by Hope Tarr
Feeling Kate’s gaze on her, Bea forced a morsel of the perfectly cooked fish between her lips. “Lucy’s birthday.”
Kate’s trill of laughter had her looking up. “Hardly.” Her gaze alighted on the infant quietly busy with breaking apart a dinner roll into what must be a thousand crumbs. “No doubt Rourke will be cross with me for saying so, but Ralph, dear friend though he is, is not really a baby person.”
Bea had suspected as much. Still, the confirmation sent her spirits sinking. Alas, her fantasy brood of sandy-haired, hazel-eyed children must be summarily dispatched. When would she learn that, beyond the bedroom, fantasy and reality rarely mixed?
Next to her, Rourke set down his glass with a slight slam. “Kate is halfway to being right. ’Twas your coming he came down to celebrate.”
Startled, Bea asked, “Mine?”
He nodded. “Aye, when I told him you’d come, he couldn’t accept my invitation to sup swiftly enough,” he added, winning a poke in the ribs from his wife.
Bea felt her mood lifting and her mouth fighting a silly grin. Ralph’s regard for her wasn’t only another of her fantasies after all. It was the genuine article. They had been friends nine months before, and they were friends still. Once she wed Mr. Billingsby, perhaps she need not give Ralph up entirely. They could never again be lovers, of course, but their friendship need not necessarily fall away. Even during the nine months apart during which she’d deliberately held back from corresponding, hoping to give her feelings for Mr. Billingsby a properly nurturing soil in which to grow, Ralph had never been far from her thoughts. Until now, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider just what a gaping hole removing him from her life would leave.
Dinner ended, they retired to the parlor. Sitting captive beside Kate on the settee, Bea covertly watched the wall clock from atop the pages of the Wilkie Collins novel she pretended to read. Counting down the minutes remaining until nine, she felt like a jack-in-the-box poised to pop. Fortunately, Rourke had his bespectacled beak buried in a stock report, and Kate was likewise too immersed in the mystery manuscript she was editing to remark on her restlessness.
Kate’s early-stage pregnancy made for an early retiring household. By the time the hallway clock showed half past eight, her sister was yawning behind her hand.
Kate replaced her manuscript pages in their folder and rose. “Poor hostess that I am, I’m afraid I must seek my bed. Will you excuse me?”
Also rising, Rourke cast an apologetic look at Bea. “Even were Kate not in a family way, we keep country hours here.”
Kate nodded. “The evenings here must seem deadly dull to you after the season in London.”
Bea shook her head, hoping her relief didn’t show. “Not at all,” she answered with feeling.
The previous night’s lesson had been the most stimulating, most exciting night of her life. That she had six more lessons still left to her made evening, and nine o’clock especially, her very favorite time of the day. Yawning extravagantly, Bea got up as well, kissed Kate good-night and rushed back to her room.
At five minutes to the ninth hour, she put on her robe, cracked open her bedchamber door and peered out into the thankfully vacant hallway. Creeping out, she made her way to the west wing and Ralph’s rooms. She found him waiting in the sitting area, one hand braced upon the mantel. Bathed in firelight, he had on his dressing gown, as well. From the previous night, she knew he wore nothing beneath.
“We missed you at supper,” she said, thinking how transparent she must seem. There was no “we,” only her. The civility, contrived though it was, also was honest. She had missed him most dreadfully.
“Did you?” He untied the robe and turned toward her. It was clear, abundantly so, that he was naked beneath.
Bea drew a deep breath and ran her gaze over him. Dusted by light brown hair and dappled by firelight, she couldn’t fathom a man’s body being more beautiful. And from the juncture between his thighs the heretofore hidden part of him stood out from its nest of dark curls, long and thick and straight as a spear. Casting her gaze downward, she felt her flesh tingle and heat. Her reaction confirmed what she’d long suspected about herself, suspected since her menses had first begun, signaling all sorts of strange bodily stirrings.
Beyond her birth, she wasn’t a lady at all.
A true lady would feel fear. A true lady would feel some trepidation at the very least. A true lady wouldn’t feel anything close to what she felt: a deep, primal stirring. The dispiriting encounter with Mr. Billingsby was fast fading to a blur at the back of her mind. Based upon it, and a childhood spent largely in the country, she had only the vaguest of notions of how Ralph’s…thing must function.
As if reading her mind, he snagged her gaze and asked, “Would you like to learn how a man’s body works?”
Bea couldn’t wait to discover, starting with touching him. He was so swollen the stretched skin looked almost shiny in the fading firelight. She imagined he must feel, if not soft exactly, then silken. And yet he stood out so firm and straight, there must be strength there, too, and force and yes, maleness…
Hanging back at the door, Bea licked her suddenly parched lips. “Yes, yes, I would.” Catching his inquiring look, she thought a moment and then added, “Please.”
Ralph flashed her a winsome, white-toothed smile. “Excellent.”
Bea’s thoughts raced and her breathing stalled. She’d left her tin of French Letters behind in her room, mindful that the previous night he’d assured her he had his own. Bea was both relieved that he was careful and madly jealous of any woman with whom he’d previously partnered. A man did not keep a tin of French Letters on, presumably, his bedside table simply as some sort of modern decoration. Pretty as those tins were, their contents served a most practical purpose. Ralph must have a mistress, perhaps more than one though it didn’t sound as if she or they lived beneath Rourke’s roof. But then practical, clever Ralph wouldn’t wish for any romantic complications. And yet wasn’t complicating his life precisely what she’d done?
“May I ask you a question before we…begin?”
He bowed his head. “You may.”
“Were I not to wed within the month, would you still—”
“Fuck you?” he finished for her, his gaze locking on hers.
Beatrice lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by the crudity. “I was going to say ‘tutor me,’ but yes, I suppose that was what I meant.”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“That’s very honest of you,” she answered, equal parts disappointed and relieved.
The very last thing she needed once she wed was to be compromised—or tempted—by a former flame. Their private lessons must end with the week. To carry on would compromise any chance of remaining friends. Still, she liked to think that she wouldn’t be entirely easy for Ralph to forget.
His gaze captured hers. He lifted a broad-backed hand to hail her, a hand capable, she knew, of creating a great many pleasurable sensations. “Take off your robe and come here.”
Bea hesitated. Wishing she’d drunk more of the supper wine, she untied her sash and slid the garment off. Like Ralph, she was naked beneath. Remembering he’d seen her already, she pushed away from the door, willing her wobbly legs to carry her. She stopped a few paces in front of him, her senses filling. He must have bathed and shaved for her. The scent of lemon seed soap was strong on his skin and his jaw showed no glint of stubble.
“Would you like to touch me?” His downward gaze left no doubt as to his meaning.
She touched the backs of three fingers to her mouth, which she realized had fallen open. Until now, Mr. Billingsby’s member was the only human adult male’s she’d seen and though she’d suspected he was but modestly endowed, she hadn’t understood just how modestly until now.
“A confident woman does not hesitate,” Ralph chided. “A confident woman knows her own mind and confidence in the bedroom can be a most alluring trait. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will do. I repeat—would
you like to touch me?”
She opened her mouth to answer yes. Only then did she realize she was sucking at her lower lip…like a harlot.
Then again she had the rest of her life to be a lady or at least pretend to be one. She had only this one week to be her true self, to be a woman. “Yes, yes, I would…please.” She drew a deep breath and held out her hand.
THE SIGHT OF THAT SLENDER, smooth-palmed hand reaching for him was nearly Ralph’s undoing. Nearly.
She parted his robe, and her mouth fell open. “Oh…my.”
Ralph followed her saucer-eyed gaze downward. He was heavily engorged and thoroughly thick, the slit of his head slippery wet and welling with want.
Gently, she encircled him with her hand. “You tell me a woman must understand her own desires before she may satisfy those of her partner, did you not?”
He nodded. “So I did.” The little minx was using his own lesson against him and in so doing, rapidly reversing their roles.
“Then yes, I want to touch you…here.”
Here. Ralph smiled to himself. She might be conquering her reticence by leaps and bounds, but her sexual vocabulary still wanted for broadening.
Her thumb tracing the circumference of his cock head had him catching at his breath. Jaw set, he managed to say, “It’s called a penis or a cock if you prefer, and I believe you comprehend its function a great deal better than you credit.”
She nodded sagely. “Well, I have seen horses breed.”
Ralph groaned.
Bea blushed, a pale pink stain that spread from her cheeks to her slender white throat and the tops of her beautiful shoulders. “What is it? What have I done wrongly now?”
“Nothing, only… Suffice it to say, it’s not every man who can maintain his confidence when his member is being compared to that of a…stud horse.”
She hesitated and then joined him in the joke. “I suppose you have a point.” Tentatively she stroked the side of his shaft. “You are quite beautiful here. And compared to the only other male member I have seen, Mr. Billingsby’s, quite broad and long.”
Ralph bit back a groan. “I realize that the purpose of these…sessions of ours is to promote conjugal bliss between you and your intended, but do you suppose you might refrain from mentioning his name in the course of our intimate relations?”
“Yes, of course.” She stroked her hand along the length of him, making him want to groan for an entirely different reason.
Fighting for control, Ralph went on, “Regardless of how endowed he is or is not, a reasonably sensitive and skilled lover should be capable of bringing his partner to satisfaction.” Remembering he was supposed to be teaching her something, he thrust into her palm. “It works like this only…inside you.”
Startled eyes flew up to his face. “And that produces a sensation that is…pleasurable?”
He nodded. “Provided the man employs it properly, yes, it does.” As if reading her uncertainty, he added, “Though it is not your first time, still I mean to be very careful with you. But if you are having second thoughts or misgivings about our…arrangement, then this would be the time to voice them.”
His gaze on her face, he forced himself to stay very still, so still he scarcely registered that he breathed. She closed her hand and held him, her slender fingers furled about the base. If she drew away and left him now, he wasn’t entirely certain what he would do.
She shook her head. “No second thoughts.”
Ralph released the breath he’d been holding.
“You’re so beautiful here and everywhere else,” she whispered, lifting her face to kiss him even as she stroked the moistened tip with her thumb. “Does this feel all right?”
Biting back a groan, he managed, “It feels better than all right.”
“Am I doing it properly, then?” Her siren’s smile told him that despite her inexperience, she knew exactly what she was about.
In the throes of his need, he almost laughed. “Yes, though the word proper doesn’t exactly come to mind. Exquisite, more like, though if you keep stimulating me as you’re doing, I’m going to lose control. I’m going to climax.”
Bridged brows greeted that statement. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Not yet. Not if I’m to please you, too.”
“But you are pleasing me. Touching you pleases me.” She hesitated. “I am curious what it might be like to…kiss you there, as well.”
Ralph could almost believe his heart stopped beating. “Have you ever taken a man’s member into your mouth?” he asked, already assured of the answer.
“No.” She shook her head. “Do men enjoy being kissed that way?”
Ralph nearly choked. “Yes, they—we—enjoy it very much.”
“Then I want to learn.”
Ralph swallowed hard. “Kneel at my feet.” Even though he was bare and the room cold, he’d never felt hotter in all his life.
She released him, but only for the handful of seconds it took for her to slide down to the floor. Seeing her beautiful face, now eye level with his waist, had Ralph’s heart pumping apace with his cock.
Looking down onto the crown of her golden head, her hair sweeping over one shoulder to expose the creamy arc of jaw and throat, remorse struck him. Whether she accepted it as a lesson or not, what he was about to have her do amounted to taking terrible advantage of her.
“Beatrice, you don’t have to do this,” he said, reaching down to help her up.
“I know that.” Her lazy-lidded gaze lifting to his reflected remarkable self-assurance. “I want to.” Ralph held in his breath as she guided him inside the warm, wet cavern of her mouth, her lips slipping over him like a warm, wet glove. Sliding him back out, she smiled. “Hmm, you taste nice. Delicious even.” Her eyes drifted closed again, long lashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones.
She was awkward at first, finding her bearings, finding her way. Aside from offering an encouragement or two, Ralph declined to direct. Instead, he held on to the edge of the mantel shelf and held back her hair to keep it from falling in her eyes. The tender gesture was a first for him, he realized. But then the lovely woman kneeling at his feet wasn’t just anyone. She wasn’t only his pupil, whatever that might mean. She was his heart’s desire, the woman he’d loved from afar for nine long months, who by some stroke of fortune had granted him the gift of herself for seven, now six, bittersweet nights.
Closing in on his climax, he began to withdraw from her with regret. Covering him still, she looked up at him with hurt eyes.
He shook his head, wondering if she had any clue as to how grievously she tempted him. “I am going to come. I am going to ejaculate into your mouth. Is that really what you wish?”
Her eyes looking up into his dared him to be wicked. And selfish. And yes, dirty as he’d never before been with any lover less experienced than him.
She slid him out of her lips long enough to say, “Then come. Come in my mouth. Only stay with me.” As if to drive her point home, she dipped her head and drew him even more deeply inside, massaging him not only with her mouth, but what must be the muscles of her throat.
“Beatrice.” He sank his hand into her heavy hair and fought for what remained of his self-control. “Get up.” Brooking no argument, he stretched down a hand to help her to her feet.
That time she obeyed. She started toward the bedroom. On the brink, Ralph caught her about the waist. “Here. Now,” he said, turning her back toward him. With his free hand, he reached into his robe pocket for the prophylactic he’d had the forethought to place there for just such an opportunity.
He handed it to her. “Put it on for me.”
Beyond any titillation that her touching him might bring, rolling on a condom might well be one of the more practical lessons she learned from him. If she and the milksop husband decided to pace their progeny, at least one of them ought to know how to prevent conception.
She hesitated and then took it. Her fingers brushing him had turned a telltale cold. Wat
ching her roll the sheath over him, her beautiful mouth pursed in concentration, the swell of her perfect breasts flushed pink, he couldn’t wait so much as a moment more.
“Time to learn tree climbing.” He grabbed hold of her waist and lifted her against him. “Wrap your arms about my neck as you did the other night and both your legs about my waist.”
She obeyed, her slender arms winding about his neck, her thighs anchoring to his hips. Kissing her, he carried her over to the wall. She was light as a cloud and pale as the moon and he couldn’t wait to drive himself inside her.
But wait he did. Bracing his back against the paneling, he reached down between them. His testing fingers confirmed she was ready for him. More than ready, she was drenched.
“Beatrice.” He captured her mouth with his. Tasting his musk on her tongue, he locked both hands about her bottom and drove into her.
Her eyes flew open. She let out a gasp that bordered on a scream, and her one arm fell away from his neck.
He stilled inside her. “Beatrice?”
Eyes squeezed closed, she grabbed hold of him again and cinched her thighs tighter. Ralph rocked against her. Slipping in her slickness, he allowed it was too perfect, she was too perfect. Perfect enough to forget that this was but a game they were playing. Perfect enough to forget that in a few weeks she would walk down a church aisle as another man’s bride. Perfect enough to forget that she didn’t love him, that none of this was real.
She met him thrust for thrust, and though Ralph had been with more women than he cared to count, never before had he moved with anyone with such perfect unspoken understanding. Lost in sensation, he could scarcely credit the murmured endearments slipping forth from his mouth—“so beautiful,” and “God, you feel so good around me,” but mostly her name, “Beatrice,” again and again, the pressure building with each cry and thrust.
He came hard, the climax tearing through him. Stifling his cry, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from calling out her name.