by Eliza Lloyd
“Again.”
The command was brusque and she obliged, enjoying the effect it had on him. The diletto slid inside with ease. His large hands smoothed down her thighs, on the inside, while he pushed her apart.
His eyelids eased downward. His gaze focused on nothing but the in-and-out rhythm until he batted her hand away and gripped the leather end of the phallus.
Why it should feel different with his hand gripping the piece, she didn’t know, but her arousal climbed from lazy to needy. She brushed her hands along his legs and thighs, all she could reach of him.
“Slow?” he asked.
“Yes.” Air escaped in one large sigh.
When he placed his fingers neatly over the skin hooding the hidden nub and rubbed while he slowly thrust, Katrina moaned.
“Has anyone done this for you before?”
“No. Never. It’s so good. Don’t talk,” she said, words tumbling out, for the first time feeling free enough to say what she felt, demand what she needed. She cupped her breasts and kneaded. Another rolling release swept over her body. Mark held the diletto deep, instinctively knowing what she needed and how she wanted it.
Mark was strong. She enjoyed how he lifted her, positioned her and took her with ease. He’d left the diletto at the side of the bed and had her up and straddling him, sliding onto his cock as if he meant to keep her there.
“How much more can you take?”
“All night,” she said.
“You’re going to be sore soon.”
“Really? I can’t get enough of you.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. She braced her elbows on his shoulders and her hands flitted through his hair. Their shared kiss expressed nothing of the wild passion they’d been experiencing, only a brief tender, caress, tongue to tongue before their lips touched tenderly.
“You taste like fire,” she said.
Their lips met again.
“And you taste like ice.”
She giggled and pressed her breasts to his chest. “I wish I would have known it could be like this.”
She tried to ride him but he gripped her hips, holding her in place. Keeping her deep.
“Not so fast. I want to enjoy it this time.” His mouth descended to her breast, sucking once again on her already sensitive nipple. He traced a string of kisses along her collarbone. “This doesn’t always have to be about rushing headlong and heedless, crashing into walls.”
Their foreheads were pressed together in intimacy. “But it is so wonderful,” she whispered.
“Let it be wonderful in every way.”
“Oh, Mark. You don’t know.”
“Let me show you.”
She had been reckless, throwing caution to the wind, trying to get everything she could and quickly. But the slow, warm and quiet times were good too.
“Whatever you want,” she murmured. He nudged into her once but seemed more intent on kissing her and her breasts. At least she could breathe.
The pleasure was the same, but drawn out in long, breathless sighs. Mark held her tight, refusing her satisfaction. All the same, she was replete and boneless beneath the slow teasing and touching.
“Stay as you are,” he ordered.
Why would she want to move? Beneath her was the most exciting man of her acquaintance. Her eyelids peeked open as she watched him reach into the drawer again and retrieve her bottle of lavender oil. One hand held her wrist, keeping her immobile; the other worked at the stopper and then poured oil over the diletto.
“I know of something you may like. Are you willing to try?”
“With you? Anything.”
“Kiss me,” he said. “Like you mean it.”
She cupped his face. His tongue met hers, tangled, thrusting deeply into her mouth before biting at her lips.
The slick feel of the diletto soothed along the crevice of her bottom. She arched. Her eyes popped open and she took a deep breath.
“Shh. Still. This won’t hurt, but don’t fight against it.”
Even though he loosed his grip on her wrist, she couldn’t move. He searched her face, perhaps looking for her approval.
His free hand cupped her ass and spread her. The cool, gentle prod searched. Anxious fear welled in her chest. She’d heard whispers about pleasure—and pain. Was this part of it?
“Do you want me to stop?”
If she stopped now, would she discover all the pleasure there was to know? Would her resistance mean a quick end to their relationship?
He shoved again, pressing against her tight sphincter. Intruding because she had not said no.
She squeezed her lips together. Still no words would come, neither staying his hand nor encouraging him to go on.
Pressure continued to build. She felt the taut grimace on her face. Breathing came hard.
The next push breeched the tight ring. She gasped.
“That’s it. Pretend my cock is filling you. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
His words were shocking, sending thrilling tingles up her spine.
Mark relaxed his grip and the diletto retreated.
“Mmm. More,” she said at last. More. More of anything he could give her.
As he pushed the diletto deep into her, she sank onto his shaft, unable to hold herself upright. His hips thrust, sending shards of pleasure outward. He did the same with the diletto.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, her fingers spearing into his hair and holding tight. She rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Mark,” she said. “Don’t ever stop.”
The soft jolting from his shaft and the dark pleasure in her bottom tossed Katrina to and fro. He would not bring her relief, but she felt nothing except the consuming fire building in her bones. Tension spread. She wanted to squirm against it, but she felt that if she moved, the pleasure would disappear. In her sheath and womb, gentle throbbing had started. It radiated outward, up her spine and to the tips of her nipples.
When release came, it was simple and wrenching. Her thighs and stomach quivered. He bent his head and tongued her nipples. Sucking, then licking. And again. The pleasure had no beginning and no end. Rolling through her body, taking every bit of self and leaving behind an empty vessel that needed neither food nor drink.
Only him.
Delirium overcame her—hot, fevered ecstasy where the only cure was Mark.
He took her on another slow journey, joining her in the end, the sound of his groaning pleasure giving her joy. She only remembered undulating waves and the wash of tears on her face.
She woke with a start and quietly dressed, hating she could not lie beside him and see every dawn to come.
* * * * *
When Mark’s sisters got something in their heads, he usually had a hard time dissuading them. In this case, his two youngest sisters, both married within the past year—and both, in their words, mad for their husbands—had decided to trap him.
Normally, Mark could accept such an invitation with a healthy dose of sangfroid. What they did was outside his realm of concern. They had husbands now. Only when it involved him did he have reason to grumble.
Diane had informed him they had invited several single women to dine with them. Of course, there would be an equal number of bachelors along with chaperones and mamas, but he knew he was being targeted for their stealthy, sisterly matchmaking. Diane had exclaimed, as recently as last week, “Oh, you mustn’t be alone!”
In the month he had been with Katrina, he had not thought once about marriage. He had thought of little except the next time they could be together and what they would do with that time when it occurred.
He could honestly say he had never been in an association that was exclusively about sexual intercourse. The intimacy was intense, wildly entertaining and at times so deeply moving, he could not bear to have her leave his arms.
Neither of them brought their troubles to the townhouse. For his part, he thought outside influences might ruin the perfection of their affair.
He was not with
out awareness that she worried about her sons’ guardian and the potential of being exposed as Mark’s mistress. Having experienced such pleasure at her hands, he was ready to shout it to the world, but he would respect her wishes. Mark did not know Klee, but he knew men like him. Mark did know he could not embarrass Katrina or jeopardize their liaison.
Living two lives was an oddly discerning circumstance. On the days they were not together, he managed the earldom’s single large estate, he was negotiating for the purchase of another, he traveled to Twenty Acres to discuss business and investment opportunities, and he played cards and danced at balls.
On those days, Lady Klee was on the periphery, just out of his reach. They’d met at the park on two other occasions. They’d run into each other at a ball last week. She made no move to acknowledge him at any time. He acceded to her wishes, though he had tallied and judged every man with whom she danced.
Strange little obsessions like this further eroded his good sense in keeping their relationship private. Revealing that she was his would have put a point to the matter. But even a mistress, a lady with some social standing in the Baroness’s case, required gentlemanly treatment. He must do all he could to protect her reputation.
Diane and her husband Harold were on hand to greet him as he entered their home. Harold was the third son of a marquess with a thousand pounds a year in income. Mark was pleased he’d secured such stability for her.
Harold greeted him formally. “Lord Compton.”
Diane kissed Mark’s cheek. “You are the last to arrive.”
He could hear the cacophony in the sitting room where everyone had gathered. “Should I just select a woman now and save us all time?”
“Where is the romance in that?” Diane said as she wound her arm in his.
“Don’t fight it, Mark. It only becomes more painful when you do,” Harold said.
“I think you know everyone,” Diane whispered as they came into the room.
“Miss Albert, Miss Stanton.” If there was anything ingrained into a noble, it was proper manners with young misses.
“Lord Compton,” they piped in unison while dipping into a curtsy. He could practically hear the giggles and sighs as he walked away. Mere girls, nowhere ready for the demands of marriage and family.
Mark saw her, a bright beacon on the shores of matchmaking misery. He continued greeting each of the guests until he got to Katrina. She greeted him properly, but he felt the light, inconspicuous squeeze of her hand.
Just as he was to turn away, he saw her mouth the words I’m sorry.
He smiled his assurance. It was too much to hope that the baroness would actually be seated beside him at supper.
Meg, the other sister responsible for this small soiree, came swooping down upon him, embracing him as if she had not seen him just yesterday.
Mark, being the ranking gentleman, led the widowed Countess of Newberry, a young, dewy-eyed reed of a woman whose husband had been killed in a horse riding accident about six weeks after they married.
Hopeful wishes gave way to reality when he was seated next to the youngest, silliest debs to have ever come out. The seating arrangement was Meg and Diane’s idea, so they obviously saw something he did not. And would not.
He was relieved each time they turned away to speak to the other men seated next to them. Even the food could not hold his attention, not when he wanted to prop his chin in his hand and moon over the woman he could not publicly acknowledge.
“Is it true you are related to the Romanovs?” one young buck was asking Lady Klee. The question elicited interest from all, and several inquiring faces turned toward her.
She laughed. “The family tree is convoluted, but that is the claim. Let me think, I believe forty-two people would have to die before one of my sons would be tsar, but Russia would be in full-scale revolt by the time three of them died, so I think it is safe to assume we will continue to live in happy obscurity. With our heads intact.”
Laughter sounded around the table.
“Russia’s loss is our gain,” another said.
“Are you hopeful to return one day?”
Mark forced his attention to his soup rather than watch the doting admirers on her end of the table. She is mine.
“Oh, yes,” she said. She’d said those words to him too. On several occasions.
“I remember one Christmas I spent in St. Petersburg. Splendid architecture but bitterly cold, as I recall,” Lord Chambers said.
“Yes, the winds off the Baltic in winter can be cruel,” she said.
“And the politics in the Russian royal family even more so.”
Katrina lifted her glass in silent toast. “You have spoken wisely, Lord Chambers.”
“And your sons? Are they eager to return home?”
“Are not all exiles anxious for such an opportunity?”
“Lord Compton, have you been to Russia?” Miss Albert asked on his left.
Yes, he had been in Russia. Several times over the past month, and it wasn’t as cold as one might think.
“No, I haven’t.”
After he finished his queen soup, Mark signaled for a footman to pour more iced champagne. The epergne in the middle of the table held oyster pates and petit chicken pates. Normally, he would have indulged. Diane’s cook had come to them from France after studying under a culinary artist.
A second course included stewed beef and vegetables along with roasted turkey with truffles, morels and chestnuts. While he could not pretend to enjoy the company, he ought to at least enjoy the food or Diane and Meg would set upon him like hounds to a hare. It was hard to ignore that Katrina was the center of attention at her end of the table.
But it would be best to ignore Lady Klee and her roundtable knights, or he would have to acknowledge the stirring in his gut was both jealousy and obsession.
He would clarify with the Baroness that he expected exclusivity.
She was his.
After the final course and dessert, a moist gateau covered with glazed preserved peaches, they all returned to the sitting room for a final drink before departing for the rounds of balls scheduled for the evening.
Mark escorted Miss Albert, who had been accompanied by the Countess Newberry, to her carriage. Back inside, he joined Meg and her husband for some small talk about the family before Lord Flynn walked up escorting Katrina.
Flynn had taken a decided interest in all things Russian.
“Thank you, Lady Klee, for rounding out our numbers. When my sister told me Miss Jenkinson withdrew at the last moment, well, Diane was in a fit,” Meg said.
“I was happy to repay a kindness.” Katrina turned her violet gaze toward him. “Lord Compton, will you be about this evening? I have yet to find a partner who waltzes so divinely.”
Surly as he felt, he actually managed a charming response. “There is no surer way to test one’s grace than on the dance floor.”
“Oh, I agree,” she said, responding in kind. “The perfect partner must be confident and skilled in numerous steps.” She broke the intense lock before they traded innuendo that would cause questions, an easy misstep in the gossip-hungry Beau Monde. “And you, Lord Flynn? I rarely see you on the dance floor.”
“I have two left feet, Lady Klee. My greatest skill at a ball is to sit in a chair and play cards.”
“Practice makes perfect, Lord Flynn.”
“Might I escort you to your carriage?” Mark said the words evenly, as if he weren’t jockeying into position in front of Flynn.
“Certainly.” She smiled brightly as she bid each good night.
The footman held a short-waisted cape for the Baroness. Mark settled it to her shoulders, sniffing at the soft scent of her. Noise filled the foyer as others prepared to leave.
“I am sorry,” she whispered again. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
“We can’t always avoid each other. Nor would I wish to.”
“I didn’t realize you would be here, and Diane seemed most determ
ined to find another. We met while I was walking this morning.”
“You don’t need to explain.”
“I do. You can’t feel comfortable having me appear at unexpected moments.” She squeezed his hand again once she was settled in the carriage. “Until tomorrow,” she whispered before he shut the door.
John Coachman shouted and the carriage lurched away, rattling down the street.
She was wrong. He didn’t hate the unexpected moments when they ran into each other. He wanted more of them. And openly.
And less of those moments when they had to part.
Obsession came in many forms. His father’s gambling. And now this. Mark’s own little fixation with the beautiful Katrina.
That all but settled it. He would enjoy their time together tomorrow night and he would depart London for a few days to visit the family estate. He did not need anything outside of a physical relationship with her. They both needed to catch their breath.
* * * * *
During the past two months, Katrina had known so much joy as a woman, she had nearly forgotten what it was to be a woman cursed. Her flow had started and she lay on the chaise in the corner of her room, with a fire stirred to keep the room as warm as possible.
The first day was the worst, and this one particularly debilitating. Even the gossipy morning paper had done nothing to distract her from the dull ache in her back and deep in her womb. Maybe some powders would help.
Her correspondence lay in a pile on the floor. Irma, her lady’s maid had brought it to her an hour ago and Katrina flicked through it with unusual disinterest.
A light tap sounded on her door and Ivan walked in. “Good morning, Mama.”
“Ivan.”
He bent over her and kissed her forehead. “You didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“It is nothing of importance. Is Mr. Altman here yet?”
“He was just coming in the servant’s entrance when I left the table.”
“You will be out from under his thumb soon and off to university. I should hear soon about your acceptance at the university in St. Petersburg.”
“Mr. Altman believes I can successfully apply to Oxford.”