by Nina Lane
Finally, Carol made arrangements to have the new wardrobe of two-dozen outfits sent to the house, and they returned home.
“Supper is at eight,” Carol called as Lydia climbed the stairs. “Your brothers and sister will be joining us.”
Lydia’s stomach clenched at the thought of seeing her siblings again. She’d never been particularly close to any of them, but she’d certainly never wanted to be the cause of their disgrace.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and gave a sigh of relief that she was alone again. She went to the mirror and stared at her reflection, not recognizing the woman looking back at her. Her hair was cut into a stylish bob, layered and highlighted with buttery shades of blond. Elegantly shaped eyebrows arched over her mascara-thick eyelashes. Her skin was coated with a flawless layer of foundation, and her lips were an artificial cherry-red.
Lydia’s hand shook as she grabbed a bottle of make-up remover and spilled the liquid onto a tissue. She wiped at her eyes, smearing the eyeshadow and mascara over her cheeks. With a clean tissue, she wiped again and again, cleansing her face of the cosmetics until her natural skin shone through. After washing and drying her face, she returned to the bedroom. She stripped out of the beige Chanel suit her mother had insisted she wear home from the shop. She pulled off her camisole and bra, then stood naked in the middle of the room.
Her breathing came fast, and her heart pounded. A cell phone intended for her use lay on the bedside table, but even as Lydia picked it up she realized she had no way of calling the plantation. She didn’t know if there was a phone there. She didn’t even know exactly where the plantation was located, and asking her father for the information was out of the question.
And she certainly didn’t know how to reach Gabriel, Kruin, or even Preston. She’d first gotten in touch with Preston through a mutual friend, but she didn’t dare contact the friend again for fear that he would ask too many questions or probe too deeply.
Lydia sank to her knees on the thick carpet. She pressed a hand between her breasts. Her heart beat an increasingly panicked rhythm beneath her palm.
Would she never see any of the three men again? Would she never return to the sprawling grounds of La Nouvelle Vie, never see the blooming of the flowers she’d planted, never eat exquisite meals in the solarium or race Gabriel on horseback over the low hills with the wind whipping through her hair?
Would she never hear Preston’s sharp orders, never again experience that combination of dread and excitement as she lifted her skirt to show him her bare pussy or bend over a table so he could take her from behind? Would she never look into Gabriel’s green eyes and find solace there? Would she never feel the strange but certain safety of Kruin’s solid, muscular body?
If the answer to all those questions was no, she would not, then why was that thought so utterly unbearable?
With a moan, Lydia lowered her forehead to the carpet and folded into herself. A shaft of sunlight spilled across her back, warming her naked skin. In her crouched position, the folds of her sex parted, and the rush of air caressing them sent a tingle down her spine. Her breasts pressed against the carpet, the abrasion rather delicious against her tight nipples.
A rational part of Lydia’s brain told her that if she were to reach between her legs and play with herself, rub her clit, perhaps even stroke a finger into her body… if she were to bring herself to release right here, right now, there would be no punishment to fear. There was no one to whom she would have to confess her transgression. No one who would sense that she’d disobeyed a cardinal rule. No one who would know.
Lydia slid her hand down her rounded belly and between her legs. She closed her eyes. For a moment, she just cupped her hand over her sex and felt the heat emanating from her skin. Her clitoris pulsed.
She was struck by the sudden urge to feel Preston, Kruin, and Gabriel behind her, around her, their gazes hot with lust as they stared at her prone naked body, her sex spread open, pink and glistening, her bottom cleaved apart to expose the dusky aperture that only Preston had thus far breached.
She shuddered. Which one of them would take her? Would she hear the rasp of Kruin’s leather belt as he removed it? If so, would he choose to spank her with it or would he take out his big, thick cock and mount her from behind in one of his hard, fast fucks that made her whole body shake? Would she feel Gabriel’s hand stroking the length of her spine, the clench of Preston’s grip on her hair?
Once Kruin was finished with her, would Preston take his turn and press his erection into her mouth, whispering lewd things about her sensual nature and inability to control her own pleasure? And then would Gabriel be the one to slide his fingers between her legs and murmur his consent, allowing her to spend all over his hand while the three of them watched her ride the pleasure of orgasm?
Yes. Yes to all of it.
Her breathing grew fast. The heat of her sex intensified, and a trickle of fluid ran down her inner thigh. She ran her finger experimentally around her clit, twitching in instinctive response.
And then, though salacious images still flashed before her eyes and her entire being ached for release, she forced her hand away from her sex and sat up slowly. Tears blurred her eyes and sweat dampened her skin.
A sharp knock at the door startled her.
“Dinner is in ten minutes, miss,” called one of the maids.
Lydia climbed to her feet, brushing away the dampness on her cheeks as she went to struggle back into the tight suit. She rolled on a pair of stockings and tried to re-create Anna’s makeup artistry as best she could. When she finally went downstairs to the dining room, she was still flushed but presentable.
Her siblings all greeted her with politeness and a marked lack of warmth, but none of them commented on her crime or their father’s need to bail her out. Lydia sat on her father’s left, feeling the oppressive weight of the wood-paneled dining room lined with heavy wallpaper and oil paintings of hunting scenes—how different from the plantation’s airy, light-filled solarium blooming with green plants!
Lydia kept her head down and ate a few bites of duck smothered in orange sauce. Stilted conversation drifted in the air, but she wasn’t aware of anyone addressing her until silence fell.
“Jane?”
Lydia looked up at her elder sister. Rebecca was a younger version of their mother with her pale hair and elegant features artfully enhanced with high-end cosmetics.
“Excuse me?” Lydia asked.
“I said, where have you been these past few months?” Rebecca repeated.
“I was staying with… with a friend.”
“Preston Severine,” said her brother Maxwell, arching an eyebrow meaningfully at Rebecca. “Remember him?”
Rebecca frowned. “That horrible delinquent boy from St. Benedict’s? Didn’t he end up in prison?”
Maxwell laughed. “We always thought he would. But he was slippery, like an eel. Whatever he did, he never got caught.”
“He was a wicked little thief and a liar.” Rebecca swung her gaze back to Lydia. “Why were you staying with him?”
“He was…” Lydia’s voice faltered. “Um… just helping me. As a… a friend.”
“He’s your friend?” Rebecca said, a sneer in her voice. “A boy like that can’t possibly have come to any good.”
“Jane will no longer associate with him,” Edward Worthington said coldly, his eyes flashing a warning at Lydia. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Severine and made it quite clear that Jane has broken herself from any connection to him and whatever operation he runs.”
Again Lydia wondered just how much her father knew about her arrangement with Preston. At the same time, she knew it no longer mattered. Not if she was broken from the plantation and the three men who lived there.
Lydia dropped her fork with a clatter, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. She pushed her chair back with a mutter of apology and hurried from the room.
She ran back upstairs and made it into her bedroom before a cry of despair w
renched from her throat. She yanked off her blazer, the buttons popping off and falling to the carpet, and struggled out of her too-tight nylons and skirt. She ripped her bra off her shoulders and grasped her breasts, twisting her nipples so sharply between her fingers that pain shot through her body.
With another moan, she mounted the arm of the overstuffed chair beside the window and pressed her cleft against it. She tossed her head back and closed her eyes. She began to ride, swiveling her hips and rubbing her clit harder against the thick upholstery.
Again, she let the memories flash through her mind—Kruin’s impossibly large cock pushing into her, the dark, pulsing shaft slick with her juices, Preston’s hot blue eyes as he watched her disrobe, the sting of Kruin’s hand against the fleshy globes of her bottom, the press of Gabriel’s lips against her hairline as he lowered his weight onto her. The pleasure, the pain, the fear, the excitement, the shame, the anticipation.
Lydia came with a shriek, her breasts bouncing as she writhed almost desperately against the arm of the chair. Release tore through her like a thousand bolts of lightning. She reached down to rub all the sensations from her clit, then stumbled over to collapse onto the bed with her hand still between her legs.
As the pleasure began to ebb, Lydia turned her face into the pillow and cried.
Sugarfoot nickered, pushing her velvety nose into Gabriel’s outstretched hand. Gabriel let the horse nuzzle his palm for a minute before digging into his pocket and holding out a carrot. Sugarfoot crunched into the offering with a shake of her head, nudging at Gabriel again.
He stroked her forelock. “I know.”
Sugarfoot blinked at him, still chewing the carrot. He patted her neck and started toward the door. It was true. He did know how much Sugarfoot missed Lydia.
Because Gabriel missed her too.
He stepped into the humid twilight and walked back to the old mansion. The fragrance of honeysuckle weighted the air. Crickets and bullfrogs began their noisy evening song from the swampy creeks leading to the bayou.
Gabriel swatted at buzzing mosquitos as he walked. Even this route weighed heavily on him, for he was accustomed to having Lydia either at his side or waiting for him on the veranda. He could still picture her there, a cotton dress shaped to her lovely body, her legs parted in deference to their rules, but also—Gabriel knew—because she liked the way the breeze felt on her naked sex. He could picture her hair tied back in a ribbon to keep it away from her damp neck, and the look in her eyes as she watched him approach.
“Where were you?” she would ask, amusement rising to her eyes.
“Africa,” Gabriel would reply, sinking into the chair beside her, brushing his hand against hers. “I took a hot-air-balloon ride at dawn, watched the sun rise like fire over the horizon, and saw a herd of water buffalo running across the plains. You?”
“I’m going to Paris later today. I want to eat croissants and have hot chocolate at Angelina Café and walk all the way from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place des Vosges.”
“Mmm. Perhaps I’ll join you.”
“I wish you would.”
“Then I will.”
She would smile at him then. In their self-imposed exile from the world, they’d developed this game of imagining that they actually could indulge in their most wistful dreams of traveling the world. Though they had both traveled extensively while working for corporations, their trips were always strictly business, submerged in contracts, meetings, power plays. Gabriel’s and Lydia’s travels had lacked the sheer fun and adventure for which they had both always longed.
And while they knew their lives at La Nouvelle Vie—indeed, the choices they had both made—would continue to thwart any hope of such joys, at least they could indulge in their imaginations together.
Gabriel climbed the steps and walked across the veranda, past the empty chair where Lydia had always sat. He missed it—the sight of her, the way she looked at him, their talks together. He missed her.
He shook his head. He needn’t be so maudlin, even if it was the truth. And as much as he hated the thought of Lydia back within the stifling confines of her family, she was safer there. The authorities wouldn’t bother her, and she was out of Preston Severine’s claw-like reach.
He hoped.
Gabriel went inside the house. Tension tightened his chest. Kruin was descending the stairs, his tread echoing against the paneled walls. He stopped halfway down, his gaze on Gabriel.
“Where did he go?” Gabriel asked.
Kruin shrugged.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. He trusted Kruin as much as he could trust any other man in these circumstances, but he also knew that Kruin was indebted to Preston in ways that went beyond merely hiding. Kruin had been Preston’s bodyguard before they began their lives at La Nouvelle Vie, and he had ostensibly been protecting both Preston and himself when another man had died.
Preston had been the only other person in the room, and though Gabriel had been led to believe the incident had occurred in self-defense, Preston and Kruin were the only ones who knew the full truth.
“Don’t concern yourself with him,” Kruin said, his voice deep as a well. “The girl is gone. I would hope that any dissent within this household has gone with her.”
Gabriel struggled against a wave of irritation. “She wasn’t the cause of any dissent. Preston was.”
“Because of her,” Kruin replied. “I should have seen it when he first wanted to bring her here. He was far too possessive of her from the beginning.”
“Not that that stopped you from enjoying her,” Gabriel replied, unable to stop the bitter note in his voice.
Kruin lifted an eyebrow. “Should it have? Did it stop you?”
A flush heated Gabriel’s face. He and Kruin both knew the answer to that. If anything, Preston’s possessiveness had heightened Gabriel’s desire for Lydia, as he knew well that Lydia’s tender feelings toward him provoked the other man’s jealousy. And there was, Gabriel could not deny, a distinctly male satisfaction in knowing that such a lovely, companionable woman craved him above all others.
In the beginning, however, Gabriel hadn’t known that such a craving would also flow in the opposite direction, that his hunger for Lydia would take on its own possessive edge.
That he, too, would want her only for himself.
His fingers curled into his palms. Images of her flashed through his mind—all the nights he’d gone to her room so he could have her alone, the way she would turn toward him without hesitation, and sometimes with only a hint of apprehension if she knew she’d done something wrong that day.
But most of the time, he found her asleep, her white body stretched out on the bed beneath the open window, the hot night breeze ruffling the curtains. Sometimes a sheet was draped over her buttocks, the thin material barely disguising the plump globes and the luscious roundness of her naked thighs.
Gabriel liked to stand and watch her, his eyes traveling the pale expanse of her back, the arch of her spine, up to her hair, spilling over the pillows. She always slept deeply, proven by the heavy, rhythmic sound of her breath and the stillness of her form. She rarely awoke even when he eased the sheet down to admire the curves of her bottom, which were sometimes pale, but more often still reddened from the lash of a cane or the impact of Kruin’s broad hand.
Gabriel loved seeing Lydia’s flesh painted with the evidence of punishment, loved the way heat still clung to her tender skin hours after the punishment had been administered. He loved the way she twitched and moaned in her sleep when he brushed his fingers gently against the bruises, the way she arched her hips upward as if welcoming the increasing pressure of his touch. He always did increase the pressure, knowing she would wake when the burn became too much.
She would turn with a moan, her eyes heavy with sleep as they focused on him, her breasts pale globes in the moonlight, her nipples already tightening into peaks. Gabriel would feel himself stiffening as he cupped one of her full breasts in his hand, rubbing his thumb
over her nipple, watching the growing heat darken her eyes.
She was always uncertain at first, but her uncertainty sprang from not knowing exactly what he expected her to do rather than any fear over his presence. She would watch him, her eyes big and luminous, her breath growing shorter as he traced her skin with his fingertips and moved lower to part her thighs. She would tense, but never sought to resist him when he dipped his finger into the silken folds. Indeed, she only parted her legs wider, sighing with pleasure, for she knew that invariably Gabriel, of all the three men, was most apt to grant her permission for release.
And he did. He loved the way she bucked her hips into his touch, the way she began to writhe against his hand, the breathy sound of her begging when her arousal mounted. Sometimes he allowed her release, manipulated her toward it, but other times he made her wait, instructed her to pleasure him first with her mouth or her hand. He didn’t know which he enjoyed more—watching her shatter beneath his touch or watching her slide her lips over his engorged shaft, her long fingers wrapped around the base, her pink tongue darting in and out.
He supposed each scenario had its own unique pleasure. And he missed them both, especially at night when he was alone in bed and remembered that the bedroom beside his, the room that had once been Lydia’s, was empty.
“You’ve been sulking ever since she left,” Kruin said, his cold voice breaking into Gabriel’s erotic reminiscences. “I’d suggest you forget her as well.”
Gabriel frowned. “You would dismiss her with such ease?”
“When it comes to our safety here, yes. I’m displeased that her father discovered where she was. That means others might know the whereabouts of the plantation. And where might that lead? Rather than moping, you’d do well to consider how things have gotten to this state. And how we can secure them again.”
Kruin continued down the stairs and disappeared into the parlor, shutting the door behind him.
Gabriel stood in the foyer. Silence closed in around him. He knew Kruin was right. He also knew he would never rid himself of this gnawing sense of loss, of unsated hunger, of aloneness.
