Alex's Angel

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She ached for something more stimulating than those flirting fingers and moaned, pressing herself up against his touch.

  He removed his hand.

  “Alex?” The word came out as a hoarse plea.

  He stroked her bottom again, moving at a leisurely pace. Then he brought his hand down on her left buttock with a smack. At first she was merely shocked at the sudden change in his motion. Then the stinging sensation hit her. She cried out and swung her head around so fast that the room spun.

  “What the devil was that?” She gaped at him. Had he just…spanked her? Indignation burnt through her. But a stronger fire spread through her cunt.

  He stared sternly back at her. “Get up, you little brat. I require your presence at my side tonight and you’ll give it.”

  “Oh, shall I?”

  “Yes, you signed the contract.”

  “Like signing a contract with the devil,” she muttered, then buried her face in her pillow.

  He caressed her bottom again and she couldn’t help writhing and trying to press her mons against the bed.

  “This is fair warning, Emily—if you don’t get up now I am going to warm your bottom like you won’t soon forget.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  At the image he provoked, heat washed over her. Her cunt clenched and wetness gushed forth.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Her voice was all breathy in her ears.

  “You’ve got about thirty seconds to get yourself out of this bed.”

  Her mouth went totally dry and her heart pounded against her rib cage, but she couldn’t seem to move.

  “It’s your last chance,” he warned.

  She trembled all over and let out a hitching breath. His touch between her legs made her jump. He slid his fingers into her drenched folds and laughed softly. Then he resumed caressing her bottom.

  “So my naughty girl knows what is best for her?”

  Why was she lying here, allowing herself to be so powerless against him? And why did it feel so terrifyingly delicious? Moreover, what was he going to do? Was he really going to strike her again?

  She glanced over her shoulder. His expression was stern. She buried her face back in the pillow to stifle a nervous laugh. Apprehension mingled with anticipation and she moaned at the unbearable excitement racing through her blood.

  He made contact with her right buttock, not hard, but just enough to sting. He brushed over the burning area. As the pain dissipated, her inner muscles clenched violently and she arched up towards his hand. If only he would touch her there, she would come instantly—she was sure of it.

  “Patience, you greedy little puss.” He gave her a light swat. “First I am going to spank you as you so richly deserve, then I am going to fuck you hard and proper.”

  His hand struck her buttocks several times. She tried to anticipate when or where he would strike next, but she never managed to.

  With his unbandaged hand resting lightly on her pinkened buttock, he put his cock to her entrance. He groaned at the heat and moisture of her. Damn, she was dripping wet. He’d never known a woman who could lose herself in sensuality as quickly, and he’d known she would adore bed play. When he had found her here, slightly foxed and naked, face-down on her bed, he’d been unable to resist the temptation. Now she had his balls aching with the need to possess her. He thrust into her and her walls instantly contracted around him as if wanting to capture him and keep him from withdrawing.

  He wanted all of her, yet for all her sensuality, she held a part of herself always in reserve. Her refusal to trust him to edit her work had hurt him in some way he didn’t even understand. But he recognised it as just another way she was withholding herself from him. Another way she rebelled against him. He wanted to push her and push her until she gave everything over to him—until she was his completely.

  He swatted her buttock and withdrew all the way. She cried out, a pained protest. He laughed softly, then pushed back in on one swift motion until he was touching the mouth of her womb. She moaned soft and low and arched her backside up to press against him, as if seeking even greater pressure in her depths. His balls slapped her soft mons as she rocked against him. And her walls were like silk and fire on his cock. He reached under her and found her swollen, firm little nub and rubbed it lightly.

  She drew her breath in and her cunt contracted around him in spasms. He caressed her back, waiting for her to recover. Then he fucked her as he had promised, with hard, fast, furious strokes until their bodies were covered with sweat and she trembled beneath him.

  He bent and nipped at her neck. “You have me so damned hard and long for you.”

  “Fuck me,” she panted. “Fuck me with your long, hard cock.”

  God, he’d known she’d be like this. Wanton, uninhibited. And she would become even more so as she gained experience—experience he wanted to give her. He almost trembled to think of the pleasures they might share, the heights they could reach.

  “Oh, I am going to fuck you all right.” He tightened his grip on her hip and gave her another hard thrust.

  She cried out sharply, the sound echoing loudly in the chamber. He put his hand over her mouth and drove her harder still. She cried out against his hand and her cunt flooded with wetness. Her body shuddered under his in the throes of the most violent orgasm he’d witnessed in a woman.

  He gritted his teeth and reached to clamp the base of his cock to stop himself from slipping inside her young and fertile body. He longed to fill her with his seed but didn’t dare. He stayed inside her and let her take her full pleasure of his erect cock.

  When her tremors subsided, he withdrew.

  “I want to be close to you, sweetheart, very close.” He caressed her cheek.

  She nodded. “Whatever you want—I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I want to come in your mouth.”

  Her eyes widened and she took a deep breath. As well she should. He wanted to dominate her, to claim her.

  “Will you trust me? Will you let me do this?”

  She nodded again and tried to rise up.

  He pressed her back down. “Stay there. You don’t have to do a thing; just lie there.” He moved up over her with his knees on either side of her shoulders. “Lift your head a little,” he said and when she did, he adjusted the pillow to elevate her head. Then he took his cock and slid the head over her lips. Christ, she had a lovely mouth. He’d never get enough of it.

  She kissed the tip.

  “Just be passive this time, sweetheart. Open to me,” he said.

  She opened her mouth and he slid inside. He longed to thrust himself deep into the snugness of her throat but she wasn’t facile with this yet and to push her too hard, too fast, would put her off. Then he’d never be able to have this from her again. Even so, her mouth was warm and wet and wonderful and he was dying to spill inside. He stroked the shaft of his cock with quick, hard strokes. His cock jerked and jerked, pumping his seed into her. Moments of stunning pleasure and deep satisfaction…and it was almost enough.

  * * * *

  Street lamps cast golden light into the darkened carriage as it clattered along. Staring at Alex’s faraway look, Emily sat, silently twirling one long, dark red ringlet round and round her gloved finger, her stomach knotting tighter and tighter. She couldn’t believe she’d let him talk her into accompanying him tonight. But in those moments after their lovemaking, she’d been willing to do anything he wanted.

  Their lovemaking. Why had she allowed him to—to…lay his hands on her like that? She’d sworn she would never allow anyone to control her ever again. So why had she found the experience of being so vulnerable to him so thrilling?

  She shifted in the seat gingerly. But her bottom had ceased to burn and tingle and was now simply sensitive—in a way that despite herself still sent delicious waves of pleasure through her.

  Dear God, letting him thrust his cock in her mouth, trusting him. Knowing now the sensation of his cock, jerking in her mouth as he came, the
taste of his seed. She couldn’t possibly have ever felt closer to him.

  Uneasiness quivered around her navel. She couldn’t control her reactions to him. She never had been able to and now she couldn’t learn to. Instead of being jaded to him, she became increasingly fascinated with him and their growing liaison.

  Was there anything she wouldn’t allow him to do? She had made a serious miscalculation when she’d thought she could play the sophisticated woman and be his lover. She had already vowed once to stop letting him manipulate her and yet tonight she had let him manipulate her into further carnal acts. Maybe she had already lost herself.

  At the thought, fear prickled through her.

  This affaire between them, it had to stop. Now. It was too dangerous for her.

  The carriage was slowing and Alex suddenly came alive. He stared at Emily with piercing intensity. He reached for her hand. She laughed in hitching breaths, feeling so taut she feared she’d break.

  “Don’t worry—it’s merely some merchants and their wives; even a couple of mere sea captains.”

  His words were like a sharp slap, breaking the surface of her tension and allowing wild emotions to boil up through the cracks. Pride and anger. She had forgotten that she sat here in clothes he had purchased, in a borrowed cloak. She had forgotten that she was poor and her origins meagre compared to his.

  But apparently he had not.

  “How glibly you say that. Mere sea captains.” On the last three words, she mocked his upper class, polished tone. She fiddled with the heart-shaped pendant on her necklace. “It’s most unfeeling of you to say so. My father was a mere sea captain—and his father before him.”

  His face contorted into a pained frown and he leaned closer. “I am sorry, sweetheart. My words were poorly chosen. I only meant that if you can handle congressmen, you can handle these people tonight.”

  He smiled, slightly, ardour lighting his eyes. Her heart made a little bounce, a desperate wish to believe—but it was simply more of his charm, more of his ability to control her through manipulation. Well, she might have weakened earlier, but now she wouldn’t have it.

  She had not lost herself.

  She would prove it, to him and herself.

  “How grateful I should be. The mighty Alex Dalton, lowering himself to escort the daughter of a mere sea captain to a supper party.”

  His eyes went cold as steel and the skin pinched near his nostrils. “Now, damn it. That’s not fair—”

  A knock sounded on the carriage door and Alex’s look immediately turned coolly polite.

  * * * *

  In the Cogwell’s parlour, the conservatively dressed women’s eyes widened upon observing Emily’s gown. She quickly came to realise that Rachel’s sense of what was fashionable was likely to be viewed as too daring by these more practical, modest, middling sort women. Wanting only to run back to the carriage, she inhaled deeply, then smiled frozenly during all the introductions. There were too many names at once to match with the faces.

  The very last guest arrived. His bottle-green suit enhanced his russet hair and green eyes. He looked almost handsome in a sad, romantic way. But he made her internals twist in a sick panic.

  Richard Green.

  He stared at her with bitterness. With hate.

  He would tell.

  Maybe right here, tonight. No one had dared say anything openly to her about the Blue Duck, but maybe he would. Maybe he would ask her bluntly, in front of everyone and she would be on trial, her expression judged by everyone to seek the truth.

  An ashy, acridness filled her mouth.

  It was one thing to have contemplated letting a few gentlemen take her to bed and pay her. It had been a sacrifice in the name of keeping her liberty so she could continue her art, her mission. It was also another thing if people simply speculated about herself and Alex. But if all of Philadelphia knew she had been playing at being a tavern harlot, then it could go very bad for her work. It would taint people’s opinion of both her and her book.

  One misstep, one piece of bad luck…

  She was still tipsy, still wobbly from the shock of her sexual reactions to Alex earlier. She was all alone in an unfamiliar house, facing a sure threat to everything she’d worked for.

  Suddenly Alex, who had seemed the very devil himself not but moments before, seemed to be her only source of safety. The only friendly face. She grasped his arm.

  He frowned with concern. “I am sorry. I didn’t know he’d be here. I’d never have brought you here if I had known.”

  “Will he tell?” she whispered.

  “No.” Alex’s eyes glittered coolly. “Green wouldn’t dare.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he knows I’d blow a hole through his head, that’s why.”

  She gaped at him and he gazed steadily back at her. He actually meant that. Gladly accepting a glass of wine from a passing servant, Emily all but gulped it down. Seeing the servant come around again, she discreetly requested a refill. She sipped slowly. Green caught her eye, nodding and grinning, his eyes ablaze with a strange, almost feverish light. She quickly drained her glass.

  * * * *

  The dry, overcooked roast pork could only be swallowed by washing it down with copious amounts of wine. The conversation reflected the atmosphere, oppressively dull. Samuel Cogswell was Alex’s second cousin on his mother’s side, but they were not close. He came here once a year out of respect to his mother’s memory, but it was always an onerous duty.

  With boredom threatening to crush him, he introduced the topic of Rousseau’s Émile, a guaranteed point of controversy in this den of Federalists.

  Emily looked up instantly and her eyes challenged him. “I agree with Mr Rousseau that physical activity and open, natural air are important for the mind, though his limited view of female education is clearly misguided.”

  “If you reject part of his philosophy, how do you justify embracing his ideas about nature and education in general?” Cogswell asked, smiling condescendingly.

  “Most men see women only as they wish to see them, existing only to serve domestic needs. I forgive Rousseau his prejudices just as I forgave my father.”

  “You are very generous, then,” Cogswell replied, sharing a wry look with his chuckling male dinner companions.

  “I agree most with Catherine Macaulay—both boys and girls should first develop their bodies and useful habits. Then focus on Latin grammar, French and geography, taught in an enjoyable manner.”

  “Latin grammar taught to girls?” Cogswell said, glancing quickly at his wife, who appeared close to fainting while fanning herself rapidly. Clearing his voice, he continued, “To what purpose, Miss Eliot?”

  “To discipline their minds,” Emily replied.

  Most of the men sat laughing, some of them wiping tears from their eyes with their linen napkins while their wives simply sat silently, their dull countenances frozen with shock. It wasn’t the most progressive gathering in Philadelphia.

  “Well, Dalton, what do you think of your young protégée’s radical thoughts?”

  Alex smiled his most non-committal smile. “The lady is entitled to her own opinions without ridicule—but it’s bad enough that boys’ minds are subjected to torturous Latin without adding the fairer sex.”

  “You didn’t enjoy Latin?” Emily fixed him with eyes that held serious curiosity. The memory of her body, soft and docile beneath his touch, teased his memory.

  “No—and I enjoyed my sardonic schoolmaster even less.”

  General laughter ensued.

  “But then, I was a restless child.”

  “When misguided adults stifle restlessness they unwittingly stifle the child’s mental abilities as well,” she said, adorably impassioned.

  She’s so damnably lovely. And she’s yours for taking…forever if you want.

  He pushed the dangerous thought down and re-focused his attention on the conversation.

  “Still, studying Latin did me no
harm.” She said the words calmly.

  Dead silence ensued. Even Alex blinked, speechless. He had no idea she was that thoroughly educated.

  “You studied Latin grammar?” one man finally asked, his eyes threatening to bug out of his head.

  Women studying Latin wasn’t unheard of, but to this company it must seem like the harbinger of pandemonium throughout the whole social order.

  “My grandfather was a schoolmaster and he insisted on it,” she replied. “But formal study can only do so much. Observation of the natural world is important for understanding. Following nature is the march of man.”

  “You quote Joel Barlow as well?” asked Cogswell, a smile playing about his lips. “You’re a very strange flavour of Jacobinism, Miss Eliot.”

  “You accuse me of Jacobinism based on what?” Emily asked, her voice sharper than Alex had ever heard it.

  “Most young ladies accept the political wisdom of their fathers and husbands. For you to reject your father’s opinion so irreverently is in itself a hallmark of Jacobinism. Are you a Jacobin, Miss Eliot?” Cogswell demanded, fixing her with a stern look.

  “I am not, sir,” Emily said defensively, her face flushing.

  Mrs Cogswell perked up, seeing a lifeline to direct the conversation out of such murky waters. “Yes, Miss Eliot, who was your father?”

  “Tom Eliot of Salem, a sea captain,” Emily said, glancing at Mrs Cogswell. Her face was still flushed and her hand trembled on her wineglass as her eyes flashed defensively.

  Alex had wanted to stir a little controversy, not throw flames at the other side. She was totally disgracing herself—and him by proxy—in wearing her emotions, her offence, so openly. He had seriously miscalculated her ability to conduct herself in public. It just went to show how really untried and naïve she was. And it also proved beyond a doubt that he was the veriest wolf for taking advantage of her.