The Perils of Pleasure

by Julie Anne Long

Colin stopped breathing.

  She felt her touch reverberating through him in the tension of his thigh, and he exhaled softly. His light eyes remained fixed on her, a pair of stars in the dark.

  His held breath shuddered out softly.

  And for a moment Madeleine savored the sensation of lean muscle beneath her hand, and reveled in sharp anticipation, in the question she knew was vibrating through him, and the power she possessed to tip this moment in any direction she chose.

  But this is what she chose: she slid her palm lightly along his thigh, toward the crook of his leg. And quite decisively closed her hand over the bulge in his trousers.

  Colin’s head jerked back a little involuntarily; he hissed a breath in between his teeth. That moment of anticipation had clearly done for him what it had for her: he was hard, and stirring, and growing harder beneath her hand. Desire burned low and hot in Madeleine’s belly, rayed through her veins, tensed her limbs.

  And all at once she wanted to crawl over him, straddle him, take him now.

  She also wanted to first give him pleasure that was nearly unbearable.

  Madeleine opened his eyes, finding his on hers. They remained locked in a dare of sorts. And there was silence. Critical, utter silence, complicit and excruciatingly erotic for all of that. For what she was doing now, what they were very likely about to do, was dangerous for a dozen different reasons, not the least of which included the various noises one inevitably made in the throes of passion, the whispers and sighs.

  And as her hand slid over him, discovering his considerable contours, Colin ever so slightly shifted his thighs farther apart to allow her access, to ease his fast-burgeoning arousal. She could feel his belly rise and fall swiftly as her hand stroked harder, more deliberately, more specifically, over the straining erection beneath the nankeen of his trousers, and she couldn’t bear not feeling his skin, so she felt for Colin’s trouser buttons, and discovered his other hand already there, already struggling to unfasten them. In the silence, in the soft dark, together they worked upon his buttons, and it was torture to do it as quietly as possible because it meant doing it much more slowly than either wanted, and they were both trembling now, and her own breathing was staccato.

  She felt an almost absurd surge of exultation when one button fell open. She worked another, he another.

  And then at last Colin was free, springing hot and thick and silky into her waiting hand, and his breath rushed out against her face, soft and warm. The musk of desire was already so thick and heady between them Madeleine’s head swam; she was drunk from it.

  Dangerous.

  She kept her eyes even with his, closed her fist over his cock and dragged it slowly down.

  Colin’s head jerked back, the cords of his throat taut, and his pleasure spiked through her and became her own, made her breath come shallow, tensed her muscles. She leisurely dragged her fist back up, and then down over him again, glorying in his growing thickness, the heat and strength of him. And then she did it again, until Colin’s head rocked forward and he ducked his chin into his chest. His breathing was frayed now and swift, his shoulders visibly rising and falling with it. He was trying to hide the sound of it.

  For no one would mistake this sort of breathing for mice at play in the loft.

  This was madness. In a moment neither of them would hear a pack of big healthy farm dogs baying toward the barn. Villagers with pitchforks and torches, a battalion of English soldiers accompanied by horses pulling cannons, would not make themselves known. Then again, Madeleine thought perhaps there were worse ways to die than to be discovered in a loft making love to Colin Eversea; it seemed, at the moment anyway, that she would die if she couldn’t have him.

  So she drew her fist up his cock again, lingering this time over the satin rim of it, trailing her fingers around it. She watched his head tip back again, saw his throat move in a swallow. His hips began to move just a very little, rocking into her fist in that primal rhythm that means the body has mutinied against sense. Mutinied? Sense, in this instance, had in fact already been bound and tossed into some inner dungeon.

  That little movement of his hips made the loft groan its age. Creeeeeak.

  They instantly froze.

  Madeleine held her breath. Her heart thumped perhaps six or seven times, hard as a drum inside her chest.

  But apart from the blood ringing in her ears, she heard no other sound. Just crickets.

  She released her breath, and bit down on her lip when a mad laugh threatened to escape.

  It was Colin who risked a whisper.

  “Mad.” He breathed the word into her ear. All searing longing and astonishment.

  His hand skimmed over her bodice, finding the fabric soft and fragile from wear, and his fingers slipped into it; his fingertips found the rough-silk knot of her nipple, the cool firm satin of her breast; he slid his fingers beneath it to free it from the bodice.

  But she covered his hand with her own to stop him, and then suddenly took her hand away from his erection.

  He was immediately nostalgic for it.

  But then slowly, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, to prevent the bloody loft from creaking and the straw from undue rustling, she tipped to her side to show him her back.

  He understood: with fingers clumsy with impatience and the unaccustomed need to rein it in, his arousal brushing against her back, Colin worked her laces loose and spread them wide, and stifled a blissful sigh, for he’d uncovered an expanse of pale glowing skin. He drew greedy fingers down between the blades of her shoulders, finding her gloriously satiny and warm, feeling her skin prick up in gooseflesh in the wake of his touch. He leaned forward, intending to touch his lips, his tongue, to the valley between those blades.

  But Madeleine was, as usual, focused on her objective, and already she was slowly, slowly, tipping back up to face him, her hands at her bodice tugging her dress down from her shoulders to free her breasts.

  Ah, but she was too impatient: the fabric sighed down over her skin with a sound of nearly human satisfaction.

  The sound was deafening when compared to the silence in which they’d been cushioned.

  Motion, breathing, everything suspended. Colin could have sworn his blood stopped moving. Crickets played a bar or two more of their endless symphony.

  Once again: no dogs.

  And then there she was, leaning back on her elbows, lovely breasts uptilted and bared, head tipped back. It was all he could do not to lunge.

  He hovered over her, arms trembling with the effort to be quiet, dipped lower to take one nipple into his mouth, nipped it lightly. He had the pleasure of feeling her breath catch, her rib cage jump up. He turned his cheek to brush his whiskers against the satiny roundness of her breast, and when he did, he felt the swift beat of her heart against his skin.

  Her hands were working at tugging up her dress as he did, and together they got it up noiselessly, which meant of course doing it slowly, and every torturous second it took to gather all that muslin ratcheted his anticipation almost unbearably, heightening the most minute of sensations until every moment seemed to contain a lifetime’s worth of desire. Every second he wasn’t inside her scraped like a blade across his desire, honing it and honing it until the point of it was savage.

  He was certain it would kill him before he could satisfy it.

  What a lovely way to die.

  Colin slowly pushed his trousers down about his thighs, which was as far as they needed to be, really, to accomplish what he needed to accomplish. He glanced down, saw beneath him Madeleine’s soft pale belly and long slender pale legs and dark triangle of curls, and white knees drawing slowly, slowly up, the straw shifting and rustling ever so slightly beneath her. He moved—oh God, so slowly—to kneel between her legs.

  And as he did, Madeleine’s hands slid beneath his shirt, over his ribs, over his chest, soft, demanding, searching, stroking, sending dark, shivering threads of sensation through his body. He ducked to brush his aching erection against her dam
p curls, and her back bowed up to meet him, urging him closer.

  And he thought he might lose consciousness.

  He wanted desperately to feel every inch of his skin over hers; he wanted to lick and stroke and plunge like a beast. But with a distant sort of amusement, he knew this was a haiku of a coupling; they would need to achieve profundity within strict limitations, and Madeleine seemed to know precisely what she wanted from him, because she bowed her body up to touch him impatiently, again.

  His breath sawed in and out raggedly as he propped himself on one hand, and the slight shift in weight made the damn loft creak. But he needed the other hand to guide himself home, and damned if he was stopping now.

  And oh, God, the slow, slow journey into her made him nearly insane.

  As he eased in, he watched her brilliant dark eyes, saw her rib cage leaping and falling, knew Madeleine could feel every inch of him the way he felt every hot, clinging inch of her. Her white teeth bit into her bottom lip, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  He withdrew, again, oh, so slowly. Shifted his hips minutely so his next thrust would rub against where Madeleine was swollen, needing to be touched, and he was rewarded when her head thrashed back. Ah, he had it right, then. Sweat born of rigid control beaded a trail down his back now, to the seam of his buttocks, and, arms trembling, Colin eased into Madeleine again, every second of that thrust a paradise of clinging heat. He withdrew, then sank into her again, harder this time, and Madeleine pulled her knees farther up to take him deeply. Again, and then again, he stroked.

  And soon the rhythm was beyond his control. From somewhere in the distance Colin heard the groan and creak and rustle of the loft as their bodies rose to meet each other, swiftly now, and distantly knew he should care, that they both should care.

  But then Madeleine’s head whipped back and her body arched up, and he laid his arm across her mouth lightly just in time, otherwise she might have betrayed both of them with a scream. She bit down hard as her release pulsed around him, and then he plunged and plunged until pleasure exploded with a white light in his own head, turning every ending of every nerve into fuses.

  Colin heard his own raw gasp as if from a distance, and tried to pull away before he spilled into her, but he was in the grip of something humbling. He shook almost violently with his release, ducking his head against Madeleine’s breasts.

  And then it was done.

  He rose up on trembling arms, hovering over her. Still gently sheathed, spent and at peace, soaked with sweat now.

  And now Madeleine’s were hands were sliding down his skin, down his hips, away from him.

  And finally Colin pulled very reluctantly away from her, just as slowly and quietly as before. And Madeleine was using her hands to smooth down her skirts, to rearrange her bodice, just as quietly, just as carefully, as before.

  He tucked himself away, he buttoned his trousers. It seemed a lonelier thing to do now, since it had taken two of them to unbutton them.

  His chest stung where her nails had scored him lightly. He focused on the feeling because, along the utter repletion he felt, it was all that lingered now of that extraordinary coupling.

  He lowered himself back down into the straw and mustered the strength to turn his head to look at her.

  Madeleine made a gesture, a pillow beneath her head with two hands: you sleep.

  He was a man. She knew it would be nearly impossible for him not to sleep after that.

  He didn’t argue. He simply surrendered.

  And slept like the dead.

  Chapter 17

  And while Colin slept like the dead in a barn, the Mercury Club formal meeting adjourned and the members milled about the room, lighting cigars and pipes and refilling brandy glasses. Soon faces were all but obscured by fine smoke, and conversation drifted to families, properties, entertainments, mistresses, even, shockingly—books. But these were men of commerce, not men of arts or letters.

  Marcus took his cigar over to Baxter. “I would just like to welcome you to the club, Mr. Baxter. I was struck by how similar your insights are to my own on the future of gaslight in London.”

  “I was struck, as well, Mr. Eversea.” Baxter glanced over at Mr. Redmond, almost as though seeking permission to talk to an Eversea. Redmond was engaged in conversation with another gentleman.

  “I think next we should look very closely into the railroads. I’ve heard talk of a locomotive workshop planned in the north of England.”

  “Have you, indeed?” Baxter looked intrigued. “I agree with that notion as well, as it so happens. The very next meeting, then, shall we introduce the topic?”

  “Of course. I shall look forward to it.”

  It had been a strategically issued confidence, and it eased Marcus into the next question. “You know, I should be happy to take you out in the Mercury Club carriage, Mr. Baxter. I’m quite good, if I do say so myself. I was taught by an excellent driver. He works for Mrs. Redmond now. A Mr. Bell. Have you ever availed yourself of his services?”

  “No, Mr. Eversea, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  It was difficult to see the man’s eyes behind his glasses.

  “Oh, he’s a very fine driver, too. Not a gentleman, like the two of us, but he can certainly wield the ribbons. I’d be happy to spend some time teaching you, if you’d like.”

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Eversea, too kind.” Baxter’s voice had drifted and his head, like a weathervane, subtly shifted in the direction of Isaiah Redmond. “I shall be certain to avail myself of your offer.”

  “Please do. But we shall need to do it after my nuptials.” Marcus smiled a little bashfully.

  “Your nuptials are in a few days’ time, I understand?”

  “Oh, yes. A few days’ time, in Sussex. And nothing can stop them now.”

  The predawn light eased in through the slats of the barn roof like a nudge, waking Colin before Madeleine needed to. She’d kept watch over him all night. Mercifully, he didn’t snore, but he did twitch and tense in his sleep. She could imagine the kinds of dreams that troubled him.

  He’d reached for her in his sleep, too, and she’d surrendered. Her head fit beneath his chin. His arms were heavy over her, and not entirely comfortable, but she wouldn’t have moved them for the world.

  He jerked awake, looking surprised to see her, then full consciousness set in and an extremely satisfied smile spread over his face, which made her own go scarlet. And then silently, swiftly, they made their way down the ladder, bolted across the field.

  Colin stopped at the well to pump water onto their skin.

  And so their walk resumed toward the mythical—or so it seemed—Mutton Cottage. And Madeleine knew that both of them were trying not to think of it as a walk to nowhere, as their money was running short, and time was running short for Colin, and they hadn’t the faintest idea what they would do stranded here in Marble Mile.

  Still, that wasn’t what either of them were thinking about.

  A few minutes up the road Colin cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk about—”

  “No,” she said abruptly.

  They walked on, watching the rising sun spill soft color over the sky. Pink spread like a festive punch stain. The air was sweet and spiced with green things and very clean, and it had a bit of an edge to it; it was difficult to know yet how warm the day would be. This was a country scene of oaks and hedgerows and narrow roads, and it was mostly flat.

  Colin seemed inordinately alert, his stride brisk and purposeful. One might even say…frisky.

  “It was very good,” he persisted. Sounding thoughtful.

  Madeleine remained forbiddingly silent. She glanced over. She thought she saw mischief playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Very,” he reiterated with something akin to reverence, a few paces onward, “…very, very, very good.”

  Madeleine thought pretending to be deaf might help quiet him.

  “I, in fact, nearly lost consciousness at one point,” he confided.


  This she couldn’t let pass. “With you, that’s saying very little.”

  “Oh, now, Mrs. Greenway, is that called for?”

  He didn’t sound the least offended. He sounded amused. Then again, she knew there was really nothing that could bring down a man who’d had his first sex in ages.

  They walked on. Madeleine heard some frantic chirping overhead and looked up. Two birds, wings outspread, were wheeling after one another in the sky. Was it love or war with them? she wondered.

  “What was he like, your husband?” Colin asked suddenly.

  The man would—he would—

  Colin Eversea was going to drive her mad with these his questions.

  “My husband…” She allowed her voice to drift in a romantic reverie. “Oh, he was a saint. And his pole was…oh…about twice the size of yours.”

  “Why, Mrs. Greenway! Making a joke at my expense! How very unlike you.” He turned to walk backward to admire her, as if he’d just discovered her. His face brilliant with delight.

  It was impossible not to smile. His cheeriness hadn’t been dented in the least. He turned back around again and walked steadily onward a little ahead of her.

  But apparently pole comparisons worked to quiet Colin for a little while.

  For a very little while.

  She wanted to think about this, and she didn’t. And she needed him to be quiet in order for her to either think about it, or to not think about him.

  “What do you think it was?” Colin mused.

  “What do I think what was?” she nearly snapped.

  He ignored that question. “I’ll tell you what I think it was. Perhaps it was because it had been so very long for the both of us—longer for you, doubtlessly—but I think it all started with the countess and footman. I’ve always found that particular fantasy quite erotic, personally. The lovely aristocratic lady, her servant…I think we were perhaps stirred, and stayed stirred. Were you stirred by the countess and the footman, Mad?”

  She turned her head sideways; he was half turned toward her, a wicked, wicked glint in his eyes.