"Lovely Lucy, do you like what Brookeston is doing to your cunt?" The blonde man inquired after a moment. His fingers plucked playfully at her small dark nipples.
"Oh, yes," Lucy panted, arching her spine. "Lord Brookeston ... ram your rod into my cunt ... my hungry cunt needs your fucking ... feel how wet it is, how it salivates for your mighty sword ... oh please ... yes, like that, pierce me harder ... !"
Lucy's words seemed to stir Brookeston into a frenzy. His hips slapped against her thighs with greater urgency. His words emerged in gasps. "God, St. John, the wench is so hot, I am going to ..."
"Control yourself, man." With an idle shove, St. John unbalanced Brookeston. The latter landed on his rear with a grunt of surprise. His sex vibrated like a flagpole in the air.
"What did you do that for?" Brookeston demanded angrily.
"My turn," St. John replied blithely as he took his friend's place between the woman's legs. "You never could hold your liquor or your stamina."
At Brookeston's indignant sputter, Lucy intervened with a saucy smile. "Gentlemen, may I suggest that there is room enough for all? Lord Brookeston, if you would be so kind as to come to the head of the table?" So saying, she rolled over languidly so that she was on her hands and knees. She cast a come-hither look over the shoulder.
Brookeston complied with ungainly haste. He groaned aloud as Lucy took his erection between her lips. At the same time, St. John began to pump into her from behind. With each grunt of pleasure, he drove Lucy forward, impaling her mouth further upon his friend's cock. Lucy's eyes rolled back in her head, her face wild as she moved to the erotic rhythm of two lovers.
Moonlight shifted behind the curtain. Nicholas looked at his masked conspirator, whose face now played with shadows. She was, he noticed, of similar build to Helena. Curvy, with a nipped-in middle and a sinfully rounded backside. The firm, rounded tops of her breasts seemed to quiver, and in his mind he saw those tits bobbing rhythmically with each ferocious thrust of his cock. He felt his control slipping as he imagined the fiery nymph under him, pleading for his rod with words as hot as the ones that echoed through the room. Inflamed beyond bearing, Nicholas closed his hands around the woman's waist and turned her to face him.
The nymph's eyes widened and, for a brief moment, Nicholas had the humiliating thought that she, too, would reject his advances. But, no, with a silent sigh her eyes closed, and her lips parted in acquiescence. Slowly, carefully so as to not disturb the curtain, Nicholas pulled her closer. With a feeling of elation, he tested the lushness of that bottom lip with his finger, caressing that soft, plump ledge. He traced the outline of her mouth, his cock throbbing at the thought of tasting those lips, of plundering her sweetness with his tongue.
But he would not. He had vowed this to himself, to keep that one act sacred to his marriage. He would pour his love, the light of his soul, into his chaste kisses with Helena and pray that she might keep them in safety. Even as guilt and self-loathing burned in his gut, he knew this night there was no turning back. His demons had been roused; they clamored for satisfaction, for the satiation of their voracious appetites.
Ah, my love. Forgive me.
Nicholas stroked the woman's lower lip, requesting entrance. His nostrils flared as the tip of her tongue appeared and flicked against the pad of his finger. Licking him slowly, delicately, as if he was a sweet. He pushed his finger in deeper. Again, her eyes widened. Lord, but that act of innocence inflamed him. He thrust the full length of his finger into her mouth, stifling a groan as her cheeks hollowed on instinct, sucking him into her moist depths. Nicholas gave an inward groan, his erection straining painfully against the placket of his trousers. Would the damned threesome never stop fucking?
As if in answer, guttural male groans spilled into the room, followed by high keening female cries. Moments later, he heard a few giggles, the clink of guineas exchanging hands, and then—about bloody time—the opening and closing of the door. Nicholas' eyes roamed over the masked vixen in his arms. She appeared wantonly oblivious to anything at the moment, her eyes half-closed, her generous breasts rising and falling in rapid rhythm. Some of the paint had smeared around the edge of her lips; he found that imperfection strangely erotic.
Lust bolted through him. With a swift movement, he jerked her into his arms and yanked aside the curtain. Before she had time to make a sound, he laid her on the nearest available surface, the desk. She was spread like a feast, and he felt like a survivor of an endless famine. She made a movement as if to protest. He merely ran his hands over the tiny sleeves of her loose white tunic, pulling them down, imprisoning her shapely arms. Her bodice had no choice but to follow the sleeves, the edge of satin rubbing over creamy mounds before exposing plump nipples. Ripe as berries they were, puckered sweetly atop full flawless tits. He filled his hands with the abundance, and the blood roared in his head when she moaned.
His fingers found her nipples, thrummed the buds until her moans became breathy, desperate. God, but she was an inferno. He had a mind to taste her fire before he went up in flames himself. He yanked up her skirt. Arousal blasted through him to find no impeding undergarments save a thin chemise. He slid the hem of the chemise up further, past her luscious stocking-clad legs, past the frilled garters, all the way up. At the top of all that delight, he found even more of heaven—downy soft curls, a shy pussy. He ran his finger reverently down her slit, found it plump and moist and slippery with wanting.
She gave a muffled shriek.
He placed his hand over her mouth, noticing how bronzed his hand appeared against her lily white softness. For a doxy, she had the skin of a lady. "Shh, sweet, unless you wish to invite others to our party. You would not want that, would you?"
Her eyes grew huge. She shook her head.
"Good." Satisfaction humming in his veins, Nicholas slid his hand lower, holding her gently at the throat. "I am not a man to share."
With his other hand, he unbuttoned his pantaloons. His turgid flesh sprang free, curving upward in triumphant freedom. He brought the bulging tip to the mouth of her sex, tormenting them both by rubbing the sensitive head against her damp curls. Up and down he stroked, nudging her hidden peak with the head of his cock. She gasped, her eyes closing.
"Look at me." Gently, he pressed down on her throat. "Tell me you want me."
Her eyes flew open. He nearly spilled his seed at her expression, the oh-so seemingly innocent sweep of long eyelashes, the surely feigned shock widening her eyes. One would almost believe that beneath that exotic feathered mask one would find the blushing fresh cheeks of a debutante.
Yes, he had found himself a veritable actress. The perfect harlot, one who could not only satisfy his rod, but also fulfill his darkest innermost desire: to transform innocence into wanton passion. To turn a lady—his lady—into a sweet, uninhibited slut.
"Tell me then, my sweet, what is it that you want?"
His vixen moaned, arching her hips against his erection, instinctively seeking hardness to rub against her softness. Her desire left the head of his shaft slippery, quivering for entry into the moist paradise. Nicholas withdrew, his expression stern. "A well-bred miss such as yourself surely knows to answer a question when asked. Answer me, or we shall cease."
She looked at him, eyes huge. When she spoke, her words were soft, husky, and wholly unexpected. "Monsieur, s'il vous plaît. Je ne comprends pas ..."
She was French then, likely newly arrived in England. He found her accent entrancing and oddly familiar, which did not make any sense as he did not know any French women. Then she shifted against him again, pleading with his cock, coating it in intoxicating wetness. Though he knew only rudimentary French, the language of lust was universal. He responded with a deliberate thrust forward, allowing the distended tip to nudge past her lush lips.
"Mademoiselle, is this what you want?" He moved in a little deeper, feeling her passage clench before slowly giving way to him. She was surprisingly tight. He could feel the rim of her stretching to accommod
ate his erection. He would not be able to continue with this game much longer.
To his relief, she nodded, as if in understanding.
"'Tis my cock you're wanting then. My cock in your sweet pussy." He spoke the words as a tutor would to an apt pupil. He thrust in deeper, slowly stretching her, feeling his chest swell with her cries of pleasure. He sank himself further into her molten depths. "Ask for it, sweeting. More of my cock."
"Cock," she echoed in breathy accents, her head moving side to side as he rewarded her with another inch of his rod. "S'il vous plaît, monsieur ... more ... cock!"
With a hoarse groan, he filled his hands with the full curves of her ass, luxuriating in its womanly softness. He lifted her hips and slammed his length all the way into her. She was instant fire, pure flame wrapping along his shaft as he moved within her. She moaned, arching off the table to receive his thrusts. Seeking leverage, he gripped the edge of the desk as he worked himself deeper and deeper, fucking to the heart of her pussy. Crazed with lust, he pounded into her as she chanted wantonly, "J'adore le cock, monsieur, ohhhh ... more ..."
The overwhelming desire blurred the edges of his vision and tore deep growls from his throat. Even as he ground into her tight passage, her entire body arched to receive him, wanting more. Her lips released words in French that he did not understand, yet the pleading tone of the silky syllables had him thrusting harder, deeper. As he'd imagined, her full tits swayed gorgeously with each thrust, her nipples engorged and begging for attention. He leaned down and captured a tip in his mouth. He suckled in rhythm with his pistoning cock.
That was all it took. She shrieked—there was no other word for it—a high, almost startled sound that poured like a balm over his chafed soul. She came like the beautiful wanton she was: her pussy gripped him with brazen insistence, milking him with a cadence of shimmering contractions. His eyes closed as the pressure expanded in his bollocks, intensifying, and finally bubbling upward along his shaft. Delving into her folds, he found the center of her pleasure.
Her scream sizzled in his ears even as his vision turned to black. With his last ounce of control, he wrenched himself out. A harsh shout escaped his lips, disguising a beloved's name, as his pleasure shot in glistening trails across the desk.
THREE
Seated in the blue and white drawing room, Helena sipped her tea and avoided Lady Marianne Draven's eyes. She feared those intelligent emerald eyes held an all too knowing expression. She had not stopped blushing since last evening, a state of pinkness that her astute friend had likely already observed. Truth be told, she was fairly bursting to talk about the extraordinary events that had transpired a few hours ago, but how did one discuss delirious fornication with one's husband in polite company?
Her cup rattled as she settled it into the saucer, the steam from the tea curling upward into the slants of morning light. From the mantel, the ormolu clock chimed eight times. Despite the lack of sleep, Helena's insides frothed with energy. She eyed the plate of tarts on the rosewood coffee table. Bejeweled with dollops of Cook's delicious blackberry jam, the pastries seemed to wink at her. With a resolute sigh, Helena turned her gaze back to her cup. If she wanted to win Nicholas back, she needed to stick with her slimming plan.
"My dear, that tea, fine Ceylon though it may be, can hardly bear such studious observation," Lady Marianne remarked. Seated on the adjacent Sheraton sofa, she removed her butter-colored gloves in a graceful motion. "Wouldn't you care to discuss what truly holds your attention?"
Helena's eyes darted to her friend's face. Gifted with silver blonde hair and classically sculpted features, Marianne's beauty had the effect of staring directly into the sun. She had known Marianne since the schoolroom and still she could not help but blink at her friend's physical perfection. Despite the early hour, no shadows detracted from the vividness of Marianne's gaze, and her skin glowed with the health of the well-rested. Not that Marianne could have gotten much sleep—she had been the one to deposit Helena at the Nunnery last night, en route to her other entertainments. Dubbed The Merry Widow, Marianne never stepped foot inside her townhouse before dawn.
"Tea is easier than candid conversation," Helena admitted. "I hardly know where to begin."
"Is Lord Harteford at home this morning?" Marianne inquired.
"No. He ... he did not return last evening." Helena took a gulp of tea. "I suppose he stayed at his club."
"Excellent. My calling at this ungodly hour will not be a wasted effort. I suggest, then, that you start where my driver left you off—at the bawdy house," Marianne said.
Helena bit back a smile. Some things did not change. Nee Miss Marianne Blunt, Lady Draven continued to well suit her maiden name.
Truth be told, she had missed Marianne dreadfully these five years past. At the age of nineteen, Marianne had wed the wealthy and reclusive Lord Draven. She had been promptly whisked off to the wilds of Yorkshire, a place apparently unreachable by Helena's many posts. When Helena had perchance encountered the newly widowed Marianne at an assembly last month, she had felt like an awkward dowd next to her once bosom companion. Always beautiful, Marianne had exuded a new sensual confidence and a brittle wit which distinguished her even amongst the fast crowd she ran with.
To Helena, who favored intellectual salons populated by bluestockings and spinsters, Marianne's glamorous self-possession had seemed slightly terrifying. But once the two had started talking, the intimacy of their childhood days had sprouted and re-sown itself. And while it was true that Marianne had changed in some ways, in other ways she had changed not a whit. Marianne had always been clever, the friend to turn to in a time of need. The day before, in a fit of desperation Helena had found herself confessing about the state of her marriage and the admission ticket she had found in Nicholas' rooms. Marianne's strategic plan had been worthy of the great Wellington himself.
Helena eyed her friend. "Are you always this tactful?"
"I arranged your visit to The Nunnery last evening, did I not? What would one call that, if not tact?" Curiosity gleamed in Marianne's clear green eyes. "Did all go as planned?"
"Yes, after your driver deposited me at the back entrance, the ... Abbess let me in."
How strange a name for a bawd, and stranger yet that Marianne should count the proprietor of a bawdy house among her acquaintances. Helena knew better than to ask, however. 'Twas not Marianne's style to offer much in the way of explanation. "She was quite pleasant, and not at all what I imagined. Do you know she actually offered me lemonade?"
Marianne laughed, arranging her tangerine-colored skirts with an elegant flick of the wrist. "The Abbess can be charming when it pleases her. When I told her of your plight, she quite enjoyed the tale of your wifely devotion. That, and the extra guineas I supplied for her discretion. Did she make good on her promise of a private room?"
Helena felt heat creep up her neck. She took another swallow of tea.
"She did not? I shall have to have a word with her." A tinge of peach appeared on Marianne's high cheekbones. "I specifically instructed her to—"
"Oh no, it was not the Abbess' fault," Helena protested, setting down the saucer. "She did have a room. It is just that I—I did not make it quite that far. To the room, I mean."
"Oh, Helena, tell me you did not play the part of the wilting orchid. Really, after all my efforts! Did you even find your husband?"
Helena's chin rose a little at Marianne's mocking tone. "I found Harteford."
"And what transpired? Did you confront him with your demands for fidelity?"
"Well, in truth, our conversation did not progress that far."
"He was angry, then, that you followed him to the Nunnery. How very hypocritical of him. And how typically male." Rolling her eyes, Marianne crossed her arms beneath her bosom. The movement elevated her bodice à la Grecque to eye-popping effect. Helena glanced down at her own neckline and shrugged experimentally. Nothing. The starched surface of her chemisette obscured any interesting movement.
"He
was not angry, exactly. At least, he did not appear so." Shifting against the cushions, Helena felt the blush suffuse her cheeks. "He seemed quite ... pleased, actually."
"Pleased? If you did not talk with him, why in Heaven's name would he ..." Grasping the implication of Helena's words, Marianne gave a wicked peal of laughter. "Dearest, did you seduce your own husband?"
Helena nodded, a frisson of pleasure sweeping through her body. Her breasts suddenly ached with their own weight, and her nipples tightened at the memory of his long fingers, the way he had cupped and stroked and kneaded her there. He'd called them her tits, chanted his praise of them in a voice so dark and thick it raised goose bumps on her flesh even now.
"Dare I ask ... the event, was it enjoyable?"
Helena looked at Marianne's laughing, candid eyes and felt something loosen in her chest. All her life, she had been taught that certain topics were never to be thought of or, heaven forbid, alluded to in polite company. But thinking about her mother's inadequate wedding night advice, she felt another rebellious tug and then suddenly something flew open within her. "Oh, Marianne, it was quite so!"
There, she'd said it. Exhilarated, she almost snatched a jam tart from the plate. She caught herself in time and clasped her hands together instead. She waited for her friend's reaction. Surely, she had managed to shock Marianne.
"And well it should be," Marianne said. "I have often wondered why the beau monde considers love matches to be unfashionable. In my experience, loveless marriages become quite tedious in a short space of time."
"I am not certain ours is a love match. At least, not on his part." The reality of her night's activities deflated some of her elation.
"Did you not say your reunion was quite satisfactory?"
Helena's skin tingled as she recalled the hunger in Nicholas' expression. When she had touched his chest, his whole body had vibrated like the string of a finely-tuned violin. Then came that glittering moment, when she'd felt heat swoosh between her legs and explode like firecrackers throughout her body ... and his hoarse cries had mingled with hers. In that instant, feeling the gallop of his heart beat next to hers, inhaling the musky scent of their shared pleasure, she had experienced a shattering joy. A bewildering pain.
Her Husband's Harlot Page 3