“I did.”
She considered that for a long moment, wearing her usual non-expression, and then opened a wardrobe that was filled with gowns. Edward squirmed a bit as she thoughtfully rubbed a piece of sapphire blue silk between her fingers. He recalled that gown and how he’d thought it would look on her. Perhaps he’d gone a bit mad when it came to clothing, but he’d not been sure what would suit her, so he’d bought one of whatever seized his fancy. The other—less traditional garments—were locked away elsewhere.
“Thank you,” she said when her eyes settled on him.
Edward turned away from her gratitude—one of the few things he did not want from her. “Through here,” he opened the door beside him, “is the bathing chamber.”
She stepped into the pink marble room and stared at the huge copper tub that sat in front of a crackling fire—which he’d had lighted just in case she wished to bathe.
There was a painted panel above the fireplace that the carpenter had installed to cover some of the machinery required to plumb the tub, sink, and commode.
She stared at the painting on the panel, her hand absently caressing the rolled copper.
Edward shifted his cock, which had just begun to subside but reawakened with a vengeance. He was rather unnerved by her silence. He’d not realized she was so quiet all the time. He’d believed it to be part of her act or routine. Did she never chatter or rabbit-on like most other females?
He finally cleared his throat. “If you don’t care for the painting I can engage another artist,” he said.
“No,” she said, the word more thoughtful than definitive. “You needn’t do that.” She turned to him. “This is lovely. Thank you, sir.”
His neck and face flamed and he was bloody grateful his complexion was not of a type that showed blushes. “You had better call me Edward from now on.”
She stilled, like a startled forest creature, but then nodded. “Thank you . . . Edward.”
Hearing his mundane name on her lips should not have caused the thrill in his body it did. He turned on his heel, needing, quite suddenly, to get away from her. He strode to the last door, which was fitted with a lock. He produced the small key—one of only two, both of which he kept in his possession—from his pocket and unlocked the door. He’d been up here earlier—pacing and, he was embarrassed to admit, fisting himself for the first time in weeks. It wouldn’t do to ejaculate as soon as he touched her, after all.
Although the heavy drapes were closed he’d left two of the wall sconces lighted. He stepped back and waited for her to enter.
❈❈❈
Nora’s head was pounding and she knew it was from the effort of containing her emotions and reactions.
She would live with him? He’d purchased clothing—and not a small amount, but a vast array—for her.
Good God, what a fool she’d been to sign that contract the way she had—and all to make a grand gesture. She’d let her emotions out from under lock and key for just a few moments and had done something unspeakably foolish.
How could she maintain her defenses in the same house with him? Especially his house, not even the neutral ground of Tosca’s. She’d only been around him for a few minutes and already she could sense how different he was outside the brothel, more confident, assured—in his element. His lair. And that was saying something because he’d been overwhelmingly confident—to the point of arrogance—before.
He would learn the truth and he would destroy her.
He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a small bronze key, turning toward a door that she’d believed to be just another section of wooden wall paneling. There was, she saw, a small keyhole. He inserted the key and turned it, opening the door and stepping back. His expression was the same aggressive, proud, arrogant look that he always wore, but something in his posture told her he was . . . excited, and perhaps even a bit anxious.
Nora forced herself to walk toward the door, pausing on the threshold.
Well.
She felt like her eyes were not big enough to take it all in.
There was a slight pressure at the small of her back and she turned to find him beside her. It was a long way up to meet his eyes. She recognized the hunger that flared in the dark depths and her body began priming itself at his slightly flaring nostrils. She had missed him and he must never know how much.
“I had it built specially. For us.” His hoarse tone told her all she needed to know about his condition: he was long, hard, and thick for her. She stepped inside.
It was beautiful and stark and utterly unique in her experience. The floors were a milky white that seemed to glow beneath the heavy, exotic hides scattered about the room. There were mirrors in several places, their positions obviously chosen with great care.
On one wall was the largest armoire she’d ever seen. She knew without looking what would be inside it—the tools and implements he delighted in using on her—and which she’d missed with every fiber of her being.
A fire burned in a corner fireplace and before it—in a position of honor—was a low-slung black leather chaise resting on the thickest, fluffiest sheepskin she’d ever seen. Nora could visualize them using it and a fresh onslaught of sensation swelled her sex.
Other, less easily identifiable pieces of furniture lurked in the darkened recesses of the room.
But the centerpiece of the giant room was undeniably the magnificent bed; a bed equipped for something other than sleeping.
It had obviously been made by the same craftsman who fashioned the armoire. It was carved from the same heavy black wood pitted here and there with wrought iron rings. The posts were massive and also set with rings.
The bed was an erotic work of art but it was the bedding that was the biggest surprise.
Nora was accustomed to dark, sensual shades—blood red, majestic purples and blues—and touches of gold which Madam Tosca used elegantly, but, Nora had always felt, rather predictably.
This entire room was without color. It was, she realized, rather like her.
She walked toward the bed, needing to feel it—to confirm it was what she thought it was.
Her hand sank into it—a feather-stuffed blanket that was beyond soft—the cover made of the finest lamb or kidskin that had been bleached as white as the exquisite linen Mr. Fanshawe—Edward—always wore on his person.
She felt him approach her from behind and her breath hitched. Without any commands from her brain Nora’s feet spread slightly and her pelvis tilted in a way that pushed her bottom toward him. If she were to paint herself in this position she would title it: Female Eager for Mounting. Not that Edward would need any help to read her posture. He would have noted the subtle shifts in her body and would recognize her wordless supplication.
He was close so that she could feel his heat—smell the familiar scent of his cologne. But he did not touch her.
“Do you like it?” He asked and then reached around her and laid his brawny, sun-browned hand on the fine white leather, his body finally pressing into hers, the hard length of him thrusting against her lower back, “I imagined you on it, Nora—your skin as white, but infinitely softer and finer. I imagined your body marked with lovely red welts of my making.”
She shivered at his words and he dragged his mouth down her throat, inhaling her. “You know I’m going to whip you hard for the way you treated me—rejected me, Nora.”
It wasn’t a question—nor did he have to explain what he meant, she knew.
He chuckled against her hot, damp skin. “My bad, bad girl.” He gently rocked his hips against her, his stiff rod abrading her through her clothing.
Nora stood ready and waiting to obey his command and lift her skirts for him.
“I’ll bet your cunt is tight and swollen. I’ll bet your juices are already running down your sweet thighs, making them sticky. Is that so?”
It was work to grind the words out, “Yes, Edward.”
He groaned. “Oh, I do like hearing you sa
y my name. And I’m really going to enjoy hearing you say it when I make you beg.”
“Please,” Nora begged as his hot breath brushed against her neck. “Please, Edward.” Her breathing was so loud and ragged she sounded like a lathered horse. “Please.”
“Shhhh,” he murmured, his mouth moving to where her neck joined her shoulder. “I’m not finished speaking yet—there will be ample time for you to beg . . . later. I have to be honest, Nora, I’m a bit . . . peeved with you.” He kissed and bit her, his touches maddeningly light. “Did you know that I’ve been alone here for weeks while you’ve been lying with any man who will pay you?” Nora stiffened, and this time his chuckle sounded more like a predatory rumble than an actual laugh. “Every night I lay in my bed, hard and wanting—oh God, so bloody hard—but I never touched myself. I would think of you even though I didn’t wish to and even though such thoughts only tortured me further.” He caught a bit of skin between his teeth and pulled hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and send a savage rush of pleasure to her thumping sex.
“Tell me, Nora, how long has it been since you’ve had a stiff cock in your mouth.”
She hesitated and one of his arms slid around her more quickly than a snake, pulling her tight against his rock-hard body. “Don’t lie to me, because I’ll know it, and then things will go even worse for you.”
“Last night, Edward.”
His arm tightened until it was painful but Nora knew better than to make a sound.
“And the last time you had a cock in your cunt?”
“Last night, Edward.”
She felt, rather than heard, the growl that emanated deep in his chest. But instead of asking her another question he trailed kisses back up her neck, lingering sweetly until she began to believe—
He shoved himself against her, his erection ramming between her cheeks hard enough to give her a friction burn. “And here, Nora—when have you last had a stiff cock here?” He punctuated the question with another vicious thrust.
Nora bit her lip, unable to utter a sound as the pleasure that had been building like a tight knot inside her began to loosen and unfurl.
His hand slid to the front of her body and grabbed her mound in a painful grip that startled a gasp out of her. “If you have any notion of coming right now, I caution you to rethink it. Now, answer my question. I’ll repeat it just in case you might have forgotten: when is the last time you had a cock in your arse?”
Nora gritted her teeth, willing her body not to squirm in his painful grasp. “Last night, Edward.”
He swore and pushed away from her, leaving her hunched over the bed, her chest heaving, her hands bunched in the soft leather.
“You. Fucking. Whore.” The words were so low it was difficult to hear them. “You knew you were coming to me today—Tosca received her bloody money for you yesterday so I know she didn’t make you work last night. Did she?”
Lust, shame, pride, and other, even less savory emotions whirled in her belly and she teetered on an orgasm even as her sex ached from his rough handling.
“No, Edward.”
He swore. “You wanted to work—” he sounded as if he had to force the words through clenched teeth. “You bloody well liked it.”
She heard the strain in his voice; he was near his breaking point, a place she was more than familiar with herself, thanks to this man.
Nora considered her next answer—wondering what she would say—whether she would give him that one last push to send him over or spare him. After all, pushing him might also push her towards her climax, and she knew he’d not hesitate to punish disobedience. As much as she swelled and thrilled at such a thought, he would be dangerous with a whip after he heard the truth.
But of course that didn’t stop her.
Her mouth curved into a smile as she stared at the white leather beneath her hands and said, “I didn’t like working last night, Edward.” She paused only long enough to hear his slight sigh of relief, and then added, “I loved it.”
Chapter Eleven
The words were stuck in his head like a chant—a mantra: “I didn’t like it, Edward. I loved it.”
His cock, instead of wilting at her admission, wept copiously, soaking the front of his trousers.
Edward stared down at her bowed figure, at her white hands almost indistinguishable from the leather. He should strip her—tear the clothing right off her back and then tie her between the posts, her arms and legs stretched so tight she’d feel in danger of ripping in half. And then he would raise the welts on her body he’d been dreaming about for months.
He savored that vision, his swollen prick needing only a touch to embarrass himself.
But instead of acting on his fantasy, he stepped away. His rage was consuming him. If he started on her—he’d not be able to stop.
Rage? Ha! That’s a lie and you know it. It’s not rage but nasty, vile, poisonous green jealousy that runs through your veins, my boy.
Edward ground his teeth, wishing he could deny it. But the shame of it—even if it was only partly true—seared him like a white-hot flame.
Not partly true, old son, but painfully, utterly, completely true: the green-eyed monster is feasting on you.
Yes, it was. It was jealousy that twisted and clawed inside him, leaving his chest raw and sore as if something had been gnawing on his heart, while at the same time—impossibly—making him harder than he’d ever been in his life.
He was a sick bastard and always had been—he’d accepted that years ago. But this stunned him—how could he become aroused at the thought of her taking another man’s cock? How?
And yet he was aroused—insanely so. But even his arousal could do nothing to subdue his jealousy. He wanted to find out who had fucked her—whose body she might be sore from—and beat him to a bloody pulp. He opened his mouth to demand a name but caught the words just in time.
Instead, an image shot through his mind—a brief, priceless flash of their last time together.
He knew the grin that twisted his lips would be ugly, but he truly didn’t give a damn. He would begin holding her to the terms of the contract this very night.
“We’re going out tonight. I want you to clean yourself—both inside and out.” Her shoulders flinched. Good. Behave like a whore and I’ll treat you like a whore.
Because that’s what she was: a whore, and he’d been running after her like a lovelorn swain. Well, those days were long gone.
His body hummed with pleasure and power: pleasure at coming back to himself and power at having her in his control. Gone was the puling idiot who’d sniffed after her for months and then been crushed and lost when she’d rejected him.
She’d been so secure in his obsession for her that she’d signed off on a contract she’d been too bloody arrogant to even read. And she would pay the price for it.
He strode toward the door. “I want you out of here. You’re only allowed in this room when I tell you.”
She straightened slowly and turned to him.
Edward hadn’t known what to expect when she faced him, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he got.
She was smiling.
He gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “You bitch.”
Her smile grew even bigger and then, for the first time since he’d met her, she laughed.
That was when Edward suspected he might have gotten more than he bargained for.
Chapter Twelve
Nora was amused that Edward had found Emma. She’d worked with the other woman for over a year when she first began. They’d both worked for a madam who promoted them as twins and they’d been very successful with men who found the idea of fucking sisters arousing.
Emma had found the arrangement arousing, as well. The other woman—actually two years older than Nora—preferred women and had, over time, developed a liking for Nora she could not reciprocate. Although Emma had been disappointed, she’d not been upset. She was exceptionally easy tempered and not particularly clever. She appea
red to be blooming and Nora knew the clientele at Bernina’s—with the exception of a few like Edward—would be far more to her liking.
She heaved a sigh of relief as Emma loosened her corset, aware of Edward’s increased interest at the action. Corsets, she suspected, would become a permanent part of her life while she was with him. While she didn’t mind them, it had been several years since she’d worn them regularly. Several of her clients enjoyed having her wear those provided at Tosca’s but she’d not worn one all day for a long time.
The corset slid to the floor and Emma bent to retrieve it. Edward, she could see, was tightly coiled with anticipation. She’d seen the piercing she was about to receive several times before. It was not as prevalent as nipple and apadravya piercings, but she knew both piercings were increasingly popular with members of the aristocracy. She’d once serviced an earl and his countess, who’d each had several piercings.
Nora had never considered getting one but, predictably, could not deny Edward and was aroused at his obvious excitement. If he liked it, she was bound to enjoy it.
As Emma removed her chemise and left her standing naked but for her shoes and stockings, Nora looked at the man for whom she would do anything. His eyes were flickering up and down her body, consuming her, leaving her wet and throbbing for him.
He constantly returned to her face, searching, she knew, for something—anything—in her eyes. That was the hold she had on him: her inaccessibility. If she ever showed her true feelings—that she bled for him? He would discard her, his goal finally achieved.
It was good to remind herself of that—and she vowed to do so every day, perhaps multiple times on days like today, when it would be so easy to sink to her knees and declare her love for him.
❈❈❈
Edward wished to God he had another set of eyes to drink her in. Nora, his untouchable, forever-out-of-reach, ice queen.
She’d remained motionless and distant as Emma stripped her. Even now—seated in the hip bath, her slender legs over the sides of the copper tub, her sex spread and open to his view—she was as ripple-less as the surface of a frozen winter lake.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 10