by Jenesi Ash
She was wet between her thighs, restless with the need to curl her fingers in his hair and guide his mouth to her breast. As if aware of her desires, Adrian lowered his head and ran the tip of his tongue along her nipple. Sharp sparks of desire ignited deep in her belly and she gasped, clinging to him, her fingers biting into his upper arms—arms that felt so solid and strong beneath his jacket.
He freed her other breast so that he could nuzzle the scented valley and bury his face between them while his palms skated down her waist to grasp her buttocks. He cupped her bottom, pulling her forward while he took her breast into his mouth and suckled her hard and greedily.
Amelia purred, called his name as she ran her hands through his hair, holding and tugging with the rhythm of his mouth. He moaned and grasped with impatient hands the fabric of her gown. Cool air suddenly kissed her buttocks as he raised her skirt and petticoats from behind. His palm glided over her bottom, squeezing and rubbing, gently slapping at her full cheek.
“You’ve a beautiful bottom to play with, Emmy,” he said against her throat as he traced the cleft of her derriere through her drawers. “Soft and plump. The sort of bottom I like to hold and caress—and grip—in the throes of passion.” His fingers skated along her crease, probing at her opening before his palm came around the front of her drawers to cup her sex. “Warm. Wet. A hungry quim. God, you’re perfectly made for pleasure, Emmy. Designed for hours and hours of fucking. Could you do it for hours? Could you fuck me for as long as I wanted with this lush body?”
Burying her face in his hair, Amelia closed her eyes, unable to bring herself to answer him. “Have I shocked you?” She shook her head and allowed her lips to trail along his neck, feeling the stubble of his morning beard brush her tender flesh. “You shouldn’t be shocked, you know. In my dreams I’ve had you every way possible. I’ve seen myself between your thighs, Emmy, my mouth tasting and licking your cunt. I’ve heard your cries of pleasure.”
What agony it was to discover that there had been times when she had been so close to him, so close she had heard his breathing and felt his warm breath against her, and he had never known, never known it was her—his lover he came to meet on Tuesday mornings. And yet he had thought of her—had fantasized about her. It was more than she had ever dared to hope for.
“Do you want that, Emmy? Hours of pleasure? Do you want me—my body?”
“Yes,” she cried as he pressed his palm against the muslin of her drawers. She was aware of her hands on his arms as she pushed him down the length of her body. She moaned in anticipation as he slid down and rasped an uneven breath against her. Then he put his mouth to her sex, blowing hot breath through her dampened drawers as he held her skirts in his hands. He blew again, this time closer, harder, and she felt her womb begin to ache and her thighs begin to dampen and quiver, and she thought she might have discovered heaven then.
“Oh, God.” She breathed deep as she felt his mouth press against her. She felt the firm flick over her clitoris, wanted to beg him to rip the gown from her body so that she could feel that hot, hard tongue all over her.
So in tune was he to her needs, he pulled at the opening, ripping the slit of her drawers so that his mouth entirely covered her. Wantonly she moaned, fisting her hands in his hair, rubbing her pelvis against his seeking tongue. He pulled her toward him and lifted her leg over his shoulder. Parting her with his hand, he spread her wide while his tongue lapped at her.
Writhing in pleasure, Amelia closed off all thoughts. The tension continued to build inside her. Despite her trembling legs, her limbs seemed to stiffen. Her nipples tightened and her breasts bobbed freely in the air as she rocked against his mouth. Mercilessly he drove her on, ruthlessly tasting her until she was shaking. She could not stop. Could only hold him to her, forcing him to finish her off until she could no longer stand without his help.
He tugged her gently down onto her knees, seeking her mouth with his as his fingers slipped deep inside her. He did not stretch her slowly, but gave her two of his fingers and plunged deep—so deep that she moaned into his mouth.
“I want to be inside you,” he groaned. “Let me inside, Emmy.”
She heard the rustling of her skirts at the same time she felt his hand moving between them. The sight of his trousers being opened made her blood hum in her ears. He sought her fingers between the layers of wool and cotton and brought them to his trousers. Instinctively her fingers curled around his length. She was stunned by the size of him, the satiny texture of him, the fierceness of the blood she felt throbbing inside his shaft.
Sliding her hand down the length of him, she stroked him, taking pleasure in his erratic breathing and the way he hungrily sought out her breasts. He sucked at the nipple and she gripped him firmer, quickening her strokes. His breath rushed out and he pressed forward, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath bathing her mouth as his breathing escalated in his excitement.
“Yes,” he rasped as his hand came up to cup her cheek. His fingers, long and warm and gentle, slowly curled around her throat as he breathed faster and faster, his lips a hairbreadth away from hers. “Christ, yes, Emmy. I want your hand tossing me off,” he groaned, flexing his hips and encouraging her to work him faster and harder. “I’m so close—your touch—Christ, your touch is like magic. And your breasts, God, I can see them beckoning me.”
“Beckoning you how?” she purred, teasing him.
“Let me,” he said, breaking off. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it away and moved up to bring his shaft to her breasts. Stroking her nipples with his cock, he watched in the thin rays of light how his cock slid up and along her milky skin. He slapped at her nipples, heard her moan, and he slapped a bit harder. Christ, he grew thicker and longer, and the sight and sounds of what he was doing was driving him mad, close to spilling. But there was one more thing he wanted, and she had the perfect breasts for it. Shoving against her, he slid his cock between her breasts while she pressed them together, cradling his cock.
“Have you ever been fucked this way?” he growled as his gaze locked with hers, and then his eyes became hooded as he felt his seed snake up the length of his shaft. “Have you ever seen hot seed coming out of a cock that you’ve made want you? Have you had it splash on your beautiful skin?”
Christ, what was he saying? He’d scare her with his aggression. Yet he couldn’t stop, couldn’t be tender. He’d waited too long, and like a caged animal, he was going on pure male instinct.
“Would you let me, Emmy? Would you let me mark these beautiful tits?”
He didn’t give her time to answer. Instead, he shuddered, and Amelia felt the rushing pulse of his hot seed spilling into her hands and her breasts.
“Beautiful, Emmy,” he whispered shakily. Taking her hand, he pressed a length of linen in her palm and gently wiped away the stickiness. “I did not mean for it to come so quickly. Give me a moment and I will be hard and ready to pleasure you. When I’m buried deep inside you, you’ll have so much pleasure. I swear it. I’ll fill you deep with my cock, and I’ll penetrate your beautiful bottom with my finger and give you an orgasm you will never forget.”
“I can’t…I must not do this. I cannot be the woman you need,” she said, struggling to lower her skirts and push her breasts back into her corset. Reality had settled in, chasing away the passion that had run with abandon inside her.
“You are the woman I want, Emmy.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not—please believe me, it can never be.” She reached for her veil atop her bonnet. Pulling it forward, she covered her face.
“I never believed in fate until I met you, Emmy. Not until that first moment when our gazes met and locked—then, I believed. I knew you were my fate. I will find you, you know, should you ever decide to run from me. I will grant you your anonymity. I will not ask you for answers or anything you cannot give me. I only ask that you do not end this—not yet—not when it’s only just begun.”
How could she say no when he was looking at her
like that? How could she deny what her heart was crying out for?
“Next Tuesday I shall bring my carriage. I will draw the shades. I will make it black as night, if only you will agree to meet me here.”
Raising her veil over her mouth, she rose up on tiptoes and kissed him tenderly. He reached out to touch her, but she evaded him and ran to the entrance of the alcove. Before she stepped out into the soft drizzle she stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder.
“Promise me, Emmy, that you will come.”
“I promise,” she said, then ran out into the rain, and home.
CHAPTER FOUR
AMELIA’S HEART CONTINUED ITS UNSTEADY, rapid beating, making her warm and breathless long after she had arrived back home. Whenever she thought of Adrian and what they had shared that morning, an unbecoming flush marred her cheeks. It was a flush she was certain would not go unnoticed. But how could she conceal it, that blazing heat the memories of him produced?
“Your color is very high.”
Beneath her lashes Amelia saw that Lady Sophie was closely observing her from her spot by the window. She was always watching Amelia, as if waiting for the opportunity to pounce upon her for doing something wrong. Lady Sophie had the eyes of a hawk, and Amelia feared that she was the lady’s current prey.
“Are you ill? Your cheeks are the same color as your hair.”
Automatically, Amelia slid her hand along the strands that were pulled tight into a severe bun and secured with numerous pins. Not a strand out of place. She was relieved at that. No need to have her outward appearance disassembling for all to see. It was bad enough she had quite come unglued inside.
Why had she ever thought it possible to carry out this charade? Why had she allowed herself to travel down a path that would only cause her heartache? Nothing could come of this with Adrian.
She, more than anyone, knew it to be impossible.
“Well, are you ill? Speak up!”
“No, madam,” Amelia croaked nervously. “I am feeling rather fit.”
“You’re wearing an awfully high chemisette beneath your gown. And it is positively stifling in this room, what with the fire so high,” Lady Sophie observed, her shrewd eyes narrowing sharply.
Amelia’s hand flew to her throat. She had worn the lace collar to cover Adrian’s mark. She hoped the lace kerchief would go unnoticed, but Lady Sophie was highly observant. Nothing, not even the smallest detail, escaped her eye.
“And your boots have dirt on the toe. Where have you been, hmm, to soil your boots with mud?”
“I ran an errand this morning. I must have missed a spot when I cleaned them off on the boot scraper.”
“Obviously,” she sniffed. “Ah, here is the tea, at last,” Lady Sophie announced as the housekeeper carried in a silver tray laden with a fine china teapot and matching cups and saucers.
“Is that my brother I hear in the next room?” Lady Sophie asked as she craned her neck to the right where the connecting door was ajar. “What is he doing?”
Amelia’s gaze shifted to the left, to the partially opened door. One lone figure stood by the window. The figure was as achingly familiar to her as the sunlight lit the contours of his shoulders and glinted off his dark hair. For long seconds she stood transfixed by him, by his masculine beauty and the memories of having those beautiful hands caressing her.
“Well, is it him?” Lady Sophie asked impatiently.
“Indeed it is.”
An image of her hands clinging to him drifted in her mind, and she shook her head to clear it, but it refused to leave. “Take what you need.” She heard the quiet of his words in her thoughts and trembled at the memory of them. Closing her eyes, she struggled to escape the hold of those memories, but they held on, fearing to be let go.
“Inform him that I wish him to take tea with me.”
Don’t make me speak to him. Don’t make me draw any attention to myself, she wanted to cry, even as she took a step toward the door. But God saved her the task, when his lordship stepped forward and walked toward her. Gasping, Amelia jumped back and busied herself with the tea things, trying to become invisible behind the tall silver teapot.
“Is that you, dear sister, that I hear commanding everyone about?”
The sound of his voice made Amelia melt like sugar in hot tea. She remembered how that voice had sounded in her ear when it was full of passion. She could not look at him. Could not stand to meet those hypnotizing eyes.
“Ah, Wallace, there you are. Come and join me,” Lady Sophie commanded. “The tea has just arrived.”
He did not look in Amelia’s direction, but instead breezed past her as he crossed the Turkish carpet to where his sister was seated on the settee wearing a breathtakingly beautiful pink gown, a gown that Amelia knew Lady Sophie didn’t think was half as lovely as Amelia did.
“Good afternoon, Soph,” he murmured, bending down to kiss his sister’s rose-colored cheek. “You look lovely, as always.”
“Good day, Wallace. I didn’t see you at breakfast.”
Amelia could no longer think of him as Lord Wallace. In her mind, he was not an earl. He was simply Adrian.
“I had an engagement, I am afraid.” He turned then, his gaze landing full upon Amelia’s face. What did he see? Did he know? Suspect? She saw nothing in his eyes that resembled recognition, and her breast felt as though it was being squeezed by a vice.
Amelia could not say she was relieved by the fact he did not recognize her, and yet she should be. The truth was, what she was feeling was a good deal more complicated than any emotion she had ever felt before. It was a strange blend of disappointment and resignation. Of pain, peppered with a philosophical understanding that it was perfectly normal for him to look upon her without really seeing her.
“You may begin pouring,” he announced.
Nodding, Amelia lifted the delicate pot from its silver stand and carefully poured the tea into the cups. Steam vapors fogged the lenses of her spectacles, and glancing up, away from the steaming tendrils, she caught her reflection shining in the mirror above the sideboard.
What was it she saw shining back at her? An image of his lover? A woman of mystery and beauty? A woman capable of carrying out a clandestine affair?
In those seconds as her lenses cleared of the fog, her appearance sharpened into focus. Amelia allowed her gaze to rove over her reflection, taking in the plain black dress and white lace pinafore and the starched white cap that was set atop her flaming red hair. And it was then that she knew what he truly saw.
A servant.
For it was the truth. She, Amelia Cartwright, was nothing but a maid. A servant who had the misfortune of finding herself well on the way to being in love with her employer.
He watched her through lowered lashes as she poured the tea. She had served him tea hundreds of times in the past two years. But today was different. Today he could smell her, the scent of her sex clinging to his fingers. He could taste her; the sweet remnants of her passion lingered in his mouth, the feel of her—silky and warm—gliding on his tongue as she came for him.
Miss Amelia Cartwright, he mused, watching her holding out the saucer and cup to him. He raised his gaze from her hand, the one that had tossed him off so completely that morning, only to look straight up into her lovely eyes, the sparkling in the blue iris partially concealed behind her spectacles. Reaching for the tea, he allowed his finger to brush against hers, sliding suggestively along the length of the delicate bone and over her nail, letting the touch linger. He heard her breath catch, felt her gaze fix on his face, but he feigned ignorance while his gaze slipped to the three little freckles on her hand. What would she, his maid, think if she discovered what wicked thoughts were running through her employer’s head at this very moment?
“Thank you,” he said, purposely lowering his voice as he searched her face. Her expression gave nothing away, not even when he broke protocol and thanked her in front of his sister. No, her iron composure stayed true, and with perfect obed
ience, she bowed before him, angering him.
To look at her, one would never guess she’d been half-naked in his arms, her sex pressed to his mouth that very morning. Not even the faintest flush of pink marred her cheeks when it should have. After all, he had not been the one to conceal his identity from her. She knew perfectly well that it had been his fingers buried deep within her, his mouth that had made her shudder and cry out.
Sprawling in the chair, he watched her surreptitiously as she finished serving the tea. Miss Amelia Cartwright. His exemplary employee. His secret obsession.
For two years he’d desired her, watching her when she was not aware. For two years, he’d been bound by his desires and the strictures that dictated that a man of wealth and means—a titled earl—did not fall for the hired help.
But he’d been smitten with the woman who had come to apply for the post of maid. There was something intriguing about her severe appearance coupled with her lush figure and sauntering walk. The artist in him had seen the passion and intelligence in her straightaway. The earl, on the other hand, had ruthlessly squelched those thoughts. And when the artist stared at her and began wondering what all that auburn hair of hers would look like unbound and spilling over his chest, the earl had smothered those thoughts by reminding himself that she was beneath him. She was a servant. Servants were not seen. Not heard. They certainly were not talked to, and while there had been many men of his rank who had diddled the domestic help, no one had ever dared to lose their heart.
And while the earl had tried very hard to distance himself from her, the artist in him continually sought her out. The woman he wanted was his servant, and God help him, he needed her—emotionally, spiritually, carnally. She was the woman who could satisfy him both in and out of bed. She was intelligent and well-spoken, despite what he assumed must be a very humble upbringing. She appreciated art and literature and the beauty of nature. She also appreciated the beauty of passion. She could feed his artist soul while loving the lonely earl. He had found no other woman like her in his circle, and as a consequence he’d become reclusive, spending all his time at home, wanting to be close to her.