by Nia Farrell
He tossed aside the washcloth and settled himself over me, trapping my legs between his, keeping most of his weight on his outstretched arms. Bracing himself on one, he used his other to find his cock and drag it downward, past the seam of my buttocks, below my mossy grotto, stopping only when he was pressed against the soft inner flesh of my thighs. One push, insistent and erotic, and he was through.
“Keep your legs closed and hold tight.” He growled in my ear, then bit the base of my neck, sending a bolt of lightning to my core, making me tingle all over, with most of the current shooting to my breasts and into my secrets. He flexed his hips and shoved against me, using the friction of flesh against flesh to satisfy his need.
I thought I’d known agony, until my poor, abused bottom met his rock-hard front, his hair-dusted belly cutting into my heated buttocks, time and time and time again. The skin of my thighs grew abraded, despite his preparations, as his strokes grew harder, faster, more insistent.
“Please, sir,” I begged him, sobbing. “Please, Edward. You need…Jesus, I can’t…God damn it, you’re fucking me raw.”
I howled out a string of curses that no lady would have uttered. Hearing them, his rhythm broke. His body stiffened. He shuddered, once, twice, pushing between the column of my thighs, his body in spasms as he spilled himself onto the towel beneath me.
Spent, he lifted himself free and rolled to lie replete on his back beside me. When I roused myself enough to look, his arms were laced casually behind his head, his glans receding beneath a foreskin nightcap, his flaccid manhood at ease on twin, hair-dusted pillows.
“Bloody hell,” he murmured at last. “What was that?”
“Non-penetrative sex,” I sighed, my voice laced with disappointment. “Release for one of us, at least. And I swear I’ll hit you if you laugh.”
He chuckled anyway.
“Humph.” I considered poking his arm, but with my back side twenty degrees warmer than my front, I thought better of it.
He gave me that look—the one meant to remind me who was in charge. “Inspection and punishment were all that I promised,” he reminded me.
“Yes, well.” I shifted, remembering how he’d touched my blushing nether cheeks, admiring his handiwork. “I think that coitus at some point would be nice, don’t you?”
I might have wriggled my bottom in silent invitation.
“Elena,” he growled. God, I was beginning to love that sound.
“Edward,” I breathed, forcing myself to still.
He stared at me for the longest moment, until I had to look away. If I didn’t, I knew that I’d do something stupid.
“Come,” he said, jackknifing up and bounding from the bed. “Bath.”
Just like that, he was back to single syllables.
He tested the temperature as it filled, adjusting the taps until he was satisfied. It had been so long since I’d had anything but pan baths, my memories of halcyon soaks in violet-scented water excited me almost as much as the thought that he might be willing to scrub my back, if I asked nicely.
Although I’d prefer for him to attend my front.
Hmm.
I could be lewd, if that’s what it took. Foul language seemed to excite him—and heaven knew, I’d had three years in the army to perfect my swearing. When passing oneself off as a man, appearance was first. Language (particularly the abuse of it) ran a close second.
He ordered me into the water, gave me instructions, and left me to my own devices. Complete sentences, even if all the words were monosyllabic. Get in. Take as long as you need. I will bathe when you are done. Nearly an hour later, I dragged myself out, feeling positively decadent and wondering if I could somehow tempt him to debauchery.
Edward was at the table, and no longer nude (although I suspected he might be, under the robe that he wore). His feet and legs were bare, and so finely formed, I could fill a sketchbook with studies.
God, I wanted to draw him.
He glanced up from his paper, then returned to his reading, exercising the same economy in motion as he did in his speech (when he wasn’t waxing eloquent about politics, ancient history, or the things that he wanted to do to me).
“Um, the bath is yours.” I took off my banyan, hoping he might notice how the fine lawn of my black-trimmed chemise de nuit clung to the dampness of my skin as I bent over and rummaged in my carpet bag. I found my art box and opened it on the bed, without so much as a word from him. Disappointed in the extreme, I took out my sketchbook and a pencil and began doodling, pretending to ignore the gulf developing between us, stubborn man that he was. I wanted to see him free of the leash that he kept himself on, to let loose and do what he had threatened—
Thrust himself inside me and make me scream.
Holy mother of pearl.
Chapter Nine
I had abandoned my sketching and climbed into bed by the time Edward emerged from his bath, dressed only in drawers, his flushed skin glistening where beads ran in rivulets, dripping from his damp blond curls onto his neck and down his chest. To my artist’s eye, he was a sight to behold—the dark golden hair on the wondrous expanse of his chest, the flat brown nipples with their hard button tips, the delicious play of muscle as he unhooked the towel from his neck and ran it over his hair.
I suppose I should have averted my eyes and feigned coyness, or disinterest. But then, I was wicked—or I could be, if he’d let me. The trouble was, Edward seemed determine to keep the bulk of his considerable experience to himself and toss mere scraps my way…although the taste he’d given me earlier had left me sore enough, tomorrow’s train ride would be misery.
“How are the thighs?” he asked as casually as if we were discussing the weather.
“Blistered, I think.”
He paused in toweling his hair and rolled his eyes.
“Well, they feel blistered.” Reaching beneath the single covering, I pulled up the hem of my chemise, tucked it in the delta of my thighs, then pushed down the sheet. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”
I bent my knees and parted them. Another woman would make a man pursue her until she caught him. Yet here I was, sans pantaloons, spreading my legs for my stepbrother.
“Christ,” he murmured, angling for a better view. “I am sorry, Elena. You did not say Delphi. You should have…next time….” He sighed heavily. “Stay exactly as you are. I have a balm that should help.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with a jar of herbal unguent of some kind. Adopting a professional mien that would have, under other circumstances, made his surgeon father proud, he tended to my thighs, then ordered me on my stomach and treated the abused flesh of my bottom.
“Tomorrow morning, I shall see if one of the stores downstairs sells cushions,” he said, regret lacing his voice. “I doubt they will be open, but I don’t know how well you will be able to travel without one.”
I tucked my head in my folded arms and hid the smile that wreathed my face. He was worried about me. Concerned with what he’d done and how he might alleviate my suffering. “That’s kind of you, Edward, but I’m hardly an invalid. I survived the war. I’ll manage this.”
He dipped his fingers in the jar and worked more into the stripes that marred my flesh. When he hit one particularly sore spot, I could not help the moan that escaped me.
He paused in his ministrations. “Sorry. I am trying to be careful.”
“I’m sure that you are,” I agreed tightly.
He hit another spot that made my hips buck. A curse I’d learned from Daniel hissed between my teeth.
“I am sorry, pet,” he whispered. I braced myself for his next touch. Instead, I felt his breath, warm and wonderfully erotic, blowing across my buttocks, chasing away the hurt.
“Edward?”
He shushed me. I stopped breathing. He set aside the jar, came back to the bed, and lay on his side by me, propping himself on one elbow with his head near my waist.
“Edward?”
“Shh,” he murmured. “Let m
e give this to you.”
Oh. God.
He slid his fingers from my sacrum down to my pubic bone and back up, my body’s dew slickening his way. He took his time exploring my garden of delights, but this time the path to pleasure that he chose was not his but mine.
He stroked my vulva, its outer lips so swollen, I could feel my heartbeat’s throbbing pulse. Then a single finger, opening me, sliding, tracing my inner folds, teasing me, finally dipping inside, gathering moisture and spreading it to ease his way.
He seemed in no hurry to get there, taking his time, inhaling my scent, praising me for my body’s responsiveness.
Calling me his pet.
He added another finger, drawing more reactions from me. Sharpened breaths. Restless hips. Legs locked as a strange tension took hold, building until I was trembling, hovering on the edge of something I’d never faced yet had no fear of, not with Edward here to help me through it. I whimpered, meeting the thrust of his hand, impaling myself on his long, strong fingers. “Please,” I begged him. “Please, please, please, please.”
A sound escaped him in a gust of breath, low and ragged. “Yes,” he grated, grinding his hand into me. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
He shifted, until his face was poised at the crease of my thighs. He nudged me with his nose, then licked me, lapping at my juices while he fucked me with his fingers. He dragged his tongue along my slit until he reached my rose and plucked it. Pressing his tongue into my dark portal, he jacked his hand into my vagina faster, harder, driving into me until I broke beneath him, flooding him with my juices as wave after wave rolled over and through me.
Edward did not stop.
If anything, the strength and number of my paroxysms seemed to spur him on. He redoubled his efforts, inserting a thumb where his tongue had been to enhance the action of the two fingers below. He stroked, in and out, encouraging me towards yet another climax, and another, until he’d wrung every last bit out of me and there was nothing left to give.
“One more,” he ordered, and my body obeyed. As if trained to respond to his commands, I exploded in a blaze of glory, so intense, my vision turned white, then faded along with it.
When I regained consciousness, Edward’s face was inches from my own. He was watching me, intent, assessing, making certain that he had done me no harm.
“What was that?” I rasped, my voice an octave lower than normal. I’d been a vocal partner, urging him on, begging him to finish, yelping when he accidentally hit a sore spot, crying his name into the mattress when his curled fingers hit another, sweeter place.
“The French call it la petite morte,” he said. “‘The little death.’”
I arched a brow. “Then they have misnamed it,” I muttered in the same language, earning a smile from the good professor. “Pardon me if I don’t reserve judgment, but there was nothing little about that.”
Edward smiled, indulging me. “You are correct. There was nothing little about that. You were magnificent, my dear. Responsive beyond my expectations.”
I rolled on my side to face him. “Beyond your expectations? You mean to say, it’s not like that every time?”
He arched a curious brow. “Hardly. I take it your other partners not have pleased you equally well.”
“Edward,” I said solemnly, “I’ve had no other partners. Remember, I asked you to teach me?”
He stared at me in disbelief, as if I were some strange creature, never before catalogued, that had wandered into his camp and made myself at home by his fire.
I attempted to lighten the mood. “If you’re going to make free with my body, then I reserve the right to ask questions. It’s only fair.”
He rolled onto his back and buried his face in his hands. “My God. What have I done?”
“Nothing that I did not want, or refuse to stop,” I told him. “I wanted to know what pleased you, and it was my choice to submit. Come, I’m not a child. Disregarding when your fingers fucked me senseless, of course, my eyes have been wide open.”
“That’s no excuse,” he grated. “You…you’re a virgin. You couldn’t know.”
“Edward. Edward. May I remind you that I had a brother with friends until the war divided them? And that I served three years in the company of men who loved to brag of their conquests and adventures? Admittedly, I can still be shocked—I mean, what the New Moneys want still boggles my imagination—but surely by now you’ve realized that I am no fragile Miss. Granted, I shall strive to be proper in company, but when it’s the two of us alone, in private, behind closed doors, well, eventually I hope to be as wicked as you want.”
He remained silent, processing, digesting what I’d said. He reached and brushed a finger against my cheek. “I promise you, I shall only take what you are willing to give.”
“And I shall strive to do the same,” I told him.
He tapped my chin and chuckled. “You shall, shall you?”
I knew, if lines were drawn, I would be compelled to try and cross them, but it was my intention to reciprocate. “Mmm, yes, indeed. Hard though it may be. You see, I’ve much catching up to do.”
“So you say.” Drawing a line down my throat, he kept going until he’d reached the top of my breast. I’d bound them, of course, when I was playing the man. Although there was little to be said for the comfort of corsetry (save for the ease it could bring to one’s aching back), I was pleased by the swell of my bosom, laced-up or not.
So was Edward. He asked no permission beyond the look he flicked my way, from breast, to face, and back again, signaling his intention as clearly as if he’d spoken it. Fingers spread, he cupped, then grasped my breast, pressing his palm against the dark rose of my nipple. The feel of his hand and the sound that came from his throat made my breath catch, escaping as a whimper.
“Ooh. Yes. Oh. Yeeessss.” I hissed, arching into his grasp.
“Do you like that, pet?” he murmured, fingers kneading my mound of flesh. “What about this?”
He ducked his head and opened his mouth to take me in, suckling me. I felt the cord connected to my womb, charged with sexual energy that electrified my core and made me tremble in his embrace. He sucked harder, lathing me with his tongue, catching the tip between his teeth and biting me—an erotic mix of pleasure and pain that made me acutely aware of the emptiness between my legs.
“Oh, Edward!”
When I reached for his nearly-dry hair, intending to thread my fingers in his curls, he caught my wrist and pinned it to the mattress. “Leave it,” he ordered, “or I shall tie you up.”
The thought of being bound, helpless, at his mercy…well, what else could I do? I thrust ten fingers in his hair.
“Want to play, do you?” Growling, he grabbed my hands and brought my arms over my head, holding my smaller wrists in one large hand.
“I want you,” I said, grinding my hips against him. “Please, Edward.”
“No.” A sibilant whisper, followed by torment. He pinched my nipple and twisted it cruelly. Tears sprung in my eyes but he did not stop, not even when I begged him for mercy.
“No.” He brushed his lips against my cheeks and tasted tears. He bathed my face with his tongue, swallowing my cry when he squeezed my breast hard enough to bruise. He kissed me, then, claiming my mouth, every part of it, with lips and teeth and tangled tongues.
I whimpered in his mouth. It echoed, returning on a moan dredged up from the depths of his being. “Please, I beg you!”
“You beg me, hmm. For what?” he asked, knowing full well what I wanted.
“Your cock,” I gasped. “I want your cock.”
He released one of my hands and brought it down to his front, pressed my palm against his erection, and wrapped my fingers as far as they could reach around his girth.
“There,” he said, thrusting against my hand. “Happy?”
“No, Edward. Please! I want your cock inside me.”
He smiled darkly, his turquoise gaze fastened on my lips.
“Careful what you
wish for, pet.”
Chapter Ten
Edward used the sash of his robe to bind my wrists behind my back. Sitting back against the pillows piled at the head of the bed, he parted his legs and made me kneel between them.
“First lesson,” he said. “Taking me in your mouth. There is an art to it. I don’t expect you to master it your first time—it is your first time, yes?”
I nodded. He had not given me permission to speak, and I wished to avoid any punishment his devious mind might conjure up for said offense.
“Yes, well. Understand that oral pleasure is like a work of art. At a glance, it may seem simple, but when you get down to details, you will find it is actually quite complex. You must keep your teeth covered, sheathed behind the curl of your lips. You must flatten your tongue and learn how to use it to greatest effect, paying special attention to the most sensitive areas, at the base, the frenulum, and the head, which consists of the urethral opening, the glans, and the rim, or corona.”
He was kind enough to point to each in turn.
“You will learn when to lick, stroke, and swirl. To flatten your tongue when I forge down your throat—oh yes, I shall want that, too. You will learn to breathe between strokes, to relax your throat muscles and control your gag reflex. The proper alignment of head and neck will let me take you this way. Easier said than done, I know, but when I fuck your mouth, I want no Roman shower. Please me, and I may let you swallow my seed. Only good girls get to ride their master’s cock, and you have yet to earn it.”
Obviously I was disappointed, yet he’d drawn another line—this one a goal to be achieved, to be deemed worthy of intercourse and finally have him take me.
“Do you remember what I’ve told you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“What will you say if we need to stop?”
“Delphi.”
“Delphi.” He nodded approvingly and tucked a handkerchief in my hands. “If I’m down your throat and you can’t speak, drop this. All right,” he said. “Now show me.”