Nora snorted and looked up from the silver bar that passed through the head of his cock, piercing his meatus. “I’m guessing you’ve had it sucked plenty already.”
“Yes, but I’ve never had your mouth on me and I understand there is none better.”
“Finally a word of sense from you,” she said mildly.
He laughed wickedly and gave himself a lazy stroke before dropping back on his pillow.
“How long have you had it?” He must have been young, because he’d been sixteen when Nora met him.
He shrugged and yawned, idly caressing himself. “Fourteen.”
“What made you do it?”
“Not what, whom.” He corrected, giving her a lascivious grin. “You’ve been dying to ask me for ages, haven’t you?”
She had enough heart not to tell him that she’d never given it a second’s thought, until now. Instead, she said, “Believe it or not, Charles, not all of us go about our days thinking about your cock.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Nora just lifted her eyebrows, knowing he couldn’t bear not to share every last detail of his life.
It took five seconds for him to break. “It was the gentleman who bought me from my old Ma.”
Nora had definitely heard about him, some lord or other.
“He fed me up, cleaned me up, and gave me this. He made bloody good use of it, too—especially since he had to wait a good long time to take advantage of it.”
“It takes a long time to heal?”
“God yes—months with no in-and-out.”
No, Edward definitely wouldn’t submit to that. Nora tossed her gloves and reticule on the bed and stood, going to stand by the window where there was some breeze.
“Mr. Smith is quite enamored with it.”
Nora turned at that information. “Ah, is he? And how is that moving along?”
“Quite nicely—although the bastard won’t be brought to offer for me.” He eyed Nora’s expensive walking costume with envy. “I want what you’ve got.”
Nora doubted that but didn’t argue. “Did you actually ask him?”
“Only a hundred times.”
“What does he say?”
“No. Just: no. No explanation, nothing. He’s . . . maddening.”
Nora grinned. “You’ve fallen for him.”
Charles threw his pillow at her. “Go sod yourself, you silly whore.”
She laughed. Ah, it was nice to see somebody else suffer for love for a change.
“He’ll only visit me once a week—no matter how hard I try to make him want more.”
Nora could only imagine the way Charles was behaving. “Perhaps you might try being less, er, available to him.”
He sat up straight. “Is that what you did?”
Was it? Nora didn’t think so—she thought she was only being herself, but perhaps she had?—
Down on the street a saffron colored bonnet popped out of a handsome and caught Nora’s attention: it looked exactly like the outrageous hat Cat had just purchased the last time she’d dragged Nora shopping. She frowned, wishing her vision were a bit sharper at this distance. It did look like her. But why would she be outside Tosca’s in a rented carriage?
“Oh,” Charles said, while she watched the carriage pause for a moment, start rolling, stop, and finally lurch forward. “I almost forgot—I have a letter for you from Lord Anthony.”
Nora’s head whipped around. “What? When?”
Charles shrugged as he held the letter toward her. “Perhaps two weeks ago?”
“Charles!”
“What?” he said with his standard innocent wide-eyed stare.
The letter was crumpled and dirty and looked as if he’d kept it on the bottom of his shoe. She examined the back flap suspiciously.
“Don’t, worry, I didn’t look at the old gimmer’s love letter.”
Nora cut him a nasty look.
“But you’ve received no letters about the painting whosey-whatsit,” he said airily.
Nora tried to contain her disappointment. The paintings had been on display for some time now and she’d only been able to get away once. The Thomas who’d accompanied her to the exhibition had behaved as if she’d dragged him to a funeral instead of the most enormous display of art in England.
It had taken ages to find her paintings but she’d been pleasantly surprised to see small clusters around two and a crowd big enough to obstruct the third one: the big painting of Edward.
She’d signed her work Hartwicke, her real name. Although she knew women did submit paintings—more every year—she felt better knowing her work was being judged more objectively. She’d paid Charles an indecent amount of money to pretend to be her and deliver the work.
He would have demanded even more if he’d known how much allowance Edward gave her—an obscene amount in addition to paying for everything else in her life. He’d even paid for her books when she’d agreed to stock his woeful library—a compromise she’d made on the subject of housewifery.
And when Edward had learned she spent her own money on her paints and canvases—from one of the Thomas’s reports—he’d smiled indulgently, as if amused by her small gesture of independence.
“What are you looking at, Nor?”
“Nothing,” she said, pulling her eyes away from the street, where she’d thought she’d seen Cat. It was probably nothing.
She looked up to find Charles beside her, decently robed although he’d not bothered to tie his sash and was idly twiddling with the silver balls that held his bar in place, his cock as stiff and beautiful as ever. He boasted—incessantly—that he could come four times an hour, if need be. Nora had no idea which of his clients would need such a service from their whore and she had no interest in finding out. Luckily, she’d been fortunate never to have to work with him or their friendship would likely be over as he wasn’t just insufferable, but competitive.
“You’re going to wear that thing out, Charles,” she said absently, staring down at Lord Anthony’s letter. “Now leave me alone for a moment, I need to read this.” If she didn’t read it now, she’d never get to do so uninterrupted at home.
He yawned and flung himself down on his bed. “Don’t let me stop you. Just don’t wake me when you leave.”
Nora had a bad feeling about its contents, but she broke the seal and opened the envelope.
Chapter Nineteen
Edward admired the marks on Nora’s flanks while she posed on all fours on the big sheepskin.
“Wider,” he ordered, sipping his drink. She obeyed and he stared at the narrow strip of leather that was cinched tightly between her legs, hiding her cunt and back door from his view.
Edward had always been a backdoor man, but he’d never wanted to keep a woman constantly filled the way he did Nora. If he wasn’t able to be inside her himself, he wanted something inside her that would keep her thoughts on him.
Tonight, she wore a new device he’d seen at the select shop where he went to purchase such things. He already knew about chastity devices but he’d always found them aesthetically unpleasing and bulky. This new item was as delicate and graceful as the woman wearing it.
While he doubted the efficacy of such things—after all, he could make Nora come without touching her, so there was no device that could stop her from experiencing an orgasm—he loved the way this on looked her slender body. The belt was hammered silver and it could be secured with a delicate lock to which only Edward had the key. He would like to keep her locked in it all day, but that was not feasible—at least not with this model, although his brain had been coming up with variations.
The portion that went from her front to back was a mix of silver and leather and he’d had it made to hold both a special phallus—modeled on his own cock—and an anal plug that was covered in little nubs.
Right now she had both inside her. It was allegedly punishment for not immediately obeying when he’d ordered her to stop sucking him earlier, but he would have found
an excuse to use them on her, no matter whether she’d misbehaved or not. Besides, he knew how aroused she became when suffering for him. And he had no doubt she was suffering right now.
He’d also had the man who made it include a narrow slot in the soft black leather that covered her mons so her piercing would be exposed for his enjoyment. He’d entertained them both earlier by tonguing her until the leather was wet and her clitoris engorged. And then he’d left her that way.
She was a bloody work of art.
He’d always found black leather sexual and nobody wore it as well as Nora. Her milky white skin made the straps he bound her with appear all the more stark and erotic.
Of course, keeping her plugged and locked up this way meant he could only use her hands or mouth, but it was worth the sacrifice to stare at her.
He gently massaged his loose balls and stiff cock as he sipped his drink and stared. Sometimes he kept her this way for hours and she never moved—like a bloody statue. He told himself each time he would wait her out—see if she would twitch, perhaps even tickle her nose or tease her poor swollen nub with a feather. But he always gave in, his arousal outrunning his patience.
And he was particularly low on patience after he learned about the stunt Catherine had been pulling for weeks. Bloody Catherine.
His cock, which had begun to throb just from studying Nora’s welted, plugged ass wilted at the thought of his wife.
He took a stiff drink and shoved his free hand through his hair, pinching his temples at the ache that always began when he thought of Catherine. According to the midwife he’d paid to come see her—Nora had insisted midwives were better than any Harley Street doctor—Catherine must have become pregnant sometime that second month, a product of one of their agonizing fifteen second fucks. That had been long after he’d cherished any hope that she’d calm down and come to accept him in her bed, if never actually welcome him.
He snorted, sick of thinking of her and furious about her most recent stunt.
He looked at Nora, as serene and calm as a painting, although he knew she would be throbbing and wanting.
He didn’t want to, but he had to ask. “Nora?”
“Yes, Edward.”
“Turn around and look at me but remain on your hands and knees.”
She did so, her pale eyes almost black in the low light of the room. Sometimes he lit the room like a blazing ballroom just so he could make sure that when her pupils flared, they did so with lust, for him.
“Did you know about Catherine sneaking out?”
“No, Edward, I didn’t.”
He sighed, relieved. He already felt the two were far too close and often banded together against him. It would have hurt him to know Nora would disobey him by aiding Catherine in such a way. He’d been so furious he’d almost locked Catherine in her room. As it was, he discharged her maid—who’d helped her sneak in and out—and hired a woman with the aspect of a prison guard to act as her body servant. Things were not going well at all. He should have taken one of the homelier, more tractable women for his wife, but he’d been blinded by Catherine’s beauty.
“What do you think she got up to when she was out and about?”
“I couldn’t say, Edward.”
Just what the devil would a girl who had everything need to sneak around for?
“Do you think you could persuade her to go to the country for the rest of her pregnancy?” He loathed the petitioning tone in his voice.
“I don’t think so, Edward.” She paused, opened her mouth, and then closed it.
He dropped his head in his hand. “God, Nora, I just wish you’d talk to me without me having to drag everything out of you.” His plaintive whining made his head hot.
“But that’s what you said you wanted, Edward.”
His head whipped up. “When did I say such a stupid thing?”
“The first night we met.”
“Good God, Nora. That was, well, that was then. And this is now. Things are . . . I don’t bloody know, different.”
She gave him a smile he’d never seen before—at least not for him, gentle and teasing. “But, Edward, I’m still your whore. What has changed?”
He flinched to hear her call herself that. But he called her that all the time, didn’t he? But he meant it in play, to make her sexually excited. Or did she find it insulting?
Christ. These women were going to turn him into a blithering idiot.
He shrugged away the nauseating self-pity. “So you’ve been obeying my orders by not talking freely?”
“Yes, Edward.”
“Well, my new order is to speak without needing me to whip or drag words out of you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Edward.”
God, she looked so bloody . . . untouchable, even bound and kneeling for him.
He shook the thought away. How could he think that? She was here—she was his, waiting for whatever he wanted.
“What’s the matter, Edward?”
He flinched at the question and decided it might take a while to adjust to a freely talking Nora.
“Nothing,” he said, not wishing to go into his thoughts: which were largely that he might have made a mistake marrying Catherine, an utterly unthinkable and unbearable thought. He patted his knee. “Come here.” She crawled toward him, somehow managing to make the movement sensual, and he took her chin in his hand and held her still for his examination. She returned his look submissively.
He needed . . . something. What? Jesus. What?
“I’m looking forward to going to Bernina’s, Edward.” Her words shot straight to his shriveled cock. “You promised you would have me pierced but then you forgot.”
His hand tightened on her jaw. “I’ve not forgotten.” He swallowed hard. “You’re looking forward to it, eh?”
She smiled—God, twice in one day! “I am. Can we go tomorrow?”
How had she known that was exactly what he needed to hear when he hadn’t known himself? Bloody hell, she was just a . . . his mind floundered for the right word. A gift. That’s what she was: a gift.
A trickle of cold terror ran down his spine as he looked at her face, which was now a part of him. Their year would be up in less than eight months. Surely the contract didn’t matter any longer? Surely she’d stay?
❈❈❈
Nora crawled into bed exhausted, sore, but utterly sated. Edward had been so tender after that brief conversation on the rug—well, he’d been tender in the way she liked, which is to say he’d strapped a collar on her—one that had a ring to clip a halter lead—and held the leather strap tightly enough to almost choke her while he’d fucked her throat.
But he’d not spent in her, instead he’d removed the chastity belt and the two marble phalluses—which had become uncomfortable but only added to her arousal as she loved suffering for his viewing pleasure—and had licked her to orgasm before finally plunging into her and filling her with liquid heat.
He’d slept for perhaps ten minutes before waking and kissing her a sleepy goodnight and reminding her about tomorrow before she’d left their room and he locked it behind her.
She was lazily stroking her sore, overstimulated piercing and thinking about Lord Anthony’s letter. He was ill—bed-bound—and he’d asked for her to come see him weeks ago. She would have gone today but hadn’t had the time after her visit to Charles. She would go, no matter what, in the morning. Her eyes watered at the thought he might not be there. She’d said goodbye to him the night she’d signed Edward’s contract—they’d had their usual lovely session—and afterward, he’d asked her if there was someplace he might write to her. She’d been stunned—and flattered. But also nervous. She’d known even then—before reading Edward’s contract—that he’d not want her contacting former clients. So she’d told him to give it to Charles. That he would always know where to find her.
Dammit. She chewed her lip hard enough to make it bleed. She should go to see Charles weekly. She wasn’t a prisoner here. It was just—
Nora heard the familiar rattle of wood and sat bolt upright. Could it be the door? Edward needing something? She scrambled out of bed and went to her dressing room. Yes, the door to the room had opened but there was no light inside. Squinting to see in the utter darkness she ran right into a body halfway there—a small, soft female body.
Catherine let out a terrified squeak. “Nora?”
Nora almost fainted with relief. And just as quickly gasped with fear. “Catherine, what were you doing in there?”
❈❈❈
Before Catherine could answer Nora took her arm and pulled her back to her bedchamber, which was lighter because Nora had only closed the gauzy curtains and light leaked in from the streetlamps that burned below.
Nora went to light a candle and Cat caught her hand. “Please don’t. I’ll tell you everything, but I’d rather do so in the dark.”
Nora hesitated, but finally said, “All right.”
Cat saw her move toward the sitting room and asked, “Can we get under the covers in your bed? I’m cold,” she lied.
Nora, who rarely said no to anyone—and now Catherine knew why—climbed in without speaking and lifted the blankets for her.
“What did you see?” Nora asked.
“You and Edward.” Cat couldn’t keep the revulsion from her tone.
Nora made an unhappy sound. “Are you terribly angry, Cat?”
Catherine paused in her snuggling, trying to get closer to Nora’s body, which remained rigid for a second, but then softened.
“About what?”
She gave a breathless laugh. “That your husband and I are lovers.”
“Oh, that. No, of course I’m not mad.” Cat pushed a little closer, brave enough to slip an arm around Nora’s waist, but worried Nora would be able to hear Cat’s heart pounding, would somehow guess—with all her knowledge and wisdom of such things—how the place between her legs was sticky and tight and ridiculously sensitive after watching them tonight. Just as it had been all five nights.
“Cat, I want you to tell me everything.”
Nora only used her stern voice on rare occasions. Although she was just six years older than Cat, she might as well have been a hundred
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 18