This month - their honeymoon - had been everything she’d ever dreamt of as a girl, and the discovery of pleasures she never could have imagined. Why, the very fact she’d had dinner alone had been an adventure in itself. Before her marriage, she never would have been able to dine unaccompanied in a hotel restaurant, but as a married woman, none questioned her.
Rubbing her finger against the railing, a shadow dulled her delight. The solitary meal had been by necessity, not choice. Richard had been called to business this morning, and he’d yet to return. After a month of constant companionship, this brief period apart had seemed more awful than it should. It was silly, really. The whole of her life bar eight months she’d been without him, and seven of those months they’d resided in separate homes. How could it be she’d become so used to his presence it felt strange when he was not near?
Leaning against the barrier, she again folded her arms atop it. Dash it all, she was being foolish. Such melancholy thoughts would only do her ill. Instead, she would think on the pleasures of the seaside, and all she’d done to entertain herself.
That afternoon, she’d wandered along the foreshore as the sun had beat down upon her, making perspiration gather along her hairline, between her breasts. Fellow holiday-makers sought refuge from the street in the little shops lining the road, or under the gaily painted umbrellas on the beach. Some had even ventured into the waves, the ladies garbed in the new bathing costumes she’d not yet had the nerve to purchase.
As was her wont, she’d amused herself with imagining lives for those around her. All her life she’d done so, when she went for walks in the park with her nurse, when her governess had taken her to museums and lectures. None were safe from the fires of her imagination. Why, even when she’d first met Richard, she’d imagined a life for him. As she’d grown to know him, she’d imagined herself playing a role in it.
She smiled to herself. She was so glad she now played the role of his wife.
That afternoon, as she’d watched those around her, a rotund man and his equally rotund wife had passed her by, dressed finely in what she knew to be the latest fashions from London. They had the look of the aristocracy about them, and so Olivia made them aristocratic, holidaying by the sea to curry favour with the Queen. In a recent extravagance, the Queen had declared she was desirous of the sea, and the couple had taken to investigating the seaside towns of Britain to ingratiate themselves to her. There was no length they would not traverse, no depth they would not sink, and it would all end in treachery and tears.
Heavens, that had been a rather violent imagining.
Then there had been the solitary man upon the beach. An easel set before him, he had seemed apart from those around him, wholly involved in his art. This was because in his youth, he’d travelled to Paris and, seduced by the extravagances of Bohemia, he’d developed a tragic passion for art. His talent, however, had not matched his passion and most of his nights he’d spent in the taverns of Montmartre, lamenting the unkindness of muses with like-minded artists. The death of a great-aunt had changed his fortunes, and he’d returned to Scarborough to claim his inheritance, spending his days painting the sea and remembering how once he’d been wild.
Olivia had rather enjoyed that particular tale.
With a smile, she’d turned from contemplation of those around her and, in deference to the heat, treated herself to a lemon ice. As the tartness had stung her tongue, she leant against the railing and again contemplated those on the beach.
A girl and her sweetheart had caught her attention. Both wore swimming costumes, and they darted and frolicked amongst the waves. The man had picked his sweetheart up and thrown her into the sea, her protests undercut by her giggles. The way he’d handled her had been overwhelmingly intimate, and others on the beach had regarded them with shock, and some with disapproval.
The frolicking couple had ignored such looks, and Olivia couldn’t help but smile as she’d watched, ice melting on her tongue. They had seemed carefree and young, and very much enamoured, and they’d reminded her of the early days of knowing Richard. Perhaps if they’d lived near the sea, she and Richard would have played in the waves.
Now, of course, they played far more wicked games.
A shiver rushed through her. Only yesterday, they’d taken a walk along the shore until they’d come across the rise of the cliffs. As they’d walked, fellow perambulators had grown more and more sparse, until the beach had contained only Richard and she. Alone in the shadow of the cliff, he’d pushed her against the rock and then he’d had her, skirts rucked up and her legs wrapped about him as he’d thrust inside her.
She could still feel the unyielding rock against her back.
Then, of course, there was the week before, when they had undertaken a delightful jaunt into the countryside surrounding the town. An oak tree had sported a child’s swing and she had immediately employed it for the use intended. Her husband, though, had seen a more lascivious possibility and, dropping to his knees, held her legs wide as he sought to pleasure her most thoroughly. Shocked beyond belief, she’d gasped a protest. They could be discovered, she’d said, even as she’d pushed herself into his touch.
Wickedness. She did love it so.
A hard, naked chest pressed against her back, masculine hands sliding over her own to trap them against the balustrade. She gasped, her heart beating madly at the sudden presence of another. Just as quick, happiness filled her.
Richard was home.
Delicious heat washed through her as his hips pressed into her, pushing her own against the carved stone. He wore only his trousers, and he must have removed his shoes else she would have heard him approach. Maybe he’d entered the hotel room, weary from his work. Maybe he’d begun to disrobe and then, after removing jacket, waistcoat and shirt, he’d spied her on the balcony. Maybe he’d joined her with indecency in mind.
The beginnings of lust unfurled inside her.
His arms tightened about her, trapping her further. She gasped again, this time in false dismay. She could never truly feel such an emotion, not with her Richard, but she knew he adored it when she acted so.
Lips brushed against her cheek. “What are you looking at?”
Arching her neck, she shivered as his mouth traced the cord. “The sea.”
She felt his smile against her skin. “And what is it about the sea that so holds your attention?”
“Everything.” His hands were heavy upon hers, a hot contrast to the coolness of the stone balustrade. “It is still so new to me.”
“Then you are glad we came here?”
“Oh yes.” She smiled as he kissed her jaw. “Did you complete your business?”
“I did. It was dull, and I would rather have been with you.” His hand left hers, travelling over her forearm, cupping her elbow, moulding her shoulder. “How did you spend your day?”
“Along the foreshore.” Head falling forward, she bit her lip as he traced the edge of her bodice over her shoulder blade. “I bought an ice.”
“Did you?” Fingers tangling in the laces closing her gown, he gave a sharp tug.
Her breath caught in her throat as her back was forced into a sudden arch, her chest rose and fell, and her heart beat an erratic rhythm, pushing her breasts against the filmy material of her bodice.
“Did you buy an ice, Olivia?” His hand tightened in the laces, a demand to answer him.
Oh, how she adored his demands.
“Yes. It was lemon-flavoured.” Heat licked inside her as the delicate fabric scraped her tender flesh. Wetting suddenly dry lips, she pushed into a subtly deeper arch. “Sir.”
A sharp intake of breath, and his hand tightened convulsively. Through the sensations bombarding her, satisfaction curled. He did love when she called him so.
Quickly, he recovered. Far too quickly, in her opinion. Fingers still tangled in her laces, his other hand drifted up the centre of her torso to cup her breast. Surprise made him still. “Olivia, are you wearing one of your new corset
s?”
Only the ocean saw her smile. “Yes, sir.”
Recovering, he pushed inside the fabric of her gown. This time, he swore. “You’re not wearing a chemise, either.”
Intimate parts of her flared hot at the rough, lewd sound of his profanity. Richard had bought her many things in the month they’d been wed, but by far her favourite were the undergarments. Filmy lace, barely there chemises, and corsets so indecent she never could have imagined their existence. The corset she now wore was deliciously new, a purple satin that cinched her waist to nothingness and ended just below her breasts. One would think such a garment impractical, but the placement of the edge thrust her breasts to prominence, perfectly framing them for his pleasure.
For hers.
As for the lack of chemise…Well, a woman could be wicked now and then, especially with her Richard as husband.
She pushed herself into his hand. “You told me not to wear a chemise, sir.”
“And you were the good girl and did what you were told.” His thumb swept her nipple.
Biting back a moan, she closed her eyes as heat gathered low in her belly. “I always do what you tell me.”
Against her bottom she felt him, hard and ready. He ignored his body’s reaction, though, his thumb sweeping lazily over her. “When have you ever done as I bade?”
“I do so occasionally.”
“Only occasionally.” His breath stirred the strands of hair about her ear. “Is this to be one of those occasions?”
Gooseflesh rose, tightening her skin. “Maybe you should persuade me?”
“Maybe I should.” A gentle finger against her jaw bade her turn her head, and she caught his mouth with hers, their kiss sweet and lovely.
But, as always, it changed. Lust ripped through the delicacy, and she devoured him, voracious in her desire. Mouth hot and wet, he battled her, matching her passion with his own.
A sharp tug at the laces on her back made her pull her mouth from his. Before she could speak, another tug, and then another, and without warning her bodice was loose. In the next moment, he pushed it from her, and she stood on the balcony in only her corset, her breasts bare to the warm summer breeze.
Gasping, she snatched her hands off the balcony to cover herself.
He slapped his hands over hers, trapping her. “No.”
“Richard, someone could see us!”
“It’s night, Olivia. No one will look up. And ’tis dark out here, with only the moonlight.” His tongue traced her ear. “But if you’re truly worried, I’ll shield you.”
Drawing his hands from hers, he covered her breasts. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she moaned as the move pushed her more firmly into his hands. Slowly, he palmed her, making circles on her flesh, lifting and moulding her.
Suddenly it didn’t matter if there were a dozen, a hundred people watching. Let them. Let them see how well her husband loved her.
“Olivia, you wicked girl. You want them all to look, don’t you?”
She shook her head, though deep within her was the knowledge she did. She really did.
“You’re such a naughty girl, Olivia. How else have you been naughty?”
His words shuddered through her. “I watched people in the sea.”
“Did you?” He caught her nipple. “And what were they doing?”
Biting her lip, she stifled her moan as he squeezed gently. “N-nothing.”
He tutted. “Come now, my dear, you should not lie.”
The picture in her head changed form, became something lewd. Something thrilling. “They were fornicating.”
“Fornicating? Now, you know there is a better word for it.”
A thrill went through her. Oh, she did know the word. She did, but she shouldn’t repeat it. It was too wrong. Too wicked. “Sir?”
He exhaled. “A girl as smart as you should never pretend ignorance. Come now, you know the term.” His hand slid around her neck, cupping against her jaw and preventing her from moving. “What were they doing, Olivia?”
“I - ”
He forced her chin higher. Sensation streaked through her, her centre clenching at the show of his strength. “What were they doing?”
Lips parted, she grabbed onto the balcony. “F-fucking.” The word was barely a whisper.
“I didn’t hear you.”
Wetting her lips, she said, “Fucking, sir. They were fucking.”
Making a noise of approval, his thumb pulled down her lower lip, and then pushed inside. Eagerly, she grazed him with her teeth and then coated him with her tongue, glad she could finally touch him in some way. His fingers drummed an uneven beat against her cheekbone, searing her skin with its rhythm. Desperate to feel him properly, she took her hands from the balustrade.
Abruptly, he slapped her hands back down. “No.”
“But I want to touch you.” She tugged.
Hands tightening on hers, he said, “And you will. Later.”
Frustration dampening her lust, she arched her back as if to shake him off.
Quickly, he subdued her, his larger form trapping her in place. His teeth raked her neck. “You will not move, Olivia.”
Obviously satisfied she would obey, he removed his hands from hers, sliding them over her hips to bring her flush with his. “Now, tell me your tale.”
Stubbornly staring out over the ocean, she said nothing. It offered no answers, the moonlight silent upon the waves.
Richard and his games. Usually, she loved the way he played, but she wanted to touch him now, to lick and kiss and suck. He drove her mad with lust, made her desire him over all things, and then he denied her.
And now, he wanted a tale.
When they were courting, she’d made him laugh with silly stories, tales of occurrences she’d witnessed, stories of things she’d imagined. Upon their marriage, her stories had changed, becoming wicked.
Now that he’d opened her eyes to pleasure, she imagined decadence and debauchery. In every corner she saw couples making love - bent over desks, in hallways, behind greenery. In every smile, she saw invitation. Where before the world had been only innocent, now she saw perversion.
Resolution straightened her shoulders. She would use this obsession. Always, he strove to make her mad with lust. Here by moon and sea, she would make him mad.
The tableau she’d witnessed that afternoon, of the girl and her sweetheart, expanded and changed. “They were young. A girl and her sweetheart. They’d spent the afternoon in innocent play, clothed in bathing costumes and splashing in the waves. As was proper, as was right, she wore a costume covering her from shoulder to knee, though a line of buttons down the front suggested the garment wasn’t as innocent as it appeared. More daringly, he wore trunks only, with that same line of naughty buttons, his chest bare to the sun and the sea. Now, as the day faded into dusk and the other occupants of the beach departed, their games turned less innocent. As the last of the sea-bathers left the ocean, they found ways to touch each other. The girl stumbled and brushed low on her sweetheart’s stomach. He picked her up and somehow touched her breast. Over and again, they found excuses to draw closer, until they stood with barely a sliver between them. Then, as the last rays of the sun kissed the sea, they dropped the pretence.”
On Olivia’s hip, his hand remained motionless while the other climbed her ribcage to return to her breast.
A shudder went through her, but no, she had to continue with her story. “As one, they lunged to each other. Their lips met, and they kissed and kissed. The surf crashed around their thighs, licking them with salt and sand. Effortlessly, he lifted her and she wrapped her legs about his waist, his hands frantic as they unbuttoned her bathing costume and pushed it from her shoulders. Her breasts bare, he leant down to suckle her and she arched her back, her hands tangled in his hair.”
Had his breath become rougher? Despite the hardness pressing against her, he showed no other reaction, his hands motionless upon her.
Heavens, he drove her insane. Why was
he so still?
She needed to say something, shock him into motion. “Over and over he suckled her, his mouth worshipping her flesh. From my vantage, I could see her thrash. Her head thrown back as he licked her.”
His hands tightened, before relaxing.
Finally! A small proof her tale affected him. “He whispered something in her ear, and then he let her go. They moved closer to the shore, and I thought they would leave, but instead she dropped to her knees.”
As if it had truly happened, she saw the scene laid before her. The young woman looked up at her lover, a coy smile on her face. His hand trailed her hair, winding the strands about his hand.
Olivia could almost taste the lemon ice on her tongue. “Slowly, she unbuttoned his bathing costume and then she brought his - ”
“Cock.” He ground out the word, his voice harsh. Involuntarily, he thrust against her, and she could feel his cock, hard, insistent, and very, very affected.
Triumph filled her. “She brought his cock to her mouth. She kissed it first, running her lips over his shape. He encouraged her, his hand gentle as he led her in what he wanted. Then, her lips closed over him.”
Suddenly, Richard squeezed her breast. Sensation streaked through Olivia, her nipple tightening painfully. Heavens above, she was hot and wet and empty, and she wanted nothing more than to turn and take his mouth with hers.
Shakily, she continued. “His head fell back as she sucked in earnest. Her hands cupped his hips, and she licked and sucked, and he started thrusting into her, his hands tangled in her hair.”
His fingers caught her nipple, worrying the hardened peak. “Did he come?”
“No.” Her voice broke when he pinched the distended flesh. “He pulled her from him before he did, but she would not be denied. She pushed him and he fell into the surf, his cock standing up, thick and strong and so ready for her. Somewhere along the way, she’d rid herself of her bathing costume and gloriously nude, she climbed over him. As she positioned him against her, his hand cupped her breast, and then he pushed into her.”
Smut by the Sea Page 3