent to remove those drawers and the stocking with them. When she straightened, treating him to the full sight of her naked body, she took the pins from her hair. It fell in a cascade of black waves down her back.

  He wouldn’t last two minutes.

  He tried to tell her how beautiful she was, but the only sound that emanated from him was a desperate groan.

  “It’s all right,” she said, crossing to the bed and climbing in beside him.

  He realized too late that his expression was contorted into fear and confusion. She settled on her back, lifting a hand to lay along the side of his face, cradling his jaw. She might as well have been cradling his heart.

  “We have an understanding,” she said, her fingertips raising tingles along his cheek. “We are here to help one another. I am here for you to calm the torment within you. Think of nothing but that.”

  He shook his head, sorrow mingling with the tangle of emotions he was certain he would never escape. “You have no idea what that means, no idea what I am capable of at my worst.”

  “Then show me,” she said. So simple, so devastating.

  He couldn’t not kiss her. Still wound tighter than a spring, he shifted to cover her, bringing his mouth down over hers. The first contact of his lips to hers was like the burst of sunlight coming out from behind a cloud. Her lips were so soft, and try as he did to be gentle with her, the strength of his need wouldn’t let him. He devoured her like a man bent on destruction, taking what he wanted from her. She gave it willingly, opening for him and letting him invade her, sliding her tongue along his.

  Her arms rested around his sides, embracing her.

  “Wait.” He stopped, held himself above her at arm’s length. The tell-tale signs of his imminent loss of control were already gathering in his groin.

  “What?” she asked, breathless.

  He nodded to his side table. “The French letter. I have to put it on.”

  She blinked rapidly and twisted to look at the row of small packages on the table. “Oh.” She reached for one, bringing it to hold between them. “How does it work?”

  The storm rolled back for a moment, replaced by practicality. Jason shifted to the side, taking the packet from her and opening it.

  “It’s a sheath, you see,” he explained, tossing the envelope back onto the table. “Sheepskin.”

  “I don’t understand,” she frowned, touching the rolled edge.

  It was as intimate as if she’d touched him. He swallowed.

  “It’s easier to fit it into place if it begins rolled up like this.”

  She frowned. “Will you show me?”

  His breath caught. “Show you?” That would involve showing her his cock. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

  “It’s all right,” she repeated the phrase that he had yet to believe. He was too stunned to stop her when she took the condom from him and moved to push the bedclothes back. “Show me how to put it on?”

  He caught her hand on the bedclothes roughly, holding them close
d, panic racing through him. She gasped at the suddenness of his movement, or at the strength of his grip on her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re not ready to show me.”

  Damn her for understanding his shame. And bless her. She handed the condom over.

  As he reached beneath the covers to put it on, she said, “You know that if we continue with this arrangement, I will see eventually.”

  “I know,” he sighed, finishing with the condom and twisting to his side to face her, “but as you said, I’m not ready yet.”

  She reached for him, helping him to resume his position above her. “I promise you, I won’t find you ugly or frightening,” she said. “And it’s nothing I haven’t seen or felt before.”

  His face twitched to a frown, and a piece of the murderous rage for the men she’d been with before punched through him. He was too ashamed to hold onto it, though. Too ashamed and too bowled over by the tenderness in her voice and body. Her arms slipped around him, hands spreading from his hips to his sides and up his back in a delicious dance that left him trembling and hungry for more. She moved her legs apart, along his, allowing him to inch closer to his goal. Everything about her was accommodating in the extreme.

  He kissed her again, wishing to God he could enjoy it. He wanted to revel in her mouth, taste her sweetness with long, leisurely exploration. He wanted to run his hands along her curves, learning her body in all its glory. He wanted to suckle her breasts, tease her nipples to hard points, and then use his tongue to play with them. Most of all, he wanted to give her enough pleasure to leave her limp and sighing his name with passion. But he couldn’t stand the pressure, in his groin or in his brain.

  He found her entrance—blessedly wet and ready—and pushed into her. God in heaven, it felt so good that he cried out with the joy of it. He sank himself as deep as he could into the hot folds of her. Her arms tightened around him and he felt her gasp through his whole body. He prayed that he hadn’t hurt her, but before he could consider the point, he withdrew and thrust again, then again, working himself into a frenzied rhythm that left him sweating and weeping with the pure relief of it.