Ellora's Cavemen: Jewels of the Nile II

by Anthology

  Stephen kissed her, softly, sweetly. “Better than perfect, my love.”

  Gelsey deepened the kiss, pushing her tongue past his teeth, tasting again the unique, intoxicating flavor of her husband, knowing she couldn’t speak or the emotion surging in her heart would find its way out of her eyes. And the last thing she wanted to do was cry, not now, not when she was as happy as she could remember being in her life.

  She wouldn’t have thought she could get any happier, in fact, but then her husband began to move his thick cock in and out of her pussy, fucking her with a slow sensual rhythm that had her near the edge far too quickly. Gelsey tried to hold back, to postpone her release, but he felt entirely too perfect. The cock that seemed to have been made for her pleasure drove deep into her core, ending with a swivel of his hips that had her clit sounding his praises.

  Seconds later, she screamed his name, digging her fingers into the strong muscles of his backs as waves of pure bliss swept out from her womb to every inch of her body, tightening the tips of her breasts, making her dizzy with pleasure. Stephen’s own rhythm grew faster, deeper, frantic. The sounds of aroused flesh meeting aroused flesh filled the room, underscored by Gelsey’s soft cries as the tension low in her body began to build once more and Stephen’s labored breath as he neared the edge.

  “I want you to come again. Come with me, Gelsey.” Stephen’s command was followed by a blunt finger pressing into her ass, fucking her there in the same way he’d done the first time they were together. The sensation was just as amazing the second time around, the feeling of being so full, so perfectly and completely filled with Stephen sending her spiraling into bliss once more.

  Stephen cried out a second later, spilling himself deep inside her with pulses of his cock that seemed to prolong her own orgasm, so that she was still trembling with the force of her release when the knock came at the door.

  “Ms. Carland, I don’t know who it is you have in there, but the man’s identity is immaterial.” It was Cora, her voice cold enough to coat hell in a layer of ice. “You will pack your things and be gone by the end of the day.”

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry,” Gelsey said, giggling, knowing she should be embarrassed at being discovered, but too high on endorphins to care.

  “You’ll also be losing a Tin Man, Cora. I’ll be taking Gelsey home to Ireland tonight.”

  “Mr. Fellows? I— Dear me, I…” Cora cleared her throat, then continued with a dignified sniff. “Very well, then, I will go alert your understudy.”

  Gelsey giggled again as Stephen mimicked the older woman’s facial expressions to a tee. “You really are an excellent actor, you know.”

  “True. Our calling to witchcraft will be a great loss to the world of theatre.”

  “Hardly. I think I’m the worst costume mistress the company has ever seen.”

  “But you’re an excellent witch, strong enough to beat a high priestess of the black coven without a day of training.” Stephen kissed her, then began to nibble down her throat as he tugged at the bottom of her shirt.

  “You can’t be serious. We just got in trouble, we can’t—”

  “The door is locked, is it not?” Her shirt came off and her skirt was pushed down to pool around her feet.

  “Yes, but…” Gelsey’s protest died as Stephen stripped, revealing every inch of her gorgeous husband’s chiseled body.

  “Then, my dearest wife, I think we can.” He pulled her close, his cock already recovered sufficiently to thicken against her stomach. “More so, I think we must.”

  “Making love to me again is highly necessary?”

  “Highly.” Stephen smiled as he pulled her to the carpet.

  Gelsey laughed, finding she had no choice but to surrender.

  The Debutante

  Samantha Kane

  Chapter One

  Dominic, Viscount Lethbridge, eased out the open door of the ballroom onto a terrace that was almost as crowded as the dance floor. He vowed, again, that this was the last time his mother would talk him into attending one of these god-awful marriage-market affairs. The unattached females and their predatory mamas made this quite possibly the most dangerous place in England for an eligible, titled male. He looked around for Jeremy Benford, his best friend since their school days and a frequent partner in Dom’s sexual misadventures. Knowing Benford, he’d managed to escape out here at least half an hour ago, with a toothsome widow no doubt.

  Several young ladies grouped together at one end of the terrace turned in his direction with gleaming eyes and bashful snickers and Dom made a hasty retreat down the stairs into the garden, taking the first path he saw into the shrubbery. Thank God Merwell had a forest of trees back here to hide in. He’d look for Benford from there.

  Once in the trees Dom searched the visible terrace for his friend to no avail. The trees followed the line of the house, and Dom rounded the corner to the side of the building. There were several lamps burning there, and another door from the ballroom. As Dom watched, a small figure furtively snuck out the door and then leaned back against the wall. It was a woman, a girl actually from the look of her plain white gown, one of the debutantes. Was she meeting someone? A young man, perhaps, for an assignation? Dom smiled in anticipation. He liked watching almost as much as participating.

  Suddenly the figure stood away from the wall in alarm, the tense lines of her body telling Dom something was wrong. It was then the voices carried to him. Someone was coming. In the blink of an eye the girl ran from the house into the trees, several yards away from Dom.

  He stood perfectly still, not wanting to reveal himself. His reputation was such that a virginal young lady of quality would probably swoon to find herself alone in the woods with him. He could see her more clearly now, and wondered if her white dress would give her away to the small group of young men spilling out the door.

  She was pretty in an unconventional way. A little plump with large breasts, not at all the fashion, but Dom liked it on her. She looked as if she’d be a soft, pleasant ride. She’d seemed smaller when she came out the door, but on closer inspection she came to his shoulder at least. Her hair looked dark in the shadows of the trees, absorbing the wan moonlight that filtered through the leaves and reflecting it back as a shimmering gleam. That gleam intrigued him. What color was it? He liked brunettes, liked to see their long dark hair spread across the bed as he fucked hard into them, the contrast of dark hair and white sheets arousing.

  He surprised himself with the thought. He never fantasized about these virginal little debutantes. It was an exercise in futility. They were too well guarded, and more often than not too ignorant of men to satisfy his fantasies. So why this one? She had intrigued him the moment she snuck out the door. He could barely discern her features in the dark, and yet he found his cock hard imagining fucking her in a room lit by moonlight, that same gleam in her hair as it streamed across his bed.

  The girl quietly turned so her back was against the tree and Dom saw her bite her fist, as if she were holding something back. Words? Tears? He realized it was a reaction to what the young bucks were saying. He turned eyes narrowed with displeasure on the group and began to listen to their inebriated chatter.

  “The Welliston chit? Good God, man, that would be like fucking a little piglet!” The comment was followed by raucous laughter all around.

  “A fucking piglet stuffed with money,” another voice drawled, eliciting more laughter. “She can squeal for me if it means paying off the duns.”

  “Did you see that horrendous dress? So plain.” Disgust laced the comment, and Dom saw the dandified little bastard who’d spoken fluff the overwhelming waterfall of his cravat.

  “Again, style means nothing. She may wear whatever she likes in the country as she oversees my estate while I’m in London.” The same voice drawled again, clearly indicating to his fellows his interest in the girl, or her money anyway.

  “But to fuck her? Really, Chauncey, could you? I might actually find myself unable to perform for the
first time in my life. She tried to talk to me of books! Can you countenance it? And that nose.” Dom could almost see the boy shiver in horror.

  The one named Chauncey laughed. “One cunt is as good as another in the dark, gentlemen. And as a wife, she’d expect no more than a poke once a month until she is with child. I daresay the faster I get on with it the happier we shall both be. Then I shall go my way and leave her to go hers.”

  Their voices faded as they moved in the door. Dom turned again to watch the girl. He was on the verge of going to her, to comfort her he knew not how, when she straightened from the tree. He watched as she smoothed her hair in its simple chignon, and then smoothed her skirts with the same motion. He could actually see her shoulders move as her back stiffened. It was as if she prepared for battle. When she turned to go back inside he finally saw her face. Finely arched brows, tilted eyes, a long nose curiously flat, and perhaps crooked? She held her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his eyes to her large mouth and full lips. She was exceptional. There was nothing ordinary about her, and as he watched her walk stiff-legged back into the ballroom, her face composed, he wanted her as he had not wanted anyone for a very long time.

  * * * * *

  The next day in Dom’s study, Jeremy Benford stared at Dom as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you mad? You must be mad.”

  Before he could answer Ben, the other man spoke again. “Do you know anything else beside the fact that she’s a virgin?”

  Dom thought for a moment. “Actually, I don’t know that. I’m assuming she’s a virgin because she was wearing the white uniform of a debutante.” Ben snorted in disgust and rolled his eyes. “But I think her family name is Welliston. That is, if that group of pups was talking about her. And I think they were. So there you are.”

  Ben fell back onto a chaise, his head dramatically held in his hands. “Good lord, Dom, a debutante! Are you mad?”

  “You’ve already asked me that, Benford. No, I am not mad. She’s going to be good, I’m sure of it.”

  Dom watched his best friend open his eyes and look at him incredulously. Ben was beautiful, everyone said so. He was tall, muscular, with hair the color of old guineas and eyes the blue of the sea, or at least that’s what Dom had heard someone say once. It sounded better than blond and blue. What made Ben so attractive to Dom, however, was his appetite for life. Dom tended to be rather dour and cautious when left to his own devices. Ben wouldn’t allow it. Ben also shared women with him on a regular basis. The two men had very similar sexual tastes, and Dom had no intention of giving him up, or the pastimes they enjoyed together. That was why he was determined to enlist Ben’s aid in finding the exceptional Miss Welliston.

  “Describe her again.” Ben closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “She was about as tall as my shoulder, with dark hair, and she was voluptuous, with lush breasts. She had a fine pair of eyes, tilted up at the corners, and I think her nose has been broken at some point. Also, she had the mouth of a siren, large, with full lips.”

  “And her name might be Welliston.” Ben sounded wearily resigned.

  “Yes.” Dom got up from where he’d been leaning against the desk and walked over to sit next to Ben. He threw an arm companionably around the other man’s shoulder. “I’m no good at descriptions, Ben, you know that. The sky is blue, the grass is green, music is loud, and sugar is sweet. But when you see her, you’ll understand. She’s no ordinary debutante. I want her, Ben. And I want you to want her too.”

  Ben just looked at him dubiously.

  * * * * *

  A week after the Merwell’s ball, Clarissa Welliston sat down next to her mother with an inward sigh. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to sit here long. Either her mother or her best friend Minda would make her get up and parade around, as if one of the so-called gentlemen here would suddenly see the light and decide she was more interesting than her money or her breasts. She hadn’t had a conversation with a man who looked higher than her chest in over three weeks. The whole affair wearied her. Just last week at the Earl and Countess of Merwell’s she’d stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and overheard several young gentlemen discussing her in less than favorable terms. A piglet stuffed with money they’d called her, the little dandified jackanapes. She’d had to bite her fist in her hiding place to keep from storming up to them and telling them in no uncertain terms that they would never have a chance at either her money or her person.

  Not that Clari didn’t want a man. She was desperate for a man. Experimenting by herself was all well and good, but she wanted a fine, strong cock between her legs, the real thing. Too bad marriage had to come with it. Glancing around the ballroom, Clari wasn’t even sure there was a fine, strong cock here this evening. At least at Merwell’s there had been several gentlemen present who were pleasant to look at and who appeared to have the necessary parts and knew what to do with them. Tonight at the Smythe musicale there was a definite lack of male pulchritude.

  Lost in her thoughts, it took Clari a moment to realize she was looking down at a pair of highly polished men’s shoes planted directly in front of her. They were attached to a long pair of legs, and Clari’s eyes traveled up every inch of their heavily muscled length, stopping for only one forbidden moment on the promising bulge in the front of his trousers. Her gaze passed over slim hips and broad shoulders until she finally looked into the extremely handsome face of the man standing expectantly before her. He was extraordinary. He looked a little foreign with his olive skin and dark brown eyes, and his black hair was left a little long to sweep over his broad forehead. His nose was long and strong, quite Roman actually, like some of the pieces in the museum. His lips were thin but finely sculpted, with a deep dimple at the bow. She could see a shadow of a beard on his face though it was early in the evening. His overt masculinity made a shiver chase up Clari’s spine. At the subtle movement, his mouth quirked knowingly and Clari’s eyes snapped to his in mortification. The gleam there confirmed her fears—he knew she was attracted to him, and he found it amusing.

  A sharp female voice spoke, and Clari started with surprise. She hadn’t even noticed their hostess beside him.

  “My dear Miss Welliston, Viscount Lethbridge has requested an introduction. How thrilling for you, I’m sure!” Mrs. Smythe trilled. Clari gritted her teeth. It didn’t take an exceptionally sharp intellect to intuit what Mrs. Smythe wasn’t saying—that Clari should be grateful any man was interested in her enough to ask for an introduction, much less this man. Clari had heard the other girls speak of him, of his looks and his wealth and his eligibility. They had also whispered about his shocking sexual excesses.

  “Miss Welliston,” Viscount Lethbridge said, his deep voice causing things low in Clari’s stomach to tighten in excitement.

  “My lord,” she responded politely, holding out her hand. He took it, and even through her glove and his she could feel the heat of the embrace. Her hand shook slightly, but he didn’t release it. He slowly bent over and kissed her wrist—kissed it, not just a polite bow, but an actual pressing of his lips against her. The tremors deep within her intensified. As he rose from his bow his eyes caught hers and the look simmered with hunger. Clari was shocked, titillated and bemused. What on earth? Surely he wasn’t interested in her?

  “Miss Welliston, would you care to take a turn about the room with me?” the viscount asked, his demeanor pleasant while at the same time quite determined. He looked deferentially at Clari’s mother beside her.

  “Oh yes, Clari dear, do go on with the viscount,” her mother quickly urged, a hand on her arm shoving her up. The avaricious delight on her face made Clari inwardly cringe.

  “Of course, my lord,” Clari said more forcefully than necessary as she yanked her arm from her mother’s grip, “I’d be delighted.” She glared at her mother before turning a composed countenance to the viscount, who raised a single brow, not even trying to hide his amusement. He took Clari’s hand and placed it on his arm and she nearly groan
ed out loud. Good God, he was firm and sleek with muscle under his evening clothes. At the thought, Clari could feel the first drop of slick cream slip out of her sex and rub along the suddenly swollen and sensitive lips there. It gave a turn about the room a new, erotic thrill it had never had before.

  Viscount Lethbridge kept one hand over hers on his arm. His thumb ran seductively along the length of her fingers as they strolled to the edge of the crowd, nodding here and there to acquaintances. They didn’t speak to one another until they were walking sedately around the room’s perimeter, as far from the crowd as possible. It lent their stroll a false sense of privacy—all eyes could see them, but few ears could hear them. Clari knew their path was a deliberate one and wondered what the viscount could have to say that required this level of privacy.

  “I have been searching for you, Miss Welliston, for this week past,” he began quietly, his thumb stroking, stroking over her fingers and the back of her hand until she thought she’d go mad. Instead she smiled benignly at Minda in the crowd, who was staring and gesturing wildly, clearing wanting to know what was going on.

  “Have you, my lord? I can’t imagine why. I am not difficult to find.” Her heart was racing. A week. What had happened a week ago to bring her to his attention? She’d never met him before tonight, she was sure of it.

  She sensed his amusement and was unable to resist the urge to glance at him. She did so out of the corner of her eye and caught him doing the same. She quickly looked away, but not before noting the approval in his gaze.

  “No questions as to why?” he asked. The path of his thumb shifted so that he was outlining her fingers, spreading them apart on his arm so that he could ravish the tender, sensitive skin between them with the heat and press of his thumb. Even through the lace of her glove it was overwhelmingly sensual. Clari’s breath caught in her chest.