Pleasuring the Lady (The Pleasure Wars)

by Jess Michaels

  Her eyes went wide as he reached out and caught her waist. He tugged her against him and pressed his mouth to hers. The chemise still in her hands fluttered to the ground between them and she wound her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to him and swirling her tongue against his in surrender.

  He groaned, the sound reverberating through her body until the echoes of it settled between her legs. She arched, almost against her will, rubbing her pelvis against his and feeling the hard evidence that he desired her still.

  But she couldn’t stop to wonder at that fact. He pushed her against the bed roughly and began to unfasten her buttons along the front of her gown. She lifted her hands to his shirt, and together they raced to undress the other.

  When his shirt parted to reveal that beautiful, male torso, she couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward to press a kiss against his taut stomach.

  He jerked at the contact of her lips to his flesh.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, blushing. “Is that wrong?”

  “Far from it,” he panted. “But you shall steal my control if you continue that.”

  She arched a brow at the thought. “I’ve never stolen a man’s control before,” she murmured.

  He shook his head. “That is because men are idiots. I include myself, because had I known what a pleasure you would be, I would have ruined you, married you and bedded you years ago. Though perhaps I would have altered the order a fraction, for the sake of our reputations.”

  She swallowed. No man had ever looked at her like this. No man had ever spoken to her like this. And she drank it up like a plant deprived of water in the desert.

  “Then it seems, my lord, that you should make up for lost time.”

  He didn’t respond with words but by drawing her gaping dress open and dragging a hand between her breasts through her chemise.

  “I agree,” he grunted and pulled the dress away entirely. The chemise swiftly followed and he was on her again, kissing her, rubbing against her, lifting her breasts before he lowered his mouth from hers and began to suckle her nipples, one after another.

  Pleasure ripped through her with almost violent power, forcing her to moan with incoherent madness as she opened her legs, lifted her back, offered herself like a lightskirt.

  He pressed a hand between her legs as he continued to swirl his tongue around the sensitive nipple and pressed the tips of two fingers inside of her clenching sheath.

  “My God, the things you do to me,” he panted as he drew back. “Roll over.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending, which must have been reflected on her face, for he smiled. Her heart caught at that wicked, knowing expression.

  “You told me you would surrender completely. So trust that I will take care of you. You will like this.”

  She bit back any nervous words and slowly rolled onto her stomach. He placed his hands beneath her hips and lifted them, putting her on display. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she buried her head in the pillow, but she still felt his heated stare burning into the bare flesh of her backside.

  She was utterly exposed in this position, completely vulnerable to whatever he decided to do.

  His choice was as shocking as his demand, for suddenly his hands were on her thighs, spreading her wider before his hot breath stirred against the entrance to her sex. As she gasped with surprise, he stroked his tongue along her slit and she bucked with pleasure.

  He gripped her hips, drawing her against his mouth, delving his tongue deep inside her channel, flicking it against her clitoris as he rocked her back against his lips.

  She gripped the coverlet with both hands, scraping her nails against the fabric as pleasure spiraled out of control from the point where he touched her and spread throughout every nerve of her body. She bit her lip to keep her cries inside, but he pressed on, tormenting her with his tongue while he released her hip with one hand and slipped two fingers deep within her pussy.

  He pulled back. “Moan for me,” he ordered.

  She bit out a broken sound of pleasure.

  “Yes,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Now touch yourself while I make you come.”

  Her eyes flew open and she stared at the wall in surprise as he returned his mouth to her tingling sex. Touch herself. While he did this. It was so wicked, so wild, so intimate and yet she had promised him she would acquiesce to his every demand.

  Slowly, she let her fingers thread through the soft curls between her legs. They settled against the bundle of nerves hidden within, and she jolted at the pressure, the pleasure.

  “That’s right,” he murmured against her flesh. “Feel how wet you are from my lips, from your own excitement, how hot and ready you are for my cock. Help me bring you pleasure before I take you.”

  She shuddered at his sinful words. A lady was not supposed to like such things, and yet her clitoris throbbed madly at his low tone. She began to stroke herself gently, thrusting back against his lips as pleasure washed over her in wild, confusing waves.

  Everything about her became focused on her sex, on the pressure of his fingers, of her own fingers, of his tongue, of his breath. And then orgasm overtook her. She screamed as her hips flailed wildly against his mouth, but before her release was complete, his touch was gone.

  She peeked over her shoulder and found he had sat up, lips shining from her pussy and his cock in hand. He positioned himself at her entrance and speared her in a long, hard thrust.

  The feel of him gliding effortlessly to the hilt made her already powerful orgasm even more out of control. He stroked into her hard and fast, and she bucked with every thrust.

  How could he do this? How could he make her so wild, so wanton? How could he clear her mind of everything except the feel of his hard member deep inside her? She couldn’t think well enough to answer that question. All she could do was rock back into him as the fluttering in her pussy slowed and she went weak against the bed almost in the same moment that he grunted out a sound similar to her name and spent his seed inside of her in a hot spurt.

  He collapsed over her, his arms tangling with hers as he drew her to her side and cocooned his body around her. She settled back against him, craving his warmth, reveling in the protectiveness she felt in his embrace. For the moment, that was all that mattered. For the moment, it was real…it was true…and it was hers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Time seemed to slow in Miles’ arms, so Portia wasn’t certain exactly how much of it had passed when he pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder and rolled away from her to his back, separating their bodies with a grumble she echoed.

  She took her time in facing him, always uncertain of what his expression would be. To her surprise, he seemed thoughtful as he stared at her through hooded lids.

  “Did I please you?” she whispered.

  He arched a brow. “Did my grunts of ecstasy and my utter lack of control in spending my seed not tell you the answer to that question?”

  She blushed at his directness, despite the fact she had very recently been spread out before him for his taking.

  “I don’t know what to think of you, that is all,” she explained. “I suppose, over time, I will become more accustomed to your expressions and be able to read their indications of your feelings.”

  He frowned at that statement, as if her growing closer to him was not an inevitability at all.

  “You needn’t get to know me a bit to know this, Portia.” He stroked a finger against her cheek. “You satisfy me entirely. It was as if your body was made for my pleasure and being a part of your erotic awakening is almost magic to me.”

  Her blush returned, but this time for a different reason. His words, shocking as they were, were also very kind. It was something her life had lacked for a good while and she couldn’t help but lean into it, into his hand to soak it up.

  “I think this arrangement will suit us both very well,” he continued, dropping his hand from her face and settling back against the pillows. “It turns out we are very co
mpatible in the bedroom and since you have promised me surrender, I think that compatibility will only grow. But I must tell you something now, before we move further.”

  She looked up into his face. His gaze had darkened, it was unreadable, though his jaw was set like he was angry or upset.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  He swallowed. “Our marriage will never include love, Portia. I feel I must clarify that for you so that we never have a situation where one of us is more attached to the other. It can only breed pain, and I would not wish that upon you.”

  She stared at him. Loveless marriages were common in their sphere, it was true. And given the circumstances of their arrangement, she had never expected him to fall in love with her. Her of all people.

  And yet, hearing him say out loud, such a short time into a surprisingly passionate union, that he would never, ever love her…it stung.

  She turned her face so he wouldn’t see that tiny twinge of regret that shocked her and made her utterly foolish.

  Her silence, though, seemed to say enough. He shifted to look at her even though she refused to meet his gaze.

  “That should not be a difficult thing for you, should it?” he asked. “After all, you love another, don’t you?”

  She jerked her face toward him. “A-another?”

  His brow wrinkled. “Ava’s brother, Liam. When we met at the masquerade, you were looking for him. You admitted to caring for him.”

  She blinked. Liam. Good God, she hadn’t been thinking of him at all as of late. Not for Ava’s sake, certainly not for her own. And yet for years she had mooned over him, quietly lamenting the fact that he never noticed her.

  Had she loved him? That didn’t seem to fit, even though she might have owned it when pressed just a few weeks or months ago.

  “Portia?” Miles repeated.

  She glanced at him a second time. He was so devastatingly handsome in the dying firelight. His touch was so warm. He was so bent on her pleasure before his.

  And he would never love her.

  Worse, although she might not be able to fully read his emotions in every situation, she could plainly see that if she ever said anything to imply that she was capable of loving him…he might very well run.

  So she found herself nodding.

  “Y-Yes,” she whispered. “I suppose I have always thought myself in love with him.”

  His gaze held hers for a beat too long and then he nodded.

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “Then we shall not be fools, either of us, when it comes to matters of the heart. Though I would ask you to keep your feelings for him discreet.”

  “Of course,” Portia croaked out, and her voice sounded very small and faraway over the rush of blood through her ears. “Despite the behavior somehow brought out by you, I would never do anything to embarrass you. Not—not again.”

  His expression softened. “I am anything but embarrassed, Portia. If you would allow me, I will take you somewhere tonight to prove it. And perhaps to press those boundaries you claim you are willing to allow me to test.”

  Portia swallowed. “Tonight?”

  He nodded. “I promise you, if you agree, it will be very much worth your while.”

  Portia bit her lip as nervousness swamped her, erasing the pleasure which lingered in her limbs after his recent touch. But a bargain was a bargain, wasn’t it? And she wasn’t about to renege as she had seen her father and brother do over the years. She owed Miles that, she owed her mother that…she owed herself that.

  “Very well,” she whispered. “I will go where you take me, my lord.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice suddenly rougher. “Then if you will excuse me, I will ready myself and I hope you will do the same.”

  She nodded once as he slid from her bed and pulled his trousers up to refasten them. He tossed a quick, wicked grin in her direction as he moved to the door that connected their chambers by way of the sitting room.

  “Portia,” he said as he opened it.

  She nodded.

  “No chemise, please,” he said, arching a brow before he disappeared into the other room.

  Portia stared at the door, at the place where he had stood. Now that he was gone, she couldn’t help but relive his comments about love. About the fact he would never feel that for her. And now her face fell as she hadn’t allowed it to when he watched her so closely.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she muttered as she got up to ring for Bridget’s assistance. “Love would be a ridiculous notion to pursue with this man and his reputation.”

  But even as she busied herself with wrapping a dressing gown around herself, her very reasonable words did little to comfort her. And little to ease the sting that still existed deep within her at her husband’s dismissal of all matters of the heart.

  Miles sent a side-glance toward Portia as they stepped up to the entrance of a pretty little middle-class home on the edge of London. A man stood there, dressed in a fine livery with a podium before him and a quill in his hand.

  “Ah, Lord Weatherfield,” the man said without prompting and quietly checked his name off a list. “And guest.”

  Miles nodded. “Good evening, Stenson. Nice to see you.”

  “It has been a while. Please do go in and have a refreshment.”

  Portia seemed confused as they entered the foyer, but she retained her composure, just as she always seemed to do. Until the first moan echoed from one of the several open doors that led into a parlor or other chamber.

  She looked at him, eyes wide and bright with both interest and fear.

  “Where are we?” she whispered.

  He smiled. “A very fine establishment that caters to exactly the interest we both share in watching and being watched during certain acts.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. “Something like the Donville Masquerade?”

  “Better,” he assured her. “Far more selective and private.”

  She glanced back at the now-shut front door. “That was why he ticked your name off a list.”

  Miles nodded. “I am a member of this club and have been for years.”

  Her lips parted as she wet them and his groin clenched with desire.

  “Miles, I wear no mask, people will see me, people will—”

  “Never speak of anything, even if they do recognize us. Their membership in the club depends upon it, as do their own reputations in Society. Trust me, Portia. I do not throw you to the wolves by bringing you here tonight. I want to give you pleasure, not pain.”

  She seemed to consider that for a long moment as her gaze continued to dart around the staid foyer as if looking for more proof that this house of sin existed. When a second moan of pleasure echoed, this time from another room, her eyes fluttered shut on what was a sigh of desire so clear that it hardened him fully in a second.

  “I trust you,” she whispered. “And I surrender myself to your care.”

  “Excellent,” he said, placing a hand on her back to guide her into the first room to their right.

  She caught her breath and he looked around, trying to see the chamber through her innocent eyes. It was painted in a dark, sensual blue and the walls were scattered with expensive, erotic art depicting nudes reclining as they played with each other. Darker curtains had been drawn across the windows tonight for privacy from outside. Of course, some nights, when there were masquerades, they were opened exactly for the titillation of knowing prying eyes were on the guests.

  Seats had been scattered about the room, all facing the small stage that had been erected along the long, back wall. Curtains were drawn there and already a few patrons had gathered for the show.

  He steered her to a seat in the back, where they still had a clear view, but wouldn’t be the center of attention. Perhaps one day she would be ready for that, but not yet.

  “What is this?” she asked as she settled her shaking hands in her lap and cast a wary side-glance at the stage.

  Before he could answer, the
last few patrons rushed in to take their seats, the door to the parlor closed and the curtain swept open to reveal Madame Larouche, the owner of the home and club they now sat in. She wore a short, black, see-through skirt and a complex top that supported the bounty of her breasts but left them exposed for the pleasure of her audience. By the hardness of her nipples and the wet sheen of them, she had already engaged in some sexual play backstage.

  Portia shifted beside him in both discomfort and interest.

  “She—she is almost naked,” she whispered.

  He remained silent, allowing Portia her own reactions as music rose from an unseen pianoforte. It was a driving, passionate rhythm, and Madame Larouche began to move in time to it, using the entire stage as she arched her back, thrust her hips, created both delicate and lewd movements to simulate sex play.

  As Miles watched her, Portia stared at the other woman. Her lips were slightly parted and her breath was shorter. He could tell from the high color on her cheeks that she was both embarrassed and titillated. He could only imagine how she would react when the next part of the dance began.

  He smiled as he reached out to take her hand just as Madame Larouche’s partner entered the stage.

  The woman lived with three men, all her lovers both individually and as a group. At least one of them joined her onstage during her performances. Tonight it was the tallest of the three, a dark-haired man Miles thought was called Rowland.

  He was utterly naked, his cock already hard as he moved over to Madame Larouche. He tapped her shoulder, then spun her around by the waist and drew her against him. Their lips nearly touched but never met as he moved against her, lifting her effortlessly to slide up and down his body.

  Portia jolted, her gaze sweeping over to Miles. “I—” she whispered. “I don’t—”

  “Of course, it is shocking,” he murmured, turning toward her and sliding her chair closer so that he could whisper against her ear. “But look at how confident she is, how passionate. Does it not arouse you to see how he wants her? To see her body ripen and change as he glides her over his skin or lowers his lips to her throat?”