She tilted her head and gazed into his eyes, an eager expression on her face. “Now you are asking me questions! I feel … well, I feel as though there is a tremendous pressure building up inside me, just, well, just there,” she said, gesturing vaguely to her midsection. “And that my body is waiting for something, but I don’t know what it is.” Her expression cleared. “Oh! Am I waiting for this?” she said, taking him back into her hand.
“God, Charlotte, if you do not remove my trousers in the next fifteen seconds, I swear I will take matters into my own hands.”
She grinned at him. “So to speak,” she replied, but thankfully she also pushed his trousers down over his hips, bending down to get them past his knees, her mouth so close to his cock he could—no, he couldn’t do anything of the sort.
It was enough she was doing this with him, and not with anyone else; he didn’t want to push her into anything she wasn’t comfortable with. What they were doing now, judging by her kidding and her eagerness, she was fine with. More than fine with, if her alacrity was anything to go by.
His trousers were, rather ridiculously, pooled around his ankles, stuck at his boots.
She frowned as she knelt down on the carpet. Her hair fell forward in one shining mass, and he savored how she looked kneeling at his feet. Mostly because she was definitely not the type to kneel at anyone’s feet, no matter how attractive she found them … which made this so much more fun.
He lifted one booted foot so she could remove it, and she tugged, only to fall backward on the carpet with the effort. He couldn’t help it, he had to laugh. She glared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing herself, holding her hand to her chest in an effort to restrain her giggles.
He lowered himself beside her and stretched out, his bare back making contact with the carpet, his trousers still awkwardly bunched around his feet.
She rolled onto her side and put her hand on his chest, stroking it. Then she leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. Then nipped it.
“Ouch!” he said, more in surprise than pain.
“Oh, did that hurt? I am so sorry,” she replied, not sounding sorry at all. She kissed the same spot, then flung one leg over his lower body and inched closer.
Her breast was pushed up against his side. It felt incredible, but there were a few things that had to be taken care of first.
“Your shift,” he said. “Do I remove it or do you? Because it is coming off.”
She chuckled, then rose up onto her knees. She grasped the bottom of the shift and looked at him from under her lashes. “I will remove it, but only if you answer a question.”
He sighed in mock exasperation. “What will it take to get you to stop asking questions?”
She paused, her shift halfway up her leg. Her stockings were a pale ivory, almost what any other lady might wear, with bright pink ribbons at the top.
One of the ties on the ribbon looked as though it was about to come undone.
His throat felt thick. “What … what is your question?” he said at last, unable to resist her.
She smiled, a proud smile that was not only satisfying on its face—on her face—but also revealed that she felt an ease in her sexuality that only intensified his longing for her.
A curious Charlotte was one thing; a sexually curious and purely confident Charlotte? Well, he wasn’t sure he could take it.
But he was damn sure going to try.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
So many styles are described by their country or place of origin: India muslin, Chinese crape, Grecian corsage, Brussels silk. We could go on and on. But we will not.
What if who you are is more important than where you come from?
Ladies, do not believe that just because you have a fine family name you are not judged as harshly as the plain Miss who sits beside you at dinner. Especially if that Miss is beautiful, blond, and blue-eyed, whereas you … are not.
You should know by now that personality and character speaks more than anything else, even more than a brightly hued Chinese crape.
And that Miss knows it too.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 23
She was finally going to get to see him. Not to mention, he was going to get to see her.
There would be a lot of viewing of things today.
She bit her lip and watched as his eyes tracked the movement. Interesting. What was appealing about that? Because she could tell by his reaction that it was definitely appealing. More than appealing, actually, but she didn’t know the correct word for how he looked as he felt.
She could barely parse that whole idea in the first place, anyway. All she knew was that he liked what she was doing.
So, of course, she did it slower. Just to gauge his reaction. She was on her knees, grasping her shift and beginning to slide it up her legs. He reclined on his elbows, his trousers still at his ankles.
She would have to take care of those, wouldn’t she?
She dropped the shift, but didn’t wait for David’s words of disappointment. “Just a moment, we need to get these stupid boots off of you,” she said, turning toward his feet.
“Oh, so now my apparel is ridiculous?” His voice was rich with humor as well, as that sensual undertone that made her toes want to curl inside her shoes.
“Ssh. Hold on.” She straddled his legs, backward, then grabbed hold of his boot and yanked it, pushing her body forward to aid in the momentum.
It struck her, at that moment, that her backside was basically all he could see at the moment.
The boot came off, and then she was able to get the other one off, too, leaving him just in stockings. Meanwhile, his hand had slid down to caress her back, his fingers trailing over her body.
It was enough to distract anybody from clothing. Even her.
“Stop that!” she said as she started to pull his trousers off. His only response was a chuckle. Oh, and then his hand went lower, cupping her curves as he made an appreciative moan deep in his throat.
She yanked them off, flinging them into the corner of the room. And almost forgot to breathe as she started to turn around.
“Your smallclothes,” she said in what sounded like a gasping pant. A panting gasp? Whatever it was, it was hard to say.
He put his hands to the waistband and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re certain about this?”
She scooted closer on the carpet. It hurt her knees, but at the moment, she didn’t care. “Absolutely. I want to see.”
It appeared that saying she wanted to see was some sort of code for “close your eyes and groan as you take your smallclothes off.” Because that was what he did.
And then … “Oh, my. They should really be called largeclothes, shouldn’t they?”
Because his … his penis—she knew what it was called—was quite large, practically as big as her own forearm, and sticking straight up, as though gravity had never existed.
And even though she had all sorts of questions, she ignored the tiny voice in her head that wanted to ask them and listened to the enormous voice in her head. The one shouting, “Shut up! Stop asking questions!”
Because really, sometimes it was perfectly fine to keep your mouth closed. Or open, if one was kissing, she’d found. Just not open for the purpose of conversation.
She reached out and put her hand on him, skin on skin, for the first time. He shuddered, and she clasped him harder. Tighter.
“Yes, yes, just like that,” he said. His hands were fisted at his sides, his head back on the carpet, his eyes closed. “Rub your hand up and down,” he said in a strained rasp.
She did, finding a slippery spot up near the top that made it easier for her to slide her hand down. “Does this feel—”
“Ssh, for goodness’ sake, Charlotte. Come up here and kiss me,” he said, putting his hand on her hip.
She moved to do what he asked, dropping her hand from him.
Immediately his hand clamped around her wrist and put it back there. “Don’t
. Let. Go,” he said in a fervid voice.
“I would not dream of it,” she said, wiggling her way up his body while still maintaining her hold on him. She lowered her head, and her lips met his. He clamped an arm on her waist and pulled her body so part of her was draped over part of him.
Drat, her shift was still on. She tried to yank it up with one hand, so as not to disobey his orders, but found it impossible. She heard him chuckle under her mouth, and he took over, pulling her shift up over her head, breaking the kiss only when it would have been impossible to remove the garment otherwise.
And then there they were. Both naked on his carpet. On his brother’s carpet, if one wanted to be specific. But still, the important point here was that they were naked.
With her lying almost entirely on top of him, her hand clutching him there, and both of them panting.
So now what?
Well, it seemed as though another kiss would be lovely. She lowered her mouth to his and kissed him, as intensely and fervently as he had her. He had his hand on her hip, her naked hip, and was making erotic circles—if circles could be erotic—on her skin.
She kept holding him, and stroking him, and felt his muscles tense under her body. As though he were on the verge of running somewhere, which was disconcerting when all this was going on.
Until he pulled away from her mouth and heaved a great shuddering breath as his hand came on top of hers. “Faster and harder,” he said in a strained voice.
She turned her head to look at what her hand was doing, and … oh my goodness. It was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen. More erotic than a circle, even.
His penis was huge, and in her hand, and his stomach muscles were clenched so she could see their outline. A line of hair ran from his midsection down there, ending in a thick thatch of hair. His legs were long and muscular and hairy as well, and he just looked so incredibly strong and masculine it made her knees weak.
It was a good thing she was already lying down.
Finally, finally, when it seemed as though something had to happen, it did; his whole body convulsed as a thick white cream shot out of him there.
He groaned, and she felt a wave of triumph. She had done this to him. Her, and her naked body, and her hand, and her way of asking questions, and her fascination with what made him him.
He opened his eyes and smiled, the most deliciously pure and yet also knowing smile she’d ever seen. “Give me a moment, and then it’s your turn.”
“My turn for what?” she said, trying to straighten her fingers, which had cramped when she was holding him.
He laughed and curled onto his side, flinging one leg over her body. He trailed his fingers on her back, sliding them under her hair, then nudged her to move onto her side more as well.
His eyes darkened, and Charlotte saw his penis stir, even though it had only been a few minutes. He slid his hand from her back to her breasts and touched her nipple with one long finger. “So lovely,” he said, and Charlotte felt his words resonate through her entire body.
He teased the nipple, and licked his lips, and suddenly Charlotte knew just what she wanted. She just had to ask.
“Could you … would you kiss me?” she said in a soft voice.
His mouth curled up. “Of course,” he said, moving his head forward to graze her lips with his.
She shoved him away. “Not there. You know that. You are being deliberately mean.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a look of surprise. “Mean? Oh, because you really want me to kiss you here?” he said, lowering his head and capturing her nipple in his mouth. That mouth that suddenly felt as though it contained the secrets of the universe, if the universe was her entire body.
“Oh, my,” she said. He brought his fingers to the other breast and caressed her there until she felt like she was seriously going to burst into flames.
And then he moved his fingers lower. And lower still. Until he was touching her there, the place she had always just thought of as her lady parts, caressing her until she didn’t think she was going to burst into flames, she just thought she was molten.
Until he slid one finger inside her, and then she knew she was. “No, is that really—,” she said in a gasp, and he chuckled, twisting his finger so it hit some spot that felt as though he’d lit her entire body up like a candle.
A very flammable and excited candle.
Then she felt the urgency it seemed he must have felt; she wanted … something, only she couldn’t think what it might be, just that she was moving toward a goal of some sort, and he was getting her there.
He raised his head and met her gaze. His mouth was moist where he’d had her breast in his mouth, and as she stared at him, he slid his tongue out and ran it over his lips.
Which suddenly seemed so much more meaningful than just a man wetting his dry mouth. First because she knew it wasn’t dry, but also because she could tell by his expression he knew just what he was doing.
If only she did.
She reached out and put her fingers on his body, running her hand all over his skin. His chest, his side, his back, his neck, and all over again. Of course she couldn’t resist sliding her hand to his back, to grasp his arse as he had hers. As she had his, also, only last time he was wearing trousers.
And then she reached for him again, just to see how it felt when it wasn’t … whatever it was before.
It still felt hard, but not as hard as when she’d first held him. But even that was changing under her very eyes—or her hand, to be honest—as he grew and stiffened.
“You don’t know what you do to me, Charlotte,” he said.
“I do, actually,” she said as she squeezed him pointedly.
He laughed again. Who knew this activity was full of so much laughter? She certainly hadn’t; whenever she’d heard whispers about it, there were intimations that it was intense, and pleasurable, and sometimes painful, but never humorous.
He gave that wicked smile again and bent his head to kiss just below her breast, his finger still buried inside her. She felt him smile against her skin as he moved lower, and lower, until his mouth was just at the top of where her lady parts began.
He wasn’t going to … and then he moved his mouth lower and put his tongue right there, right where the most heated conflagration was.
He was. He did. He had.
She heard a moan, and knew it was her, only she didn’t care how she sounded. She doubted he cared, either. Because he was making soft sucking sounds on her, noises that should have sounded awkward but weren’t; it felt as though they enhanced the experience, since for once neither of them was talking.
Just moaning and making other inarticulate noises.
That intense feeling of urgency built and built within her, his finger moving in a fascinating way inside her as his tongue did even more fascinating things elsewhere.
Until at last, at last, she felt an incredible pleasure suffuse her entire body, and she melted into the carpet.
“Oh, my,” she said, feeling boneless. He raised his head, and she saw his penis was standing up again, and it looked impressive, but at the moment she couldn’t muster the energy to do anything about it.
“Did that feel good?” he asked.
She poked him. Gently, since she didn’t have any muscles left, not anymore, but poked him nonetheless. “You know it felt good. Isn’t that what just happened to you, too?”
“Mmm-hmm. And it was incredible.” He glanced up over her head at the mantel, and he made a rueful face. “You have to be on your way. Much as I hate to let you go,” he added, shooting a quick look down at himself. “Really hate to,” he said.
“Of course,” she agreed, but she didn’t move. Not until he put his hand on her hip and nudged her. “Charlotte, you don’t want to cause a scandal.”
“No, of course not.” She couldn’t cause a scandal, not so much for herself, but for him; she knew how badly he wanted to return to feeling useful again, so the very fact he was here, doing thi
s with her, showed her just how much he wanted her.
It felt very satisfying, but it didn’t mean she could risk his reputation, and his future.
She rolled over onto her side and half-rose, gazing about the room for her clothing. Her shift she found easily, and slid it over her head, then she got up on shaky legs and located her gown.
He had risen as well, but was still naked.
It was a fine sight, that was for certain. The statues at the museum were definitely lacking a lot of what he had, and she much preferred the real thing.
His real thing, at least.
He buttoned her, still nude, then gave her another long, searing kiss. “You can see yourself out?” he asked, gesturing down to his general lack of clothing.
She laughed, and stepped into the hallway, shutting the door quickly behind her.
Well, she thought. That certainly answered a lot of questions. Even if it then raised even more.
Not the least of which was, how could any other man possibly compare to that?
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
An actor or actress—if they are at all good at their craft, and not just good at looking good, so to speak—can dissemble about all sorts of things in front of an audience that knows, absolutely knows, they are lying, and yet we all believe them.
Why is that? Why do we believe when we absolutely know the person in front of us is telling a lie?
To say it is just their clothing and their manner of wearing their clothing would be disingenuous; of course there is skill behind it, and practice at lying, and the words the playwright finds to convince us of the lie.
But it also is important to remember that the clothing does, indeed, serve a part in the play. To look in the way you wish someone to see you is more than half of the battle. If it weren’t, actors and actresses would amble up onto stage garbed in whatever they had put on that morning, and would still be able to convince you that you were watching a duchess, or a peasant, or a king.
Or even a beautiful woman.
Dress for the lie, and the lie will be easier to view as a truth.
What Not to Bare Page 21