Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt
Page 18
“I see.”
“Is that how you feel about Mr. Pye?” Violet asked. “Are you over him now?”
George had a vision of Harry Pye, his head arched back, the tendons in
his neck straining as he convulsed over her. A slow heat invaded her
loins. She caught herself dropping her eyelids.
She snapped them open, sitting up straight at the same time. “Uh, not
exactly.”
“Oh.” Violet looked forlorn. “Maybe it’s me, then.”
“I don’t think so, sweetheart. Maybe it’s that you’re only fifteen. Or,”
she added hastily when Violet stuck out her lip, “maybe it’s that he’s
just not the right man for you.”
“Oh, George!” Violet flopped backward onto her bed. “I’ll never have
another suitor. How would I explain that I’ve lost my maidenhead?
Perhaps I should marry /him./ No other man will ever have me.” Violet
stared at the canopy over her bed. “I’m just not sure I can bear the way
he takes snuff for the rest of my life.”
“Yes, that would be torturous,” George murmured, “but I’m afraid I’ll
have to put my foot down and forbid you to marry him. So you’re saved.”
“You’re a peach.” Violet smiled tremulously from the bed. “But he’s said
he will have to reveal all if I don’t become his bride.”
“Ah.” If she ever got her hands on the blackmailing bastard . . . “Then
I think you will really have to tell me his name, sweetheart. I
know”—she held up her hand as Violet started to protest—“but it’s the
only way.”
“What will you do?” her sister asked in a small voice.
George met her eyes. “We’ll have to tell Tony who he is so Tony can
convince him that you aren’t interested in marriage.”
“But Tony, George?” Violet flung her arms wide across the bed,
unconsciously taking the position of a martyr. “You know the way he
inspects one so coldly down his nose. It makes me feel like a worm. A
/squashed/ worm.”
“Yes, dear, I am aware of his look,” George said. “I was the recipient
of it just this morning, thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry about that.” Violet looked contrite before reverting to her
own dilemma. “Tony will make me marry him!”
“No, you’re maligning Tony, now,” George said. “He may have lost all
sense of humor since he assumed the title, but that doesn’t mean he’ll
force a marriage on a sister, especially his fifteen-year-old sister.”
“Even though I’ve—”
“Even though.” George smiled. “Think how useful Tony will be when he
convinces this gentleman. Really, it is the only advantage I can think
of to having an earl for a brother.”
THAT NIGHT GEORGE SHIVERED and pulled the hood of her cloak tighter
around her face. It was late, almost midnight, and Harry’s cottage was
dark. Perhaps he had already retired for the evening? At any other time,
for any other reason, she would’ve turned around. But this compulsion
drove her on. She had to see him again. Except it wasn’t to /see/ him
that she’d come here so late in the evening, was it? She felt a blush
start high on her cheekbones. She wanted to do more, much more, than see
Harry Pye. And she didn’t want to examine too closely the reasons behind
that urge.
She knocked at his door.
It swung open almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting for her. “My
lady.” His green eyes were heavy.
Harry’s chest was bare, and her gaze was drawn to it. “I hope you don’t
mind,” she began vapidly, addressing his left nipple.
He reached out a long arm and drew her in. Slammed the door and pushed
her up against it. Shoved back her hood and seized her lips. He tilted
her head back and slanted his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue
between her lips. Oh, heavens, she needed this. Had she become so wanton
after only one taste? His hands gripped the back of her head, and she
felt the pins falling out. Her hair came undone down her back. Her hands
roamed, kneading, stroking his back. She could taste ale on his tongue
and smell his musk. Her nipples were already peaked and aching as if
they recognized him and what he was.
He drew his lips down her neck, open-mouthed. “I don’t mind,” he rasped.
And while she was trying to remember to what he replied, he hooked his
hand in her bodice. He pulled down savagely, tearing the fine fabric and
exposing her naked breasts. George gasped and felt moisture between her
legs. Then he had his mouth on her breast, nipping at it. She actually
worried that he would bite her. He seemed animal, fundamental, male to
her female. He reached her nipple and did bite, a sharp pinching.
She couldn’t help but arch her head back and moan.
He had his hand under her skirts now, pushing and shoving them up as if
he were impatient to find her center. She clutched at his shoulders when
he reached his goal. He brushed his fingers over her, touching, feeling.
He lifted his head from her breast and chuckled. “You’re wet for me.”
His voice was dark. Sexual.
He brought both hands under her legs and lifted her, bracing her back
against the door; all her weight was on him. She was helplessly spread
as he moved between her thighs. She felt the brush of his trousers. And
then the brush of /him./ Her eyes opened wide and met his, gleaming and
green like a predator’s.
/Oh, my./
He rocked his hips, just a little. She felt the intrusion. She imagined
that wide head, splitting her lips down there, and she panted, eyes half
closed. He rocked again, and his cock pushed in a little farther.
“My lady.” His breath puffed over her lips.
With an effort, she opened her eyes. “What?” she gasped. She felt
drunken, dazed, as if she floated in a marvelous daydream.
“I hope you do not mind”—he rocked—“my boldness.”
/What?/ “No. I, /uh,/ don’t mind.” She could hardly get the words out.
“You’re sure?” He licked her nipple, the devil, and she jumped.
She was so sensitive, the feeling was almost painful. /I’m going to get
him for this./
He rocked.
/Some other time./ “Very sure,” she whimpered.
He grinned, but a bead of sweat ran down his temple. “Then with your
permission.”
He didn’t wait for her nod but slammed his entire length into her,
shoving her up the door and hitting with exquisite accuracy /that/
place. George wrapped her legs, her arms, and her heart around Harry. He
withdrew with agonizing slowness and repeated the process, this time
swiveling a bit when he crashed into her. The impact sent shards of
ecstasy skittering through her.
She was going to die from pleasure.
He withdrew again, and she could feel every inch dragging against her
sensitive flesh. She waited, suspended in time and air, for him to mate
her once more. And he did, his cock thrusting into her and his pelvis
rubbing her exposed center. Then he seemed to lose control. He began a
rapid pistoning, his movements short and jerky. But just as effective,
damn him.
And it began for her, spreading in waves that seemed to have
no end. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t see or hear, could only
moan in primitive abandon and open her mouth and fill it with his
shoulder, salty and warm.
She /bit/ Harry.
He came, withdrawing from her suddenly but keeping his arms around her
as he shook and spasmed his release between them. He leaned into her,
his weight keeping her pinned to the wall as they both drew deep,
shuddering breaths. George felt heavy. Listless. Like she’d never be
able to move her limbs again. She stroked his shoulder, rubbing at the
bite mark she’d made.
Harry sighed against her hair. He let her legs fall to the floor as he
steadied her. “I wish I could carry you to my bed, but I fear you’ve
just drained me, my lady. That is”—he pulled away enough to look her in
the eye—“if you mean to stay the night?”
“Yes.” George tested her legs. Wobbly but adequate. She made her way to
the small bedroom. “I’ll stay the night.”
“And your brother?” he asked from behind her.
“My brother does not control my life,” George said loftily. “Besides, I
snuck out the servants’ entrance.”
“Ah.” He had followed her into the bedroom, and she saw now that he
carried a basin of water.
She raised her eyebrows.
“I should have done this last night.” Was he embarrassed?
Harry set down the basin beside the bed and helped her remove her gown
and chemise, then knelt to take off her shoes and stockings. “Lie down,
my lady.”
George lay back on the bed. For some reason she was shy now when she
hadn’t been before during their wild lovemaking. He took a cloth and
dipped it in the basin, wringing it out; then he stroked it down her
neck. She closed her eyes. The wet cloth left coolness and goose bumps
in its wake. She heard him dip and wring out the cloth again, the
trickle of the water somehow erotic in the room’s stillness. He washed
down her chest, over her breasts, and across her belly, leaving a trail
of cold heat.
Her breath was coming faster now, anticipating what would come next.
But he started again at her feet, trailing the cloth up her calves.
Gently, he spread her thighs and washed the inner curves. He wet the
cloth, and she felt the coolness against her mons. He stroked the cloth
deliberately between her folds and her breath caught. Then his weight
left the bed.
George opened her eyes and watched Harry strip his breeches down. Nude,
his eyes on hers, he took the cloth and rubbed it across his chest. Dip.
Wring. He washed under his arms. Across his belly.
Her eyes dropped and she licked her lips.
His penis jumped. George looked up, and her gaze met his. Harry dipped
the cloth in the water. He lifted his manhood to wash the heavy sac
underneath. Another dip in the basin and he drew the wet cloth up his
cock, pulling the cloth around, leaving the skin glistening. He scrubbed
the rag in his pubic hair and then threw it to the floor. Harry advanced
on the bed, his penis stiff. George couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He placed one knee beside her, making the bed dip. The ropes holding the
mattress creaked. “Are you going to finish your fairy tale, my lady?”
She blinked. “Fairy tale?”
“The Leopard Prince, the young king.” He brushed his lips over her
collarbone. “The beautiful princess, the Golden Swan.”
“Oh. Well.” She scrambled to think. Harry’s mouth was wandering to the
underside of her left breast. “I think we’d got to when the father king
told the young king to get—” She squeaked.
He’d reached the nipple. Her breast was already tender from their play
before.
Harry lifted his head. “The Golden Swan held by the nasty witch.” He
blew cool air on the wet nipple.
George gasped. “Yes. Of course, the young king sent the Leopard Prince
after it.”
“Of course,” Harry murmured to the other nipple.
“And the Leopard Prince turned into . . . ahhh . . .”
He had sucked that nipple into his mouth.
He let it pop out. “A man,” he prompted, and blew.
“Mmm.” George went under for a few seconds. “Yes. And the Leopard Prince
held his emerald crown in his hand . . .”
He was trailing kisses down her abdomen.
“. . . and wished for . . .”
“Yes?”
Was he licking her belly button? “A cloak to make him invisible.”
“Really?” Harry propped his chin on her lower belly, his arms resting
across her pelvic bones.
George craned her neck to see him. He was lying between her spread legs,
his face only inches from her . . . And he was looking gravely
interested in her story.
“Yes, really.” She let her head drop back on the pillow. “And he put on
the cloak and went and stole the Golden Swan without the nasty witch
even knowing. And when he got back”—what was Harry doing down there?—“he
gave the Golden Swan to . . . /Oh, my Lord!/”
Harry finished leisurely licking up through the flanges of her woman’s
place, then kissed /that/ spot. He raised his head. “Is that part of the
fairy tale, my lady?” he inquired politely.
George tunneled her fingers in his silky hair. “No. I’m through telling
the story for now.” She pulled his head back down. “Do. Not. Stop.”
She thought he may have laughed, as she seemed to feel a vibration, but
then Harry lowered his mouth, placed it over her nubbin, and /sucked/ on it.
And, frankly, after that she no longer cared.
“WHAT DO YOU DREAM ABOUT at night?” Lady Georgina asked him a long time
later.
“Mmph?” Harry tried to focus his mind. His body was a dead loss. His
limbs were leaden, almost liquid with fatigue, and he was struggling to
stay awake.
“I’m sorry. Are you asleep?” His lady obviously wasn’t. He could feel
her fingers stroking through the hair on his chest.
He made a heroic effort. “No.” He opened his eyes. Wide. “What did you say?”
“What do you dream about at night?”
/Rats./ He suppressed a shudder. “Nothing.” He winced. That wasn’t what
a gently born lady wanted to hear. “Besides you,” he added hastily.
“No.” She tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not fishing for a compliment.
I want to know what you think about. What you want. What you care for.”
What he cared for? At this time of night? After he’d loved her, not
once, but twice? “Ah.” He felt his eyelids drifting shut and struggled
to open them again. He was just too tired for this. “I’m afraid I’m a
simple man, my lady. I think mostly about the harvest.”
“What do you think?” Her voice was intent.
What did she want from him? He stroked her hair as her head lay on his
chest and tried to think, but it was too great an exertion. He let his
eyes close and said whatever came to mind. “Well, I worry about the
rain, as you know. That it won’t stop in time this year. That the crop
will be ruined.” He sighed, bu
t she was quiet beneath his hand. “I think
about next year’s planting, whether we should try hops this far north.”
“Hops?”
“Mmm.” He yawned gigantically. “For ale. But then we’d have to find a
market for the harvest. It would be a good cash crop, but would the
farmers have enough of their own to keep them through the winter?” She
traced a circle on his breastbone, her touch almost tickling. He was
waking up now as he thought about the problem. “It’s hard to introduce a
new crop to the farmers. They’re set in their ways, don’t like innovations.”
“How would you convince them, then?”
He was silent a minute, considering, but she didn’t interrupt. He had
never told anyone of this idea. “Sometimes I think that a grammar school
in West Dikey would be a good idea.”
“Really?”
“Mmm. If the farmers or their children could read, were educated even a
little, innovation might be easier. And then each generation would be
more learned, and they in turn would be more open to new thoughts and
ways of doing things. It would be an improvement measured in decades,