She had not exaggerated about her desperate circumstances. Still, she was an anomaly. Other gently bred females would be looking for salvation in marriage. Instead, she had come up with this plan. Sacrificing her virtue was her solution.
The dress dropped. Puddled at her feet. She stepped out of the circle of fabric, standing before him in her chemise, drawers, corset and petticoats.
Her breasts lifted on several breaths and then her hands resumed their work, stripping away everything until she wore only her chemise. The fabric was of the finest lawn, but it appeared well-worn. The hem ended just past her knees and looked to be mended in more than one spot.
He shifted where he sat in the chair, girding himself for the rest, for the final act—for the sight of her to come. He reminded himself that he had brought himself here. He wanted this and accepted there would be limitations. He could manage it.
She gathered fistfuls of fabric at her hips and pulled the chemise over her head, exposing herself to his eyes.
She was lovely. Skin like peaches. Breasts perfect for the fit of his palms. Hips that flared out from her waist. He was enthralled. He wanted a taste.
“On the bed,” he instructed, swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat that made his voice gravelly and rough.
She hesitated at the command.
“You don’t have to do this.” He felt compelled to remind her.
A part of him hoped she’d call a halt. For both of them. Restraint would be a challenge. Looking at her now, he couldn’t deny that.
“Yes, I do.” Her gaze roamed his face before she turned toward the bed. “I want to.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. If he had thought her body lovely before, now he was completely undone at the glorious sight of her backside. It was delicious. Plump and full, and instantly his hands gripped the armrests, his knuckles aching from the fierceness of his grip.
Thoughts of his hands on that ass, cupping both plump cheeks, kneading the tender flesh, nearly broke him.
As though she sensed his stare and the impact she was having on him, she sent him a long glance over her shoulder. It was artless and yet no less provocative. Her eyes widened at whatever she read in his face.
He could well imagine what she saw in his expression. It was hunger. As desperate and raw and visceral as he had ever felt. This girl could be his ruin if he were not careful.
“On the bed,” he repeated, careful not to move, not to budge from his seat. If it killed him he would not shift from this chair until he was confident he had his lust under control.
She placed one knee on the bed and sank down. For the briefest moment he was awarded with the sight of her ass stretched and perfectly curved in the air.
He bit back a groan. Then the view was gone, replaced by another one of equal torment.
She was on her back on the bed, knees bent and angled to the side like the perfect offering. He tightened his grip on the armrests, determined to stay put.
You’re fine. As long as you remain in this chair. As long as you keep your clothes on. As long as you do not go to her.
“Widen your thighs,” he instructed.
Her gaze met his and he wondered again if she would change her mind and refuse.
Was this it? Was this when she came to her senses and sent him on his way?
“Marian, we don’t—”
She gave a swift shake of her head, silencing him.
Her knees parted and his gaze fastened on her sweet quim, so warm and inviting.
He expelled a breath from where he sat a safe distance away.
He’d braced himself for this. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to her. Not after their last encounter, but seeing her like this . . .
It took everything in him to stay in his chair.
Her pink flesh glistened, and his member rose hard and ready to slide inside her, which wasn’t going to happen. That was not part of the agreement. He was not a brute who would ignore her wishes. She wanted knowledge of copulation without actually engaging in sex.
He would give her that.
“What now?” she asked breathlessly.
“I want you to touch yourself.”
“Wh-what?” She lifted her head from the bed to stare at him incredulously.
He took a steadying breath. “Trust me, Marian. Touch yourself.”
“Down . . . there?”
He fought back a smile of amusement. Modesty prevented her from even talking about her own body. She had a long way to go before she was uninhibited enough to be a courtesan.
“Yes. Touch your quim.”
She held his gaze for a moment before giving a single nod and lowering her head back to the bed. Her throat worked as she swallowed and followed his instruction, placing her hand between her thighs.
And yet she hardly looked the image of passionate abandon. She was as stiff as a board on her bed.
“Have you never touched yourself?” he asked. “Brought yourself to pleasure with your own hand?”
“No.” She sounded shocked at the idea—as though she did not know such a thing could be done.
“You have to know how to please yourself before you can please another.”
“What if I can’t do that?” Worry creased her forehead.
“You can. You’re not frigid.”
He’d had her on his lap. He’d tasted her hunger, her responsiveness.
As though to counter his assertion, her hand rested limply over her sex. He resisted the urge to get up and show her how it was done. She needed to master this herself.
“Do you remember how you touched me?” he inquired. “How you moved your hand and explored my cock?”
Hot color splashed her cheeks. “Yes.”
“It’s as simple as doing that to yourself.”
“Not so simple evidently,” she muttered.
“Move your hand. Explore. Fondle. Don’t be embarrassed.”
She nodded jerkily, her expression that of a soldier marching into battle as her fingers tentatively patted her woman’s flesh.
He sighed. This wasn’t working.
“I don’t know what to do.” Frustration trembled in her voice.
It was a definite struggle keeping to his seat. He longed to rise from the chair and take his place beside her. To put his hand where hers was and show her how it was done.
He didn’t.
“Relax. Take your time. Stroke yourself,” he encouraged.
Her movements subtly changed. She stopped patting herself and began sliding her fingers over her sex. Up and down over her folds, and then dipping into her core.
“That’s it.” He cleared his throat, fighting against the growling thickness of his voice. Watching her play with herself was a torment. “Now find your pleasure point.”
“My . . . pleasure point?”
“That’s right. It’s a little nub nestled at the top of your sex.”
“I never read of that in any of Papa’s anatomy texts.”
“Is that so surprising?” he asked wryly. “Dry medical texts authored by men would likely not focus on such a thing. Now move your fingers up.”
Her hand drifted up, following his direction.
She gasped when she brushed the spot, and he felt that sound vibrate through him. “There you go. You found it,” he murmured in approval. “Play with it. Press down on that sweet pearl. Do what you like.”
She rotated her wrist and pressed down. Another gasp.
He watched, adjusting where he sat, wishing he could free himself from the constraint of his breeches. There would be none of that, though. He knew better. “Find a rhythm. Move however pleases you.”
Her hand increased its action between her splayed thighs, moving quickly, feverishly against the little bud buried above her folds.
Her breasts jiggled from her movements, beckoning his hands, his mouth. He couldn’t stop himself anymore. His hand dove for his cock. He squeezed himself hard, savagely, desperate to relieve the ache.
&nbs
p; His gaze stroked over her body, over glistening skin flushed pink. Her nipples darkened, the distended tips turning a deep plum. His mouth salivated to taste them, knowing they would be just as sweet.
Her body arched, bowing up off the bed as her hand jerked faster between her thighs. A cry tore from her throat and her legs slammed shut, trapping her hand.
He groaned, hating that he couldn’t see between her thighs any longer, but he relished watching her lose control. She moaned and rocked on the bed with her hand buried between her closed legs.
“What’s happening to me?” she panted.
“Give yourself to it.”
“To what?”
“To pleasure.”
“I don’t know how!” Her voice choked on a strangled cry. “I can’t . . . I must not be doing it right.”
“Just find what feels good and keep doing it.”
She released a whimper, her body writhing on the bed as she continued to jerk her hand between her clamped thighs.
“Please,” she begged. “Help me.”
“Marian.” Now his voice sounded like a plea.
He couldn’t go near her. Not when she looked like that. Not when he felt like this.
“I trust you.” She wiggled and writhed on the bed. “Please!”
I trust you.
“Just show me. Touch me,” she urged. Her voice was small, barely audible, compelling him, drawing him forward out of his chair.
Standing, he stopped before the bed, looming over her.
She trusted him.
He would not betray that trust.
He sank one knee down on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He brushed a hand over her silken calf. Her skin quivered under his palm. “Can you part your legs for me?”
The blue of her eyes locked on him, darker, deeper. With a nod, she opened herself for him.
He looked his fill. “Beautiful,” he rasped, taking hold of her other calf.
He lowered his second knee down on the bed, bringing his body fully between her thighs. “This is how you take a man. He will come between your legs just so.” He inched higher between the V of her thighs in demonstration. “He will widen your thighs for him.” His hands spread her wider. She gasped, her eyes rounding. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She shook her head, looking up at him.
He looked down, admiring her, exposed and open for him. “He might even test you for readiness.” He followed his words, stroking and tracing her with a fingertip, testing her wetness before easing one finger inside her.
She exhaled sharply at the intrusion.
He stopped half a finger in, teeth clenched as her warmth tightened all around him.
She shifted, pushing her hips up in welcome.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
He thrust his finger in deep, exulting in her loud cry.
With his other hand, he seized her wrist. “Now touch yourself.” He guided her fingers back to her sex. He placed her fingertips on the little jewel nestled there and forced them down, pressing. He steered her into a rolling motion.
She arched and shuddered and his finger was awash in the evidence of her desire. “Feel how wet you just became?” She nodded, her shudders ebbing. “You just climaxed.”
He pulled his finger free and settled his fully clothed body against her, his engorged cock directly prodding her sex.
“This would be the ideal time for your lover to slide inside you . . . when you’re wet and ready.”
Her wide eyes fixed on his face.
“He will drive inside you.” He thrust against her, grinding into her, loathing the shield of his breeches even as he was grateful for the fabric that kept his cock from penetrating her.
Tossing her head back, she moaned and lifted her hands up to his shoulders, clawing into him through his jacket as he rocked into her in the simulation of shagging.
He rode her with his breeches on.
She grew wetter, her juices soaking him through layers of fabric.
They groaned and strained against each other.
It was agony and he couldn’t stop. He slid a hand down her bare thigh, wrapping her leg around his waist, angling her into a better position as he drove and thrust and rubbed and worked them both into a frenzy.
A fresh shudder wracked her and she shrieked, her hands flying to his ass, clutching him to her vibrating quim.
He climaxed hard with a shout, the wetness between them intensifying as he spilled his seed in his pants.
He laughed hoarsely and dropped down over her. He hadn’t done that since he was a green lad. He propped his elbows on either side of her head to keep from crushing her.
“Oh. My,” she gasped as though she had just run a great distance. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her luscious breasts brushing his chest. How he longed to feel them against his bare skin. How he longed for her nipples to graze him without the barrier of his clothing.
Her blue eyes were clouded, as though she were foxed. “Goodness. Is that what it’s like?”
“Almost. The real thing is better.” He brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead. “My cock inside you would have felt better.”
If possible, her eyes clouded over even more. “I want to—”
Before she could finish the sentence, the thud of footsteps pounded on the stairs.
“Marian!”
Her eyes flared wide with instant lucidity. Gone was the fog. Gone was the dreamy haze of pleasure.
Now there was only panic.
“My sister! Go, go, go! She can’t find you here.”
He jumped from the bed. Fortunately, he was still dressed.
Marian ripped the afghan from the bed and wrapped herself in it. She pointed a desperate finger to the window. “Out that way!”
“The window?”
“Yes!”
“Are you daft?” He took two strides forward to peer out. It wasn’t a straight drop. The gabled roof angled so his fall wouldn’t be fatal—only dangerous.
“Marian! Are you home?” one of her sisters called.
“Go! Please,” she hissed, the color rising high in her cheeks, as though someone had just slapped her. “She can’t find you here.”
With a curse, he slid open the window and swung a leg over the sill. He cast her one last look. Wrapped up in her blanket, her bare shoulders peeping out, she looked like a woman who had been thoroughly loved. The fetching and far too tempting sight of her convinced him to move—to jump.
But first he reached out and grabbed the edge of her blanket, tumbling her against him. He kissed her hard, tasting her a final time just in case he broke his neck.
He released her. She stumbled back a step.
“We’ll resume later, Miss Langley,” he promised.
She nodded and he turned.
With what he hoped wouldn’t be his final curse, he jumped from the window, sliding down the roofline. There was a brief moment when the air rushed up to greet him and then he landed. Hard.
But alive.
He held still for a long moment, assessing, measuring himself, making certain nothing was broken. When all appeared well, he glanced around. No one was about to witness his ignominious fall. Marian’s reputation was safely intact.
He clambered to his feet and crept off, feeling much too old for such skulking about, but knowing he would do it again.
For Marian, he would do it again.
Marian peered out the window long enough to assure herself that he was still alive and unscathed. She exhaled in relief when she spied him popping back up to his feet, his dark hair flying haphazardly in every direction. Her heart clenched at the sight of him, as well as other parts of her anatomy.
She had clambered out of her window plenty of times as a girl and knew he could do it, but it was still comforting to see he was unharmed.
She tightened the afghan around herself and turned just as a knock sounded on her bedchamber door.
“Marian?” Nora called agai
n. “Are you home?”
“Yes. Just readying to leave for town. I’m scheduled to give a pianoforte lesson to Mrs. Kellwood’s children.” Not untrue. She was expected in an hour.
Without waiting for a biddance to enter, Nora pushed open the door and strode bold as you please into Marian’s room.
“Nora!” She clutched the blanket ever tighter about her and glanced wildly around the room as though there was evidence of her interaction with the duke lying about.
Her sister looked her over mildly. “Are you only just now dressing? I thought you were up hours ago.”
“Yes. N-no,” Marian stammered. “I was up hours ago. I merely dirtied my dress and needed to change.”
Nora frowned, not looking entirely convinced of this fabrication. “Oh.”
Her sister turned to go, but then suddenly stopped, her gaze landing on something on the floor. “What is that there?”
With a sinking sensation, Marian followed her sister’s gaze. Oh. No. There, on the floor, was the duke’s hat.
She scarcely remembered him wearing it into the house and carrying it with him up the stairs—but he had and he had forgotten it here on her floor in his hasty escape.
Blast it! And now her sister was gazing at it in speculation.
“Oh. Um.” Marian cleared her throat. “I found it out on the road and picked it up,” Marian quickly supplied. “I thought I would keep it and try to find the owner.”
Nora walked forward and picked it up. She turned it over in her hands, musing, “Very fine quality. I am certain someone is missing it dearly.”
Marian doubted it. Nate did not seem the manner of man to worry about such things as a misplaced hat.
Nate. Suddenly she could not think of him in any other way. Nathaniel. Nate. Her Nate.
No. No. Not hers. He was not hers. Not in any intimate lover-like way.
He was her tutor. Her instructor. This was a professional arrangement. A professional arrangement she just happened to find immensely pleasurable.
“Indeed. I thought I might ask about in town. Perhaps Mr. Simms at the mercantile would know something of it.”
At the mention of Mr. Simms, Nora wrinkled her nose. He was one of their more demanding creditors—to such a degree that they avoided his shop altogether of late.
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