“It's seen as a…” He huffed again. “I can't believe I'm saying this to you—something only whores do, Josie. I can't ask you to do that.”
“Not even if I want to? Not even for my academic education? Are you willing to deny me knowledge, Patrick?
He glared at her. “You can't be serious.”
“It doesn't seem very fair that you can"—she struggled for the words—“do that to me but not allow me to reciprocate because me giving you pleasure is perceived as disgusting. It doesn't make sense.”
“I know but—”
“But what, Patrick? What is it about me returning pleasure to you that is so demeaning to me? If I want to do it?”
He stared at her. “You truly want to know?”
“Yes.”
“It's degrading because it doesn't give you any pleasure.”
“But the kiss you gave me gives you pleasure?”
“It does. Seeing you experience pleasure gives me pleasure.”
“Then why is the reverse not true for me?”
“Honestly, I don't know. My own thoughts are surely not the thoughts of everyone, but to me it's because you are beautiful. Your delicate flesh is almost divine.”
She was taken aback by that.
“But while seeing you take me in your mouth would give me pleasure, a perverse amount of pleasure, I can't help but feel like I would be hurting you. I've never done it before. Josie, it's always been a little more taboo to me than it is to other men.”
“Oh,” she said. “You've never done it before?” Which made her want to do it all the more. He was her first everything, and she would have something to be a first for him, but she didn't think that would convince him.
“I don't know, Josie. I don't know if I can.”
“At least explain it to me, please, just so I know what this kiss involves. We don't have to do it if you don't want to.”
He swallowed, a notch in his neck moving up and down. “Very well.” He moved closer, sitting on the chaise lounge. “It has many names for it, some more crude than others, but essentially a woman takes the man's—Christ, I don't know what to call it with you.”
“What do you call it?”
“My cock,” he said.
She raised a brow. “Your cock? As in…rooster?”
“It certainly wakes me early in the morning,” he quipped.
She shook her head, not understanding what he meant.
He sighed. “How about prick? Have you heard that term used before?”
“I still don't understand your reasoning but let's move on.”
“When a woman pleases me—”
“I don't want to think about another woman servicing you,” she said.
His lips twitched. “Does it make you jealous?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
"Fair enough,” he said, but he went tense, shifting in his seat.
Josie tried to avoid looking at the powerful bulge in his breeches. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Yes, this whole conversation is like watching someone decide which one of my fingers to cut off.”
She put her hand on his leg. “Yesterday, when I was left wanting more, it almost hurt. Does it hurt you?”
He exhaled and closed his eyes. “Yes, it causes me physical pain. I hurt yesterday as well.”
She inched her fingers closer to his groin. He tensed, his thigh turning to stone under her hand but he did not stop her.
“Would it hurt if I touched you now?”
His head fell back. “It might kill me, but I can’t refuse you anything in this state.”
She didn't know what she was doing, but she ran her fingers up the length of him. The hard ridge protruded through his breeches, and he lifted his hips into the pressure of her hand.
“Tell me what you would want me to do with my mouth,” she said quietly, leaning forward so that she could whisper into his ear.
She loved it when he whispered into her ear while he was kissing her.
“You would take me in your mouth and suck on the head of my prick.”
“Yes,” she said, watching her hand move over his erection, a damp spot the size of a single drop appearing over the rounded head. She inched her fingers up to the buttons of his flap. “Patrick, what do I do now?”
His body trembled. “You put your hand around me tightly and stroke me, sliding your mouth over me,” he said. Josie slipped the buttons free and slid her hand inside his breeches, taking hold of him.
The hot silk-covered rod shocked her, but she did as he said and gripped him tightly, sliding her hand over him.
“Tell me more,” she urged, “tell me what to do with my mouth. I want to do it.”
He cursed, “Dammit, Josie. I want you.” He pumped into her hand, setting a rhythm similar to the one he'd used to shatter her control and drive her to release. She marveled at her prize, watching a bead of pearly fluid rise from the head of his manhood as she squeezed her fist up. She caught the drop with her thumb and swirled it around the tip.
“God, Josie. Your mouth—I want your mouth—I want to be inside you,” he begged.
She didn't need to hear anymore. She bent over him and touched her lips to his fevered flesh. She opened her mouth and took him inside and he groaned. He whispered instructions to her and she followed them. His voice changed, deeper, his words transforming into a growling Scottish burr that thrilled her to her core. It seemed he did have some Scot in him.
He was wrong about her not feeling pleasure. Every word that passed his lips set off fires of heat inside her, coiling low in her body, fanning the flames of her own passion.
He pulled away from her, covering his staff with his hand, covering the head as he groaned, but wrapping his hand around hers and moving it up and down fast as warm fluid spilled out from under his hand.
He sighed and fell back. “Christ,” he said, his eyes still closed.
Josie bit back the urge to grin. He looked exactly like she must have moments ago, utterly spent.
“You’re wrong, Patrick. Seeing you experience pleasure gave me great pleasure.”
She took a handkerchief from her pocket and cleaned them both. He cracked his eyes open and studied her.
“Then consider that experiment a success,” he said.
She twisted her lips and thought, folding the handkerchief and setting it aside on the small table. “Perhaps. But to be sure, I think we will need to do it repeatedly,” she said.
He glared at her. “Don’t tease me.”
“Are you by chance, a bit Scottish?”
“A wee bit.” He winked at her. “On my mother’s side.”
“You spoke with a slight burr.”
“I got it from my nanny. She had a heavy burr, and I picked it up in my early years. My tutors tried to drum it out of me. It comes out of me when I least expect it.”
Josie giggled. “In your weakest moments?”
He pulled her close. “Aye, you could say that.”
“I like it,” she confessed.
“I’ll remember to use that to my advantage, but for the time being, we have to dress for dinner or we’ll be late.” He spoke in perfect aristocratic English now.
Josie wasn’t going to admit she preferred the growling Scotsman she’d reduced him to.
Chapter 14
That night as Patrick lay in bed, he couldn't help but grin. Josie had sat across from him at dinner. They couldn't speak across the table, but they shared many glances and many smiles. Secret smiles.
The best kind of smiles.
And then in the drawing room, Her Grace, Violet, had played the pianoforte and they got to dance. Things were growing between him and Josie as if they finally reached the same place, but he couldn't be sure.
He didn't want to ruin it by pushing his agenda, but he had more hope than ever. He recalled the way her eyes had lit up as he talked about St. Arthur's. He’d risked sparking her suspicion when he mentioned she could help. In fact, he was glad the
tension was gone because it meant he could talk to her and get to know her outside of that blasted library. Which he might never enter again without getting hard and would make every future visit coming back difficult as well. He may be considered a rake, but he'd never defiled the home of a friend like that.
His illicit encounters usually occurred in the homes of strangers or at prearranged locations and such. His conscience never bothered him about who owned the home or whose sheets he was wrinkling. But this castle had felt like a second home for many years, and the duchess a second mother. She'd treated all friends of her sons, Weirick and Roderick, like her own when they would visit. He had a twinge of guilt about having let Josie pleasure him in the library, but there was nothing to be done for it now.
He was going to do the honorable thing, or at least try harder than he'd ever pursued anything. He could not let this party end without Josie's hand in his and the promise of a speedy marriage. Afterwards, he couldn't wait to get home and tell his uncle about Josie. To plan a meeting and extended stay at Fleetwood for her and her family. He could picture them now, playing lawn bowls on the grass of Fleetwood, or taking tea in the garden of their London terrace, or better yet, seeing Josie among the smiling faces of the St. Arthur's orphans—the delight on her face as they read her stories.
She would love them and they would love her just as their own children would. She'd be a wonderful mother, stern but supportive. Would she want a big family? Could he find a way to ask her without her jumping to conclusions?
He had to be careful, though he had hope based on their interactions. He knew he could not bring up the subject of marriage again or she’d revolt, and he had a feeling a Josie revolt would be like facing down a bull in its paddock.
He had no hope of winning.
She had to change her own mind, and what a beautiful, complex, and stubborn mind it was. She had talked him into letting her perform something he'd never let anyone else do to him. He supposed it was only fair. He was going to be her first everything, and he knew once they married, their intimacies would only grow, their passion and love of knowledge only expanding their intimacies.
He couldn't wait. He was excited for all of it, every fight they would have, every makeup, every debate and lecture.
To see her carrying their child.
He decided right then and there he wanted a big family. Never again will he be alone but maybe not ten children? That was a bit much. Six sounded like a good number. Plenty of playmates.
He closed his eyes, letting the weight of sleep claim him. Tomorrow was the garden party, and he hoped to spend most of it with Josie.
* * *
Josie woke in the morning before the sun. She sat up and rubbed her gritty eyes. She stared at her dark room, flashes of her dreams coming back to her the way lightning lights up a room as it strikes. Quick, startling, and eerie.
She fell back on her pillows, covering her eyes. How stupid that a dream should upset her? But it had felt so real. The laughter still echoed in her mind, the hurt, the scalding of her tears as they ran down her cheeks.
Had she cried in her sleep?
She rubbed her eyes again, trying to banish the images from her mind but they lingered, a terrible, heartbreaking reminder, clinging to her consciousness.
It had started so lovely with Patrick leaning over her, but this time they were on the floor, her skirts up to her waist, his hands doing delightful things. Then she looked up, and everyone was watching, all the gentlemen at the party, the familiar faces of the servants she'd known from her childhood, and many faces she didn't know.
People lined the balcony—all laughing, pointing, leering at her body.
The women, Mrs. Kemp, the dowager duchess scowling down at her because she'd committed the worse sin of all right under their noses, disrespecting their very home. She’d actually screamed and shoved her skirts down, and that's when she noticed Patrick standing over her, his arms folded and he was laughing too. The cold shimmer in his eyes so terrifyingly clear, and in that moment, she knew this had been his plan all along, to use her, to embarrass her for his own amusement.
He, an elegant man of London, a wealthy titled lord who could never harbor any sort of deep feelings for an impoverished country woman. Josie had curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing into her hands, trying to drown out the sound of their laughter, but it wouldn't end. Their guffaws fell down on her like boulders, crushing her under the weight of her shame.
When she couldn't bear it anymore, she’d crawled to her feet and tried to run but her feet were so heavy. She was moving impossibly slow, and everyone was still watching her, laughing, pointing, cursing her.
When at last she reached the library door, she tugged and tugged, and even though it wasn't locked, she was too weak to open it. Josie was so helpless to get away from them, and still they just laughed. Then Patrick came to the door, but instead of helping her, he pressed his hand over the jam so she could not even attempt to open it, and he looked down at her with such disdain.
“You can never escape this,” he said.
She’d dropped to the floor, her boneless legs no longer holding her, resting her forehead against the back of her hands. The force of her sobs so deep and racking, they hurt. She begged, “Just let me out! Why are you doing this to me?”
“You can never escape this,” he said again.
“You lied to me,” she cried, and she screamed at the others. “Stop laughing!”
But no matter how she tried, she could not be louder than them. Their laughter drowned her voice out. She fell into a heap at the bottom of the door.
“Help me,” she cried. “Someone please help me. Where are my sisters?” They, at least, weren't part of the leering faces above her, too large to be real.
The faces loomed over her. There were now crowding around her, laughing, saying terrible things to her, lobbing insults like stones, and that's when Josie had woken.
She sniffed. Just remembering the dream brought her close to tears again.
Her brows pinched, a headache piercing the front of her head. She kicked away the coverlet and hopped out of bed, going to the basin and dipping a rag in the cool water to press to her eyes. She felt ill and exhausted. It hurt to just move her body. She drew a blanket from the chair by her hearth and wrapped it around herself. Then, she took a log from the basket by the fire, laying it atop the dying flames.
The embers caught the edges of the bark and the fire was revived, happily nibbling on the new piece of wood. She curled up in the chair, tucking the blanket tightly around her arms and her legs, her feet under her bottom, and she leaned back, her head turned to the side, and closed her eyes.
What could that dream possibly mean? Patrick’s words had been said with such scorn.
“You can't escape this.”
What did that mean? Josie had never put much stock in dreams, but she had long thought they were a way for a person to experience the things they were afraid of, to show themselves something they didn't always want to see in their waking state.
You can't escape this.
She didn't know what to make of those words.
Her door opened and the scullery maid, Rita, jolted in surprised to see Josie awake in the chair. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Josette.”
“It's all right, Rita. I woke too early, but I can't go back to sleep now.”
“Are you unwell? Would you like me to fetch Mrs. Kemp?”
“Thank you, Rita. I just had a bad dream. I'm still trying to”—she tried to breathe through the tightness in her chest—“to forget it all.
Rita nodded. “Nightmares are stubborn devils. If only the sweet dreams lingered.” She began her duties. “My granddad always said that the most powerful dreams often contained messages, warnings and such and the like,” Rita said in her light Scottish accent.
Message? Warning?
So what was the message, and how did it relate to her present circumstances?
She would have to do a lot of
thinking in order to figure it out, but it definitely felt true. Her body rang like a bell struck by a large hammer, reverberating with the dream’s warning. She could not ignore it. Even if she wanted to.
“Thank you, Rita,” Josie said. “I shall consider that and try to figure out what my dream means.”
Rita smiled. “A nice cup of hot chocolate will help things,” she said.
“Hot chocolate always helps.” Josie smirked.
Rita smiled and finished her duties and left Josie. It wasn't long before another maid arrived to help Josie dress and bathe. This time Josie stayed silent about her horrible dream, but she thought about it relentlessly. She caught sight of the sketchbook from yesterday's drawing excursion and suddenly she remembered something other than her dream. She recalled her shock and surprise of Jeanie and Lord Luckfeld in the forest embracing, and it was as though she was given a glimpse of the future.
Was that what it meant?
She tried to connect her dream to her feelings about Jeanie and Luckfeld. Was that the warning?
But why was she in the dream being humiliated and shamed? If it was Jeanie the warning was for? She hugged herself, the room growing chill. She pulled the shawl from the wardrobe. She had to do something. She had to say something to Jeanie—to warn her. They were both playing a dangerous game.
You can’t escape this.
Patrick's words echoed in her mind again.
“I will,” she said with determination.
Jeanie had been swept away. Josie had been swept away. But unlike Josie, Jeanie wasn't thinking with her head. She thought a rake like Luckfeld could care for her, but the truth was men like them didn't marry women like her and her sisters. They had reputations for a reason, and Josie couldn't ignore that anymore.
As much as she wanted to trust herself, her sisters—her heart clenched—as much as she wanted to trust Patrick, they all had to be careful or they’d end up heartbroken, crawling on the floor with all the world laughing at them.
Josie slipped on her slippers and hurried across the hall to Jeanie's room, knocking frantically.
The Five Second Rule For Kissing: The Northumberland Nine Series Page 12