His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Ève laughed. “I simply did not want to lie down on the bed and ruin my dress. It is the only muslin dress I have.”

  Richard came toward her once more. His hand trembled as he reached for her. “One day, I will buy you all the muslin dresses you wish.” He kissed her again.

  This time, without the barrier of corset and petticoats and the layers of linens, his kiss and his firm body against hers were almost overwhelming to her senses. Ève trembled in his arms, clinging to him, as he moved his mouth over her flesh, down her throat, to linger above the lace edges of her camisole. His tongue slid over her flesh, making her shiver. His fingers moved restlessly against her waist.

  He was moving backward, she realized. Just as she recognized what he was doing, he sat upon the bed and pulled her down on top of him, as he turned and stretched upon the cover.

  Ève rested over the top of him and he held her steady with his hands at her hips. Even that light touch against her flesh, with only a layer of cotton between them, sent shivers of pleasure through her.

  Their kisses grew languorous and deep. Ève was glad to have the bed and Richard beneath her, because she was not certain she would have been able to stand. Her whole body tingled, every move crackling with anticipation.

  His hands stroked her through her linens, making her skin ripple with delight.

  She was not aware of what her hands were doing until Richard sat up and removed the jacket she had pushed off his shoulders and threw it to hang over the end of the bed. Swiftly, he removed the rest of his clothing, with Ève trying to help. She was suddenly eager to see what he looked like without his clothing.

  It was most likely wicked to look forward to such a thing, yet her single experience with the male naked form had been disappointing. She suspected Richard would be anything but disappointing.

  In the few days leading to the wedding, she had not stopped to consider this moment. Somehow, she had known that this aspect of the marriage would simply work.

  She was not wrong. Richard’s body, once he was naked, was everything she had anticipated. He was tanned from a summer of working in the fields, which meant that, clearly, for some of the time he had removed his shirt. That seemed to be a very wicked idea, and she shivered. His shoulders were thick with muscle, just as the width of his jacket had implied. His chest was strong, with flat pillows of muscle and a shallow indentation between them which her fingers twitched to trace. His belly was flat, with not a skerrick of fat clinging to it anywhere. There were ridges in the muscles which flexed and relaxed as he moved.

  She had not realized that a man’s belly could be enticing. Now, the only thought she had as she stared at it was that she would like to run her lips over it. Her neck prickled, and her heart fluttered as the sensuous thoughts inserted themselves in her mind.

  It gave her the courage to drop her gaze to the juncture of his thighs. His shaft rose, jutting proudly. In that respect, he was a magnificent man. Ève was breathless as she stared at it.

  Richard settled on the bed and reached for the ribbon at the top of her camisole. “The look in your eyes is enough to drive a man insane with lust.” His voice was hoarse.

  Ève was pleased he found her appearance appealing. It seemed only fair, for she was still reeling with the impact of his body upon her. She had not known a woman could feel the same lust for the sight of a unclothed man. Clearly, there was much she needed to learn about bedroom pleasures.

  With Richard as her teacher, she knew she would enjoy her education.

  She let him peel the last of her clothing from her body. He even rolled her stockings from her legs and hung them over the end of the bed, while she tried to gain control of her breathing, which was hurried and shallow.

  When they were both completely naked, Richard turned to her, gathered her up in his arms once more and pulled her up against him.

  She weakened at the touch of his body against hers, with absolutely nothing between them. His shaft rested against her hip, thick and satiny and hot.

  Richard kissed her again. She might have been happy to let him kiss her for a long time, except for the tension in the pit of her belly and the throbbing between her thighs. She could not catch her breath at all.

  Although Richard breathed as heavily as she. He let her go with a groan and bent his head and closed his lips around the tip of her breast.

  Eva cried out with shock at the pleasure his lips and tongue imparted. It was as though a line of nerves ran from her breasts to the junction of her thighs. Her bud throbbed. It ached to be touched.

  Her thighs fell open restlessly.

  Richard’s hair brushed her flesh as he moved his mouth over to the other breast. His hand tucked under her bottom and his fingers stroked. Then they drifted over her hip to tease at the top of her thighs.

  Ève moaned. No thought entered her mind except for a greedy need for more—more pleasure, more delight. She gave herself up to him, willing to let him do anything, so long as the pleasure continued.

  His fingers slipped between her folds and slid deeper. She could feel for herself the slickness, and the heat.

  Richard groaned, withdrew his hand and pulled himself over her. Her heart slammed as she realized he was about to slide into her. A tiny touch of fear touched her. The last time she had experienced this moment it had not been comfortable and far from pleasurable.

  Perhaps Richard sensed that frisson of fear, for he bent and touched his lips to hers. “I will not hurt you. Not you.”

  He pulled Ève’s knee up by his hip, which opened her up to him. His shaft probed against her, seeking entry. Then he slid slowly inside her.

  There was no pain, not even discomfort. Ève could feel herself stretching to accommodate him and it was the most delightful sensation. He pushed deeper, until she could tell he was seated as deeply as possible.

  His gaze met hers.

  “Oh…” she said.

  Richard smiled and touched his lips to hers. Then he propped himself over her on one strong arm and shifted his hips, thrusting into her. His eyes narrowed down to slits as he worked his body against hers.

  Ève wanted to watch the lust take him, to watch the rising pleasure in his face and in the taut lines of his body. Only, she was caught up in a wave of pleasure of her own. It caught her by surprise. It swept up from her toes and from deep inside her. The pleasure built and built, stealing her breath and every thought.

  Richard slammed into her with almost a violent taking which pleased her in a guttural way. She liked that he seemed to lose some of his control as he grew closer to the peak of pleasure.

  Abruptly, her own pleasure seemed to break and shatter her nerves. She strained, her body quivering, as the excitement throbbed inside her in heavy waves. Her breath halted. She hung suspended upon a glittering sea of sensations.

  Richard groaned and shuddered against her.

  Ève collapsed, panting. The heat pooled between them, making their skins damp. Richard’s heart thudded against her chest.

  He eased himself away from her, onto the cover, his breath bellowing. He put his arm over his eyes and sighed.

  Ève ran her gaze over his length. She was weak with the aftermath of pleasure, yet already she was eager for more. Would Richard be shocked by that?

  Tentatively, she reached out and trailed her fingers over his stomach, fascinated by the ridges which were clear even when he laid on his back.

  Richard stiffened and lowered his arm. His gaze met hers.

  Ève grew still, her wariness rising. When he said nothing, she lifted her hand away.

  Richard caught her wrist and shook his head. “No, don’t deny yourself. Not if that is what you want.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  His mouth turned up at the corner. “I was just lying there thinking that this once was not nearly enough. I feel as a drunk does when he reaches the end of the bottle. I want more. And yet more…” He curled his hand around the back of her neck, under her hair and brought her over him, an
d kissed her.

  The kiss was heavy, frantic.

  Happily, Ève let him begin again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The windows of the apartments faced west, so when the sun lowered that afternoon, it blazed through the panes. Ève groaned and put her arm over her eyes. “I will see if Mama can give me some old curtains. Anything to save myself from going blind at this time of day.”

  Richards lifted his mouth from her belly and winced at the bright light. “It is later than I realized.” He sat up.

  Ève sighed. “I should not have spoken. Now I have stopped you doing what you were doing.”

  Richard picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. His eyes were blazing with heat as he studied her over the back of her head. “The halt is purely temporary,” he assured her. Then he frowned. “Although, it may extend longer than I anticipated. I am to report to the café for my first night of work, by eight.” He reached for his jacket, which hung over the bottom rail of the bed, and dug a watch from the pocket. He flipped the lid open and glanced at the face. “Just gone six thirty.” He returned the watch. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not for food,” Ève said. “If it is only six thirty…” She lifted her arms toward him.

  Richard evaded her reach, pressed his lips against her cheek and slid from the bed. Still wonderfully naked, he padded over to the washstand, filled the basin, and quickly washed himself, with not a touch of self-consciousness.

  Ève watched openly, for despite hours of exploring his body with her mouth and her hands, she was still fascinated by every angle and curve and taut line. She felt a little as though she had won a lottery for which she had not bought a ticket.

  She rested her arms upon the bottom rail of the bed and her chin upon her arm, and sighed.

  Richard glanced at her, as he thrust his legs into his trousers. “A little more of that from you and I will forget I am to work tonight.”

  “Really?” She sat up hopefully.

  He shook his head. “I had to argue hard to get this work. If I fail to arrive upon the very first evening, I would not get another position anywhere in Paris. I must stay in favor with my employers, for this café is where the anarchists prefer to linger.” He took the shirt which Ève held out to him.

  “For a few hours, I had forgotten about all of that,” Ève admitted.

  Richard took her chin in his hand and kissed her soundly. “There will be other hours, I promise.” His voice was low.

  She shivered.

  A few minutes later, Richard left. The café was within walking distance and he was expected by half-past-seven.

  Ève pulled her wrapper from the trunk beside the wardrobe and explored every corner of the apartment. She was still not hungry, although she did discover bread and cheese beneath a cloth on the shelf above the stove. A small lantern sat beside the platter. Later, she would eat some cheese. For now, she lit the lamp and put it on the stove.

  There were many things lacking in this apartment of which Ève suspected she could borrow from her mother—curtains being one of the most important. As she explored, she built a list in her mind. She had neither paper nor pens with which to write a list, for she had left her correspondence box at home. At her parent’s house, she corrected herself, with a tiny smile, as she bent to peer in the washstand cupboard. She mentally added her correspondence box to the list of items she must bring back with her.

  She could not visit the house tonight. It was already late. Tomorrow, she would arrange to bring small items back to this apartment.

  Ève settled on the bed which was the only soft seat in the entire apartment. The two chairs beneath the table were without cushions—another item for her list. She nibbled the cheese as the silence in the apartment registered for the first time.

  She was alone.

  Ève could not remember a time when she had been truly alone. Cab rides had drivers. Her room had a sister, and brothers on the other side of the wall, with only a closed door between them.

  Most married women had staff and husbands who did not work, maids and housekeepers looking for directions. They were surrounded by people at all hours of the day.

  Yet here Ève sat, completely alone.

  She wasn’t sure if she enjoyed the sensation. It was certainly novel. After a few minutes of it, she wished Richard might return—not to take up where he had left off, but merely to hear another person’s voice and take away the silence.

  By the time she finished the small piece of cheese she had broken off from the larger lump—and a knife would need to be added to her list, too—Ève was abruptly weary to the point where her eyes were fluttering closed. It was not terribly late, yet it had been a day of extraordinary events.

  It was her wedding day, but as the world was not to know about the marriage, it must appear to them that the day was not unusual in any way. There would be no honeymoon, not even a short one.

  Ève retrieved her nightgown from the trunk, changed and went to bed. She discovered there were sheets beneath the cover when she turned it back, and a wool blanket above them.

  She turned out the lamp and settled in the bed, her head upon one of the two pillows, which was filled with down and very soft.

  Even though she was exhausted, Ève could not fall asleep. This was the Latin Quarter, which rarely slept. Outside her window, she could hear soft music, chatter and laughter and the tap of people’s shoes on the cobbles. Doors opening and closing. The clip of horses and their soft snort.

  They were all strange sounds to hear when one had their head upon a pillow. Her bedroom at home—at her parent’s house—faced the back of the house and the street was quiet to begin with.

  Eventually, weariness defeated her nervousness. She slept, only to be woken some time during the night when an arm came over her waist and tucked beneath her, and a hot body pressed up behind her. Lips against her cheek.

  Richard was home. She was no longer alone. Ève sighed and slid into a deeper sleep.

  It was astonishing to Ève how easily their days moved by, one after another. She had heard tales from recently married lady friends who spoke of the wholesale changes in their lives with despair, mourning the loss of their former lives. In part, her friends’ shock at their change in status had made Ève determined to never marry.

  Yet married life for her seemed perfectly natural, with nothing to mourn at all. Once she got used to the novelty of being alone sometimes, she liked being married. Perhaps it was the man she was married to which made the difference. Ève wasn’t certain. She only knew her days were simple and contented.

  She visited her mother almost every second day, in the morning after breakfast, to retrieve more items on her list. She could not have a cart deliver the items en masse, for a mistress, even one living in a man’s apartment, did not indulge in such domestic activities. A mistress would expect the man to supply any items she required. So Ève was forced to carry everything to the apartment a basket at a time, to avoid raising the neighbors’ suspicions.

  Slowly, the apartment became more comfortable and livable. It was astonishing what a difference small things, such as a cushion upon a chair, made.

  Richard would report to the café each evening for work and return to the apartment in the small hours of the night. After the first day, he provided a second key to the apartment for her, so Ève could come and go without him.

  She adapted her days to his work, rising late with him and staying up late, too.

  Only a few days after Richard began his work at the café, he told her he had arranged work for her, too.

  It had been late morning, and they had only recently risen. They were drinking coffee, which Ève had made by boiling water in a saucepan upon the little stove, and eating day-old croissants. Sometimes, they dressed and went to the little café around the corner for breakfast. Sometimes it was nice to stay in.

  “Work?” Ève repeated.

  “Singing,” Richard said. “The manager, Eugene, is not happy with the lady who
sings at the café each evening, for she often fails to arrive. Last night’s customers were complaining because they had expected her to be there. I mentioned that I know a very good singer whom he might want to speak to. He asked you to stop by tonight.”

  Ève considered it. “It is a way for me to be at the café and not raise suspicions,” she said slowly. “I cannot visit you as your mistress when you are working.”

  The corner of Richard’s mouth turned up a little. “I may have implied that you were my mistress, that I knew you slightly better than a mere acquaintance. Eugene likes his gossip, so the information will pass around.”

  Richard did that a lot, now. He smiled, he made jokes, and Ève liked to hear them. She had not realized that one could laugh while in bed with a man, yet found herself laughing often.

  “Shall I walk to the café with you tonight, then?” she asked him.

  “Eugene is expecting you to arrive with me, tonight.”

  Accordingly, Ève presented herself to the café manager, Eugene. She wore her prettiest evening gown. Eugene did not seem to be interested in her previous engagements. He merely nodded and said, “Sing something.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are a singer. Sing something.”

  Ève glanced around. Waiters were turning chairs over and placing them beneath the table, with a scrape of feet across the tiles. Others were snapping tablecloths as they laid them. A woman swept the floor. The dust she kicked up was thick in the air.

  Ève clutched her reticule and sought to recall a song she could sing without accompaniment. She sang the first line of one of the most popular ballads of the day, raising her voice above the noise of the restaurant preparing to open for business.

  Before she could start the second line, Eugene waved his hand. “Yes, yes. You will sing for me tonight, yes?”

  Ève let out the breath she had drawn to sing the second line, scrambling to encompass that she had been employed. “What time tonight?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.

  “Oh, ten o’clock.”

  “May I stay here until I am to sing?”