“Please, Max, I need you.”
He didn’t ask if she was sure. One thing he knew about this woman—she knew her own mind. Both of them began ripping at his clothing, pausing for a kiss or caress, until he stood naked before her. He had thought she might hesitate, but instead she reached out and grasped his cock lightly, giving a gentle pull to bring him towards her.
Ella ran her fingers lightly over his silken hardness, delighting in the new sensation. When he responded with a gasp she grew bolder in her explorations. Using her thumb she traced along the underside of his shaft, while her fingers cupped over the top. Max shuddered and she repeated the motion, this time stroking upwards again. Over and over she caressed him, until Max moaned and pulled her roughly to him, locking his mouth on hers with fervent need. When he broke away they were both trembling, and she spoke again.
“Now. Please, now.”
Max kissed her long and deep, and as he did so he slowly let his shaft enter her. Ella shuddered with every inch, whispering “More” against his mouth each time he paused. When her barrier broke he pulled back slightly to search her face, but she drew him to her again.
“Don’t stop. It hurts but… don’t stop.”
When he was fully sheathed he paused a moment, and then reached between their bodies and began his slow, stroking caress once more. Ella gave little shaking cries as her pleasure surged higher and higher. This was what she had been waiting for.
Max had held still, but with the first cry from Ella he couldn’t help himself, and began to move. Her gasps of pleasure drove him on and, timing it with the movement of his hand, he plunged in and out of her, faster and faster. He watched her face, seeing her eyes widen and the flush creep up as her climax approached. He locked his mouth over hers, and when she screamed her release into him he pounded even harder, holding her hips with both hands and thrusting. Ella gave a sharp cry of surprise and then came again, digging her nails into his shoulders and clenching hard around his cock. With one more thrust Max buried himself fully within her and then exploded, feeling as though his body was awash in a sea of supreme pleasure.
When Max came to himself again he was leaning on the table over Ella, shuddering with the aftermath. Ella was sprawled across the table among scraps of fabric, letting her fingers play along the broad expanse of his chest. She looked like an erotic artwork, limbs askew, with her shift bunched at her waist and her skin flushed with the aftermath of their lovemaking. Max leaned over and placed a gentle kiss in the valley between her breasts, and Ella took the chance to catch his face in her hands.
“Max… that was…”
“Mmmmm… I agree.”
She ran her hands over his eyebrows, his jawline, his lips. Max closed his eyes and let her fingers memorize his face. He was still buried inside her, and the gentle ripples of aftershock from her orgasm seemed to mimic the gentle, loving strokes she was giving with her hands. To his surprise he felt himself begin to grow hard again, though he wouldn’t have thought it possible. When his eyes popped open he caught the smug look on Ella’s face.
“Pleased with yourself?”
“More like pleased with us both. But I’m not done with you yet. Don’t think that I am.”
Ella lifted herself up off the table and wrapped her legs around Max’s hips. Bracing herself on her arms she slowly began rocking against him, swiveling her own hips as she did. Max didn’t know if she was working on instinct, or if she had been reading some truly lurid Gothic novels, but either way he approved of the results.
“I wouldn’t dare think that,” he finally gasped out in response, “in fact, I promise not to think anything at all as long as you keep that up.”
Ella not only kept it up, she increased her pressure. Gripping the edge of the table she lifted her hips into the air and worked herself up and down his shaft, lifting up and then letting gravity pull her back down. Max groaned and held on. He felt the hot wet folds enveloping him, milking him, and releasing again. Ella’s mouth was nipping at his chest as each plunge brought her close enough to bite his nipples, and then suddenly her weight shifted. She ground her hips down and let go of the table, sliding her arms around his neck and finding his mouth with her own. Their tongues danced and slid along each other while Ella clung to him, working him deep within her.
Max spun to the right and pressed her up against the wall. Her hands scrabbled for some kind of hand hold, and found an ancient picture rail that circled the room. With her hands clasped to the moulding above her head her body stretched against the wall. She arched into him as she tried to keep up her rhythm, but Max had a better idea.
“Allow me,” he whispered into her ear and held her hips firmly to the plaster. Ella buried her face in his neck as he began pounding into her, using the solid surface of the wall to let him go faster, deeper, and harder. She was whimpering, pleading, urging him on, and Max forgot everything except his need to bring them both to a thunderous climax. Ella clawed at his shoulders as Max thrust harder and harder, and then her hands stilled and her whole body convulsed around him. The rapid clench and release on his cock brought his orgasm crashing down on him, and as he sank to the floor her could have sworn he heard glass breaking.
“EARTHQUAKE!!!!!!!!”
The scream came from downstairs. Max and Ella both looked around, startled to remember where they were, and a few glances told them everything. The plaster was cracked from their eager lovemaking, and they had knocked over one of the (thankfully unlit) lamps in the room. The house was old, it was easy to imagine that they had shaken it from attic to basement. Max couldn’t help laughing, and since he didn’t think his legs were working yet he just lay there and chuckled. Quietly.
Ella recovered sooner. She dashed for her dressing gown and threw it on, hastily knotting the tie at her waist, effectively concealing the evidence of her recent activities. She began chucking Max’s clothes at him from across the room, and as each article hit him he only laughed harder. When she glared at him he made a valiant effort to control himself, but while he managed to shimmy into his pants and boots relatively quickly he was still laughing as he faced her.
“Prudence! Beatrice! Eleanor! Girls, where are you?”
Muffled sleepy sounds from her stepsisters warned Ella that she would need to be downstairs in just a few moments. What to say? Looking into Max’s laughing eyes she knew that, whatever he had come to tell her, it was going to have to wait. She grinned at him briefly, then ran to his side and kissed him passionately, clinging to his bare chest. Breaking away she ran down the stairs, calling to Millicent as she went, making sure it was loud enough for Max to hear…
“I assure you, Stepmother, the earth did not move.”
***
Max laughed again, quietly in the empty attic. That minx. Next time he got her alone he was going to make her eat those words. Next time… At the thought of their next encounter he sobered. Next time they were alone he was going to have to explain himself, and then she might wish they hadn’t done this tonight. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it, though. He looked around the attic as he pulled on his shirt and jacket. His cravat was a hopelessly crumpled mess of snowy silk, and as he stared at it an idea came to him. He found some paper and a pencil next to a pile of costume sketches, wrote a quick note, and left it on her work table, tucked under his cravat. Then he headed back for the open casement, sighing. He had a feeling down was going to be a great deal harder than up had been.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Most of the court was attending a picnic at the royal palace. The bright red, orange, and yellow of the fall leaves made a gay setting for all the lords and ladies. Pastel-clad maidens shivered in the brisk air, clinging to the arms of young bachelors, while the more brightly adorned married ladies engaged in some good-natured betting with their husbands. Spirits were high, and a game was afoot.
The king had challenged the Duke of Yarrow to a croquet match, and so far team selection had been cut-throat. His Majesty had graciously allowed
Duke Nathaniel the first pick, and the duke, rather sneakily, had chosen Princess Vivienne. Vivienne was not only a fantastic croquet player, it was well known that the king frequently let her win in the games between them. As a further blow, it meant that the king was almost forced to select Max, since it wouldn’t do to have the engaged couple on the same team, nor could Max be left out all together, though he was an indifferent croquet player. As Max sauntered over to stand by his sovereign, the king glowered at the duke. He had been out-maneuvered, and he knew it.
Both men selected an additional team mate, and the match was on. Many lords and ladies chose to watch, tittering and offering comments on the sportsmanship of the players. With one very clever stroke the king passed a wicket and roquetted Max’s ball. Most of the assembled nobles cheered the shot, but one particularly sly fellow, Lord Rhince, had something nasty to say.
“Now we’ll see how well his Majesty really likes his future son-in-law.” It was said in a very loud aside, and everyone heard it. The trouble maker went on, more directly. “Well, your Majesty, will you help him towards the next wicket, or leave him behind?”
The king raised one eyebrow. “Since I have no desire to lose to the duke,” he placed his ball behind Max’s and sent both arrowing towards the stake, “I shall help Christopher along, of course.” Everyone applauded politely, but Rhince wasn’t done with his needling.
“I’m surprised, your Majesty. After the last ball, I thought you might want to teach him a lesson.” The crowd grew exceedingly quiet, waiting to hear how King Regal responded to the allusion to Max’s rather scandalous dance.
“I don’t see why. Vivienne is quite pleased with the new dance steps. And I assure you, Rhince,” his voice lowered threateningly, “her approval should be all that you require.” The nasty man paled in the face of the king’s displeasure, and hastily excused himself. “It should be all anyone requires. Isn’t that right, Christopher?” The king spoke in mild tones for the benefit of their audience, but Max caught the dangerous glint in his eyes.
Play moved on, and the onlookers applauded a clever stroke by Vivienne. King Regal laid a hand on Max’s arm, and stopped him from following the crowd.
“We understand each other, don’t we, Christopher?”
“I hope so, your Majesty.” Max was nervous.
“What I mean to say is, neither one of us wants to see Vivienne upset, do we?”
“Of course not, your Majesty.”
“You, in particular, should hope that my daughter remains in a state of blissful contentment.”
“Why is that, your Majesty?”
“Because, Christopher,” the king paused a moment to applaud along with everyone else, and then leaned back in to Max, “I love my daughter, and to see her unhappy turns me into an angry and vengeful man. I would so hate to have to apologize to your father for depriving him of his heir.” Max’s blood ran cold at the menace in the king’s voice, and he stood stock still as King Regal strode off to take his next shot.
His father stopped a moment beside him.
“Regal is upset with you, boy.”
Max swallowed hard. “So I gathered.”
“He thinks you’re running around on his daughter.”
“Yes, Vivienne told me.”
“It isn’t just that, though, son.” Max looked quizzically at his father. “You’re going to be a prince of the realm. When Vivienne becomes ruling monarch you’ll be crowned at her side. All your children will be considered as claimants for the throne.” Duke Nathaniel gave Max a significant look. “Whether they’re legitimate or not.”
Max was exasperated. “What have I ever done to give my own father the impression that I am a rake, and a scoundrel?”
The duke snorted. “What haven’t you done? My point is, Max, mistresses are a complication. For anyone. But for a prince, they can lead to civil war. Think about that the next time you feel inclined to go dancing.” And with that Max’s father loped off to take his stroke.
Max sighed. He had a feeling he was losing this game.
***
Back at home Max was taking the air and recovering from the crushing defeat. At least, that’s what he’d told his valet he was doing. In reality he was walking his garden paths, over and over, trying to come up with a way to say “I’m pretending to be engaged to the Princess” without it sounding… bad. He also needed some way to work in “the king is likely to have me in chains if this all goes poorly,” but that was even more impossible. He recognized the futility of his endeavors, but couldn’t seem to stop running scenarios in his head. So far, in all of them, Ella had either slapped him in the face or turned red and stormed off. If he couldn’t make this sound good in his own head, he was doomed; he’d never make it sound good out loud. He was just rehearsing yet another opening, contemplating whether “betrothal” or “engagement” sounded less committed, when a horse-drawn carriage pulled up to the back gate of the gardens.
It was an elegant but terribly old-fashioned carriage. Max didn’t recognize the woman emerging from the interior, but she showed no hesitation in marching directly up to the gate, opening it wide, and sweeping through. Heedless of her status as a trespasser she descended on Max, while he stood, motionless, surveying this unannounced visitor.
She, like her carriage, was elegant, but old-fashioned. Her dress rustled with layer upon layer of petticoat, and frothy ruffles of lace trailed down from her massive bustle. Her snowy hair was piled high on her head in elaborate twists and curls, and topped with a miniature high hat, complete with a sweeping scarlet plume. Although her movement indicated no need for it, she carried an elaborately carved walking stick, which she was currently digging with great force into his finely manicured grass as she trod directly towards him, disdaining the meandering gravel pathways. As she drew near, Max noted her face, which was kindly, but at the moment was fixed in a very stern countenance.
“Christopher Maximillian Wellesley.” It was not a question.
“At your service, madam, although I don’t believe we’ve ever…”
“No, my boy, we haven’t, but I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
Max was confused. He had heard of any number of society’s grande dames, but, for the most part, they didn’t appear in his private gardens. He took a closer look at the carriage, specifically the crest; it looked something like a coach formed from a winter gourd—maybe a pumpkin—being driven by well-dressed rats. A memory flickered in the back of his mind. Something from the conversation he’d had with his father after his sixteenth birthday, about the things that only certain adults in certain families knew. Then the memory came roaring to the front. Max felt his eyes go round and his mouth go dry. He immediately folded over in his best court bow.
“Dame Merriweather.”
“That’s it, lad, I knew you’d get there eventually.” She allowed a small smile to grace him, before once more frowning at him most forcefully.
“Madam, what are you doing here?” He wasn’t being rude, he simply couldn’t think of any other question.
“I am here, Christopher Maximillian Wellesley,” she put a peculiar emphasis on his name, “because you have recently become acquainted with my Goddaughter.”
“I’ve met a good many ladies recently, Madam, perhaps you could be more specific?”
“You should remember this one. She made you a costume, Max.”
Comprehension dawned.
“Ella? You’re Ella’s Godmother?”
“Indeed.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“Is it?” Despite Max’s best smile Dame Merriweather remained firm. “Wonderful for whom, exactly? Perhaps you mean to say that it is wonderful for Ella, and while I appreciate the compliment, it is hardly necessary to flatter me. Or perhaps you mean it is wonderful for me, and though I assure you, it is wonderful to have such a Goddaughter, I feel I can safely assume that Ella, as a Goddaughter, is not a relationship you have contemplated in the slightest. Or perhaps, perhaps,” here
the Dame paused, and gave Max what he could only describe as a blistering glare, “perhaps you mean that it is wonderful for you. That you will benefit from this connection, which will make her far more acceptable to your father, should there ever come a day when he no longer believes you to be engaged to the Princess?”
Max felt the blood leave his face. The Dame was a confidant of the king. A rather close one.
“You know the engagement is false?”
“My boy, I know many, many things. It’s one of the benefits of being who I am.”
“Will you tell the king?”
She snorted. It was an odd sound coming from a woman who looked so regal.
“Don’t be silly. I highly approve of what Vivienne is doing. A girl should know her mother’s people. No, I am more concerned with you.”
Max was at a loss for words. He stood, mouth open, as the Dame spoke, her voice full of disapproval.
“You, young man, have put my Goddaughter in a very unenviable position, and she doesn’t even know it. She suspects, of course, that there is something wrong with your courtship, that there is some reason that this will all end in shambles. She does NOT realize that if she is discovered—how shall I say it—fraternizing with you, that she will then be reviled through the whole kingdom. She does not realize this, young fool, because you have not told her.”
“But…”
“What are you expecting her to do, Christopher Maximillian Wellesley? Do you expect her to go into hiding with you? Will you creep in and out of her attic window for a year or two while she waits for you to be able to admit that you care for her? How will she keep her family out of debtor’s prison all that time? Or should she build a reputation in her craft that you will, when you are ready, ask her to give up?”
Once Upon a Romance 01 - Before the Midnight Bells Page 13
