Edward felt as though he’d barely begun when she shuddered, her sex contracting beneath his tongue.
“Shh, there now, my little darling. Was that good?”
Smiths’ voice shook Edward from his torpor and he released her sensitive nub with reluctance. Two hands landed on his shoulders and he realized, quite suddenly, that he’d forgotten all about Victoria.
“Undress him, Victoria,” Smith ordered, smirking down at him as Victoria helped him up. “Don’t worry, Edward,” Smith said, “I’ll keep Emma busy until you’re ready to play with her again.”
Smith lowered himself onto the low-slung chaise just behind where he’d stood with Emma. When Emma made to turn toward him he shook his head. “No, darling, you face away from me—toward Edward, so he can watch you.”
Edward was only vaguely aware of Victoria’s hands moving over his body. All his attention was on the show in front of him. And there was no doubt in his sex-addled mind that Smith was putting on a show.
The other man’s cock was every bit as big—and erect—as Edward remembered from that night at the baths.
It was ruddy and jutting up proudly from his lap. “Sit down, darling,” he said to Emma, his eyes on Edward, his smile lazy and amused and aroused. “I want you to keep your eyes on Edward. He likes to watch. He’s been wondering what type of things I do to girls who look like you.”
Edward breathing quickened at what he knew Smith was saying: he would show him exactly what he’d done to Nora.
The fucking, vile, weaseling—
Victoria tugged on his shirt and Edward ducked to help her remove it, grateful for the brief moment away from Smith’s knowing gaze. But the moment was over too quickly and when he opened his eyes it was to see Emma on Smith’s lap, her legs spread wide and draped over Smith’s, her sex open and exposed with Smith’s enormous erection jutting up and pressing against her slit.
“God, that feels wonderful,” Smith groaned, the flared head of his cock rubbing the silver ring. “But I want you to put me inside, darling, Edward wants to see me fuck you.”
Edward shuddered at his words, his jaw sagging to deny it— But nothing came out. Because it’s the bloody truth, Edward!
Lust and sickness roiled in his tight belly. Why would he enjoy looking at another man’s prick in a woman? Why? Especially a woman who so closely resembled Nora? He’d always known he was depraved—but this?
Emma’s small hand slid around Smith’s shaft, barely able to encompass its girth. Edward’s entire body clenched and he could not look away.
Deep down he knew what he was feeling would come back to haunt him. But he just didn’t give a damn.
Emma didn’t hesitate to bring Smith’s swollen head to the entrance to her body. Edward was close enough that he could see the effects of her arousal. The little triangle was engorged and had pushed back the hood, which pulled the silver ring with it, drawing it tight against her slick nub. He imagined the friction would be pleasurable at first but might very well become excruciating after too much stimulation.
A sudden image of Nora the same way slammed into him and his cock almost exploded. Nora, shaved and pierced, her pink skin darkly flushed, her clitoris hard and slick and painfully sensitive after multiple climaxes. God! How he would use that little silver ring. It would bring them so much—
He blinked away the erotically charged image: they wouldn’t do anything. Nora had rejected the chance to be his—to belong to him.
Agony and fury followed on the heels of the memory of her rejection.
Forget about her, a greedy, lustful voice cut in. The woman across from you could be Nora.
Edward gritted his teeth against the voice, but the damage was done and the image of his pierced fantasy-Nora disappeared. Instead there was Emma.
She was wiggling her hips and making soft little noises, clutching her lower lip beneath her teeth, obviously putting on a show for Edward.
Instead of reminding him of Nora—who would never be so obvious—and arousing him further, it gave him some distance—although far too little. He still couldn’t tear his gaze away as she positioned Smith’s big crown at her entrance, her eyes creasing in discomfort as he breached her.
Smith grunted and held her there, not allowing her to lower any further. Edward didn’t need to look at the other man to know he was watching him. Once again, he didn’t care how he was exposing himself—his yearning. He simply could not look away.
And then she began to lower herself and it was—quite honestly—a bloody mesmerizing sight. It didn’t seem possible that she could stretch to accommodate Smith’s huge cock without ripping in two. But she did—inch by inch by inch by inch—not stopping until only the underside of his thick root was still exposed.
Smith grunted and flexed his hips pulling his glistening shaft almost all the way out, until just the bell end remained inside her. He pulsed his hips lightly, the crown massaging her opening. And then, suddenly, he drove into her, hard and deep, drawing a startled gasp from both Emma and Edward.
Smith propped up his body with his elbows while Emma straddled his hips, the muscles in her legs quivering as she held herself in a low squat, meeting him thrust for thrust. Smith’s body was almost hairless and his olive skin had begun to sheen from his exertions, his abdomen and chest tightening with each precise, vicious thrust of his hips.
Edward’s mouth watered as he stared at the spot where they were joined. He wanted to tug on her ring with his teeth—suck her taut nub—and lick the pink skin that stretched around Smith’s hard—
He jolted at the horrifying thought and his erect cock bumped into something soft. He looked down to find Victoria kneeling and looking up at him, her lips parted. She’d managed to strip him without Edward even realizing it and she was staring at his hard, weeping prick.
God Yes. He nodded and her cool hand slid around him and he groaned, letting his eyes close and his head fall back as she lapped at his swollen head. This was better—more normal, a woman sucking him off, not some bizarre sex show put on for Smith’s perverted entertainment.
She didn’t take him inside her mouth her right away, but cradled the end with her curled tongue, massaging the sensitive flesh just beneath his crown. He sucked a noisy breath through flared nostrils at the exquisite pleasure of her mouth and looked down while she worked him. He’d not ejaculated in days and his balls were primed to come, tight to his body and eager to shoot their heavy load.
It was a struggle to hold himself in check as her skillful tongue danced and probed and caressed, but he gritted his teeth and began to pulse his hips, an action that was Nora’s signal to take him deep in her throat—that he was ready to fill her, spend in her, mark her.
God. Nora again. Even when he had a beautiful woman’s mouth on him. But maybe he could just imagine . . .
He closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, Nora.”
A low, rough chuckle jerked him from his reverie and he opened his eyes to find Smith watching him, his smile telling Edward he’d seen his lips move, if not heard his voice.
The thought was thrust away by the sight of Smith’s slick body and the way the muscles of his abdomen and chest—more distinct and defined after only a few minutes’ labor—bunched and flexed with each brutal thrust. Smith was not a big man but Edward realized, for the first time, just how fit and muscular he was.
Some part of Edward’s recoiled against the observation. You’re staring at another man’s body while a woman is sucking your cock. What the hell is wrong with you?
Edward would have liked to attribute his arousal to Victoria’s very skilled mouth, but that was a lie. He was aroused by watching Smith fuck a woman who looked enough like Nora to be eerie.
And, yes, yes! Maybe his cock had hardened at the sight of Smith’s taut, corded body thrusting, pumping, and sweating.
What of it? some part of his brain demanded in defiance. There is nothing wrong in watching others copulate and enjoying it. How many times have you watched Nora pl
easure another woman? Or made her watch you?
But those were women and this is a man, my bloody business partner for fuck’s sake! And I’m getting hard watching his cock slide in and out.
Edward waited for horror to rush in and kill his arousal, but it didn’t arrive. Instead, he just ached all the harder.
He wrenched his eyes away from Smith’s pumping cock and looked into the other man’s eyes, which were dark and unreadable.
Smith’s teeth were exposed in a feral grin, the sharp points glinting in the low light as he grimaced in anticipation of his impending orgasm.
Edward’s own balls clenched in sympathy and his hands dropped to Nora’s soft hair—no Victoria’s. He wove his fingers deep and grasped her skull, his hips jerking in time with Smith’s thrusts, which were becoming harsher, his pumping harder and less controlled, until—finally—Smith rammed himself inside Emma and froze, the muscles in his arms standing out like thick ropes as he held her hips immobile, the base of his thick cock pulsing as he emptied his balls into her.
Edward’s last thought before he thrust deep into Victoria’s throat and spent was that Smith had looked fucking glorious.
Chapter Eight
Mr. Smith
Smith rarely slept, and when he did sleep, he did it in a locked, dark room by himself.
Edward, on the other hand, had gone down like a man who’d been punched in the head.
Smith had sent the two women away while Fanshawe slept the sleep of the dead in the big, four poster bed where he’d collapsed after their brief bout of sex.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey Cecile kept just for him and lit one of his specially made cigars before collapsing into a chair in front of the fire, which Emma had stoked to an inferno before leaving. He couldn’t help grinning at the thought of Emma.
When he’d seen Nora that night two weeks ago he’d been bloody stunned: the women might have been twins. He’d learned, after an evening with Nora, that even their temperaments were similar. But their personalities and tastes could not have been more different.
Emma was rather lazy and silly beneath her quiet façade. She was satisfied with the life of a whore and found sexual encounters a minor inconvenience compared to the money.
Nora, Smith had discovered from a little bird named Charles, had a passion other than tormenting poor Fanshawe: she was a painter. And a bloody good one. Smith knew that not from her—she had no idea that Charles had actually brought him several of the girl’s paintings—but because he happened to possess a rather fine collection of paintings, himself.
Charles had told him a big reason she still worked as much as she did was the debt she owed to Tosca. He smiled and shook his head: there was nothing worse than falling into the clutches of a greedy whore.
Well, except falling into his clutches, of course.
Nora’s paintings were exceedingly potent and Smith knew she would one day achieve fame; the woman had plans and desires that extended outside the brothel. He couldn’t help wondering if there were nudes in her collection.
Emma, with her Sapphic tastes, would probably work at Bernina’s quite happily for the rest of her life. Bernina’s catered to clients who preferred their own gender but it was never wise to advertise such a specialty, which is why Cecile had needed to rapidly close her last establishment and wait two years before reopening in a different location. This time, at Smith’s recommendation, Cecile serviced heterosexuals along with the clients who provided the bulk of her business.
Smith inhaled deeply, held it until his lungs began to burn, and then exhaled a narrow stream of brow smoke. He’d come up with the idea for tonight while he’d been trapped in bloody Manchester dealing with discontented weavers.
Sometimes Smith had to marvel at his own thought processes—at just how bloody devious he was. A normal man—and even most normally abnormal men—wouldn’t have come up with tonight as a solution to Edward’s problem. And, even now, he couldn’t be positive it had worked. Even so, he’d bet all the money he’d earned tonight that Edward would wake up in the morning, pillory himself for getting aroused watching another man fuck, suffer night- and day-terrors for a week worrying that he was turning into a sod, and then get busy drawing up a plan to acquire the only woman in Christendom who could keep him from straying down the path of sodomy.
Smith chuckled. Lord it had been fun watching Edward’s face tonight. Not to mention that he’d enjoyed seeing the man naked. Edward Fanshawe was a bloody bull—in every sense of the word—and Smith had enjoyed watching Victoria throat Edward’s enormous cock.
He experienced a slight twinge in his groin recalling it—leching on a man who had no idea he was being leched on was beneath him, although very amusing.
While Smith had always prided himself on his physique, he knew that at just a hair over five foot nine he was on the smallish side. He’d always made up for that shortcoming by ensuring that his body was fit and hard and muscular. He’d discovered that physical exertion also kept his more violent, baser impulses in check. Those urges had lessened as he’d become older, but he still had to remain vigilant against the murderous rages that occasionally overcame him.
He took a final draw on his cigar and flicked it, sending it arrowing over the table and hearth and directly into the heart of the fire.
Smith ran his hand over his hairless chest, enjoying the feel of his body and imagining another set of hands on him, his prick thickening.
Hopefully tonight would be the last evening he’d have to spend with miserable, obsessed Fanshawe for a while. While he liked the man’s company well enough, he was eager to go back to Tosca’s on his own business.
Chapter Nine
Bang, bang, bang!
“Nora? Nora! I know you’re in there! Wake up, ducks.”
Nora blinked, her eyes dry and sore from remaining open so long. It took a moment for her vision to focus on the canvas. What she saw sent ripples of joy throughout her body. She’d caught it and captured it. It was there.
Bang! Bang! Bang! “I’ve not got all day, Nora!”
No matter what happened now—even if the building were suddenly to be consumed by fire—the image on the canvas would live forever in her mind’s eye. She vaguely registered the sound of Charles pounding the door, trying to dislodge the chair she’d set under the handle.
“That’s it! I’m coming in so you’d better cover all your naughty bits.” Raucous laughter and then the sound of her door flying open, the chair skittering against the wall. “Oh. You’re not sleeping.”
“What do you want Charles?” She asked without turning, not yet willing to look away.
“You’ve got a visitor, sweetheart.”
She sighed and laid down her brush, reluctantly turning just as Charles came up behind her.
“Oh, I say. That’s rather good, isn’t it?”
Nora pushed past him, leaving him standing in front of something that should have been hers for a while longer before she had to share it. But she had years of practice when it came to tucking away her expectations.
She reached behind her neck to untie the smock. “Who is it?”
“Hmmm?” he said, not turning from the canvas, a small, unconscious act that was more flattering that a thousand words of praise. Yes, what she’d done deserved his absorption. This year, she would enter a goddamned painting even if it broke her to do it; even if she had no money left to buy more paint or canvas.
Nora hung the stained smock on a hook and turned to examine her reflection, grimacing at what she saw: a sad little waif with pale unexpectedly curly corn-silk colored hair that hung just to her jaw.
She’d cut it one night in a fit—after Madam Tosca had sent her to a customer she knew Nora hated. Madam was usually very good at making sure her employees didn’t have to service customers who repelled them—as long as that number didn’t include too many. Nora was one of the easiest workers in that regard, but she absolutely could not tolerate Viscount Rowland. Oh, he was handsome enough�
��very handsome, in fact—but he had an ugly, ugly soul.
Madam had originally given him to Nora because of his proclivities: lots of leather with heavy whipping.
It astonished her how two men—take the viscount and . . . well, Mr. Fanshawe, for instance—
Nora couldn’t help the slight shiver that went through her at his name. A name she allowed herself to think only one time each day. So that was twenty three times she’d thought of him since last seeing him in the hall that night. The night she’d gone to his friend, Mr. Smith.
She told herself her yearning was diminishing—but that was a lie that had ceased being convincing long ago.
Charles’s handsome face appeared in the mirror beside her. “You’d better change your gown,” he said, his fingers already going to the buttons that ran down her side—designed to allow either a whore or her lovers to easily remove her garments.
Nora ignored his prying eyes, allowing him to undress and dress her as her mind went back to the thought he’d interrupted. How could two men do the exact same thing to her: bind her immobile and then whip her, for example, and one man could bring her multiple orgasms while the other left her wrecked and in a state of self-loathing? Enough hatred for her own person that she would chop off all her hair.
There had been one positive result: Madam Tosca had stopped punishing her that day. Life had gone back to normal, with the exception of one of her clients—a man she didn’t particularly care for and only saw infrequently—who saw her short hair and requested some other woman, claiming that, “he didn’t want to feel like he was fucking a bloke.”
Nora had found his flustered anger amusing rather than insulting and had been glad to pass him to another woman.
“Lift your arms, ducks.”
Nora complied and the soft white muslin slipped down over her head.
Tonight she would see Lord Anthony for the first time since she’d cut it. Her lips twitched at the thought of what he’d say; she thought he would like it.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 8