by Leda Swann
Polly’s Game
Leda Swann
Contents
Begin Reading
About the Author
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
POLLY HAWKINS TUGGED HER NECKLINE A LITTLE LOWER AS SHE glided gracefully down the stairs and into the public drawing room, where the gentlemen were already assembled.
At thirty-two, she was getting too old for this game. Not that she ever admitted to such a vast age. To anyone who was rude enough to ask, she was not a day over twenty-four.
There was no point pretending to herself, though. The gentlemen did not flock to her in quite such numbers as they used to, and sometimes a week or more passed by in which she did not add a single extra guinea to her store.
Maybe it was time she gave up the game and spent her savings on the country inn her heart was set on. An inn far from London, where she could settle down into respectable widowhood, leaving her wild past behind her.
Just a few more golden guineas to keep her in her old age, then she would retire. Heaven knows, she had earned a rest.
The thought of those guineas curving her lips into a smile, she eyed the assembled gentlemen. Middle-aged and portly, they were on the whole an uninspiring bunch. At least they were uninspiring with their clothes on. She knew from experience that some of the men present, when undressed, sported a truly magnificent cock. Sir Phillip Reedy, over in the corner, was one such. It was only a shame that his luscious member was wasted on such a sneaking, sniveling weasel. She’d fucked him once just to feel the size of him inside her, and he’d refused to pay her afterward, claiming he owed her nothing as she’d enjoyed it more than he had.
Ah well, in her present state she ought to be more concerned with the state of a man’s pocketbook than with the size of his appendage. It was simply that she preferred it when she could mix business with pleasure. A thin, flaccid prick gave no one any fun.
She let her gaze wander over the crowd. There was a new man here today, she noted with interest. She did not remember seeing him before. He was quite different from the others here. His clothes, though perfectly respectable, lacked elegance and style. His face was ruddy, as if he spent a good deal of his time outside in the weather, and his shoulders were broad while his waist was lean.
He looked like a workingman, not a man of leisure.
The other women, Polly noticed, were giving him a wide berth. More fools them, she thought to herself with a smile. It was often the poorest men who were the most generous, where the wealthy gentlemen pinched their pennies and begrudged her modest fee.
Besides, she liked the look of him. He was just the sort of man she had imagined beside her in her country inn—an honest man who worked hard during the day and played even harder in her bed at night.
She took a deep breath, thrusting her breasts forward until they were in danger of spilling right out of her bodice, and approached him with a ready smile. Her name was not Polly Hawkins if she could not get him to play in her bed before the night was very much older. “Have you chosen a playmate for the evening already, sir? Or might a young lady still have a chance to catch your eye?”
He tugged at his neckcloth as though it were strangling him. “I am not used to this sort of thing,” he muttered uncomfortably.
He certainly looked as though he would be more at home plowing a field than in the elegant parlor of the brothel where he found himself. Taking pity on him, she reached out for his hand. “Come with me. We are all new to the game once. Let me show you how to play.”
She poured him a glass of Madeira and led him to a table in a dark corner, knowing instinctively that he would not seek the limelight as some of her other customers preferred. She sat opposite him and reached for the pack of cards in the middle of the table.
Beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead. “I have never been much of a one for cards. What game am I supposed to play?”
“Poker.”
He looked more and more as if he wished he were anywhere else but there. “For what stakes?”
“Now that is where the fun comes in. We can play for whatever we fancy. Farthings, kisses, even for items of clothing if you are very daring tonight. Or we could play for favors.”
“What kind of favors?”
“It can be anything we fancy. For instance, I could propose a wager whereby if I win, you have to buy me a pair of silk stockings. Whereas if you win,” she added with a saucy grin, “I might have to kneel between your legs, unbutton your trousers, and suck on your cock until you are as hard as this table leg.” She caressed the wooden leg of the table suggestively with one hand, enjoying the rising tide of red that suffused his face. So few novices made their way to the coffeehouse where she worked, and they were so amusing to tease. “Would you like to play for such stakes?”
“F…Farthings,” he stuttered. “I think we should play for farthings for now.”
She made a moue of disappointment. “As you wish.”
Half an hour later, he had a crown’s worth of farthings stacked up on his side of the table, and she was down to her last few pennies. “You will bankrupt me if we continue,” she protested. “I think we should change our stakes.”
Either the Madeira or her idle chatter as they played had put her gentleman far more at ease in her company. He looked with satisfaction at his pile of farthings. “Agreed.”
She tried not to smile at his complacence. Really, this was a fool’s game. She had allowed him to win for the last half hour so that he would underestimate her skill and, sure of his success, wager more than he otherwise might care to.
She filled his glass again. “Shall we play for favors now?” She needed a new pair of stockings and some new gloves, and she would be sure to make him pay for them before he got up from the table.
“I have a better idea.” His handsome face was a little flushed with wine. “Let’s play for secrets.”
“For secrets?”
“If I win, you have to answer my three questions honestly. And if you win, I have to answer yours.”
She took the pack of cards and shuffled them expertly. So, he wanted to know more about her, did he? This could prove interesting. She would make a guinea or two off him yet before she was done.
She won the first hand easily. “What’s your name?”
“My apologies, I should have remembered my manners before now. Harry Fitzgibbon at your service.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Harry.” She spoke his Christian name in a low and sultry voice, as if it were a caress. “And where do you come from? I would wager you are not a Londoner.”
“Is it that obvious?” he asked wryly. “I suppose it must be, for you are right. I’m from over Bristol way.”
“And why have you come to London, Mr. Harry from over Bristol way?”
His face twisted in a grimace. “I have come to town to find a wife.”
Her eyebrows rose. He did not have the eager look of a man about to be wed. “And does your bride-to-be know where you are spending your evening tonight?”
“You have asked your three questions.” He took the pack from the table and shuffled them. “But to answer you out of the kindness of my heart, I have not yet chosen the woman I want to make my wife.”
She let Harry win the next round.
“Your name?” he asked, as he played his winning cards.
“Polly.”
“Just Polly?” he prompted.
“Polly Hawkins.” None of her other customers had ever asked her surname. You didn’t need to know a girl’s name to fuck her.
“And how old are you, Miss Hawkins?”
She liked it that he called her miss. It was polite, gentlemanly. “Twenty-four.” The lie sprang automatica
lly from her tongue.
He eyed her suspiciously. “You promised to answer me with the truth.”
She shot him an evil look from under her lashes. “Twenty-eight then,” she muttered under her breath. “But do not breathe a word of it to anyone else, or I shall skewer you. A lady must be allowed her little vanities.”
That made him smile. “And what do you want more than anything else in life?”
To any other man she would have made a bawdy answer involving the pair of them in bed together, but her small lie about her age made her reluctant to deceive him again. “An inn in the country with a garden where I can raise my own chickens and keep a pig.” A dream that was drawing closer every day as her store of guineas mounted.
He raised his eyebrows at her answer. “You like the country then?”
“More than anything.”
“The country is very quiet for one used to the city. You would not miss the town and all its amusements?”
“I am one of those idle amusements—a pretty toy for a man to while away his evenings with.” She shook her head. “No, I would not miss the town. And you, why have you come to London to find a wife? Surely some girl back home would have you?” She couldn’t imagine him having much trouble finding a wife. He was handsome enough that she would gladly welcome him into her bed, and polite and respectful to her even though she was a whore. He would make some lucky woman a fine husband.
“My first wife died some years ago, barely a year after we were wed. I have not met another woman I fancy enough to wed since then, though a couple have tried hard enough to catch me. And I find I am lonely. I want a woman to lie beside me at night, to love and care for me as I would love and care for her.”
“Are the women in London more to your liking?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I have found one who might suit me well enough, though it is too early to be sure. And are you married?”
She gave a bark of laughter. “I am too canny to put myself in the power of any man. I like my independence too well to give it up. Besides, who would marry a whore?”
“There’s many a man who would give up his right arm for a woman such as you,” he replied soberly. “But come,” he added in a lighter tone. “Now that you have discovered all my secrets, shall we play for favors?”
Without waiting for an answer, he dealt them both a hand.
He did not look like a wealthy man. She almost felt guilty about winning from him the price of a new pair of gloves, but she would need to go to her new inn well equipped. Hardening her heart against him, she studied her cards. They were good. Not a sure win, but good enough for her to stand a fair chance of winning. “So, what shall we play for?”
“A kiss?” he suggested.
He was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. A sign, she hoped, that his cards were poor. “The price of a pair of kid gloves,” she countered.
“Gloves are expensive,” he grumbled. “And if I win?”
“If you win,” she murmured over the table, “you get to remove my bodice and touch my breasts.”
He licked his lips, all trace of reluctance immediately gone. “A fair bargain.”
To her surprise, she lost the hand. No matter, she would have the gloves off him before the evening was done. She turned her back on him. “Unfasten my bodice so I can pay your price.”
He deftly undid the row of buttons down her back before coming to kneel at her feet. Her eyes on his face, she peeled off her bodice. As was her custom, she wore nothing underneath but a sheer chemise, cut even lower than her gown. A quick tug, and her breasts spilled out over the top.
His eyes widened, but he made no move to touch her.
She cupped her breasts in her hands and brought them close to him, an offering for his pleasure.
Thus prompted, he took them in his hands and buried his face in their softness.
His touch was so gentle, as if she were a creature to be treasured and cherished, that she gave a small sigh of pleasure.
He looked up, his forehead creased in a frown. “Am I hurting you?”
“Not at all,” she quickly reassured him. “I like the feel of your hands on me.”
“Would you like the feel of my mouth on you, too?”
She gave a shiver of anticipation. No one had asked her permission before. “Suckle on my breasts.”
His mouth was on her before she had finished speaking, licking her nipple, sucking on her, even biting her breasts with sharp nips.
She felt a prickle of damp between her thighs. He was making her pussy wet just by licking at her breasts. No man had done so much for her in years. She had better extract herself from the situation before she got too carried away. “I think we should play another hand.” Her voice shook a little when she spoke. Damn the man. He was having far too great an effect on her.
“Agreed.” He was back in his seat and dealing the cards before she had recovered her composure. “But this time I get to name the stakes. If you win, I will buy you half a dozen pairs of kid gloves. But if I win.” He stopped for a moment, to consider his wager. “If I win, you strip naked for me and let me touch your pussy. And while we play, you let me admire your naked breasts.”
She took her cards with a nod of agreement. Either way, she would win. She wanted him to touch her pussy almost as much as she wanted the price of six pairs of kid gloves. Money would come first for her, though, as it must if she was ever to retire.
With the memory of his hands on her breasts and the growing dampness between her legs, however, it was almost impossible for her to concentrate on her cards. She was hardly surprised when she lost again.
Her skirts were tied with tapes at the waist. Untying them, she allowed her skirts to pool at her feet. Harry stooped down and picked them up, hanging them over the back of the chair. “No sense in spoiling your pretty gown,” he growled, as she looked at him in surprise that he would think of such a kindness. “Now take off your shift.”
She drew off her shift, standing proudly naked in front of him. Not many other thirty-two-year-old women could boast of such a body. Most women her age had widened hips and sagging breasts from childbearing, but not her. She was as lithe and lissome as she had been at twenty-four.
Harry could barely take his eyes from her. “Turn around. I want to see all of you.”
Slowly she pirouetted, showing off the planes of her back and the curves of her buttocks, before coming to stand in front of him once again.
His hands on her shoulders, he sat her on the edge of the chair. “Lean backward so I can get a good look at your pussy.”
Without being asked, she spread her legs wide, bracing her feet on the floor and leaning against the back of the chair.
She was open to him, exposed.
With one finger he traced her nether lips. “I have barely touched you, but you are wet already.”
At his words, her pussy tingled anew, and she felt her juices begin to dribble down one leg.
Kneeling, he licked the trickle of wet from her thigh. “Mmm, you taste like honey.” With that he began to lick her in earnest, his tongue flicking over her lightly until she was nearly screaming from frustration. She wanted more. She needed more. “Take me upstairs and fuck me, Harry.”
He raised his head from between her thighs. “Are you tired of my mouth already?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Fuck me, Harry,” she begged. He wanted to, she knew. The bulge in his trousers was clear even from where she was sitting. “Slide your cock deep into my cunt over and over again until you spend in me. My pussy is so hungry for you I can’t wait any longer.”
He got to his feet. “Not tonight, pretty Miss Polly.”
“What do you mean, not tonight?” How dare he raise her lust like this, then waltz off into the night. “Don’t you want to have me?”
“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I want you to be glad to see me, too.” With that, he fetched his hat and, making her a polite bow, left the coffeehouse.
W
hen she finally realized that he had left and really did not intend to return, Polly retired to her room, infuriated. She briefly considered taking one of the men up with her just to scratch her itch, but she knew it wouldn’t work. Harry Fitzgibbon, damn the man, had caused the itch, and no man but he would be able to satisfy it.
She was tempted to pretend illness or absence the following night just to pay him back for his teasing, but she knew she would not. She was eager to see him again, eager to explore his body as he had explored hers. And, damn it, tomorrow night she would not let him go until he had fucked her properly, though he did not pay her a penny for the privilege.
She wanted him more than she had wanted any man for years. She ached to have his hands on her again, to feel his tongue lapping at her clit. And most of all, she wanted the feel of his cock sliding home in her cunt.
She had not even so much as felt his cock tonight through his trousers to know if it was as appealing as the rest of him. That would be the very first thing she would remedy tomorrow night.
She had meant to be late, to tease him just a little for his holding back the previous evening, but when the time came, she could not bring herself to dally. What if another girl took his fancy before she arrived, and he no longer wanted her? She was no longer in the first flush of youth, after all, and he was an attractive man for all his lack of wealth.
So it was that she was dressed and waiting before any of the gentlemen had arrived. As soon as she heard them gather in the public parlor, she made her way downstairs, her heart fluttering as hard as that of any virgin.
As soon as she entered, Harry made a beeline for her and took her hand. “Mrs. Bertram informs me that you have a private room upstairs,” he said, without so much as a greeting. “Take me there.”
She wanted nothing more, but she would not give in that easily. Men did not prize what was too easily won. Though her whole body hungered for his touch, she would not admit it. Not yet. “What is in it for me if I take you upstairs?”
He took a prettily wrapped package from a nearby table and handed it to her. “This.”