A Little More Discreet Madness: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  Their mouths met and melded even as he drew her into his embrace, her naked breasts clasped to the planes of his chest and his cock hardening rapidly between them.

  The feel of his fingers sliding over her skin to clasp her bottom tightly was an amazingly erotic sensation. She parted her legs and lifted one over his thighs, drawing him closer to the center of her body, to the place she knew was moist already and empty—preparing itself for his claiming.

  They rolled and turned, twisting in each other’s arms, each fighting for that extra inch of contact, that one place that had yet to be blessed with the fire of their passion. Charis tore her mouth breathlessly from Sinjun’s, only to return and pepper kisses over his neck and chest. She nipped at the flat discs of his nipples, laving them with her tongue, driven wild by the taste of his skin and an insatiable urge to lick him all over.

  He followed suit, his mouth and tongue finding sensitive spots on her body that made her mewl with delight even as her fingers explored his back, his buttocks, the tops of his thighs and—delicately—his balls hanging in their protective sac beneath his cock.

  They played, teased, aroused and wrestled, bodies heating, tongues meeting, parting, licking and tasting over and over again. They learned each other’s contours and discovered especially sweet places where they lingered, only to move on to new frontiers of pleasure.

  He dived between her thighs, splaying them wide and burying his face beneath, licking her frantically in all the right places. She writhed and cried out as he spread her liquids around and teased her arousal to the highest peak—then left her wanting so much more. She possessed a new knowledge of these pleasures now, a knowledge that fueled the blaze within her.

  Fully awake this time around, she felt for his cock and touched him, stroking him, then moving herself ever closer, imitating his touch with her own mouth as she daringly kissed the swollen head and then licked up and down, sucking as much as she could.

  It was his turn to groan, his fingers delving into her hair, gripping then releasing the tangled strands.

  Finally, breathless, she lay beneath him, open and panting.

  He paused between her thighs, cheeks flushed, lids heavy and looking at her with a taut expression on his face as he positioned himself at her opening. “I’m going to fuck you now, Charis. Really fuck you. Everything will change from this moment on. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. No. Oh God, please—just do it—” She trembled and shivered, her orgasm snapping angrily around her body, demanding she allow it release.

  “As of this second, we can go back. You can move on with your life and nothing need ever be said about our time together. But if you take me inside you, I can’t promise I’ll pull out in time. We may make a child…”

  Still he hesitated. And in that moment of hesitation, Charis tumbled into love with him. No matter who or what he was, he put her needs and considerations before his own. And he honored her with his brutal honesty.

  That was the only kind of man she could ever imagine loving. Or being with. No matter what the circumstances.

  She reached for his arms and grasped them firmly. “Ruin me, Sinjun. I want you inside me more than I want my next breath. Naught else matters to me, nor ever will.”

  He nodded. “So be it.”

  Moving slightly, he nudged her with his cock, a sweetly solid strength that parted her pussy lips and began to enter her. She closed her eyes, the better to savor the sensation of his filling her, of her body opening like a flower to take him into her sweetness.

  He thrust then, a quick sharp push with his hips and she echoed it, matching his move, urging him on by lifting her buttocks off the sheets and pushing him even further inside.

  “Sinjun—” She breathed the word as he plunged deeply, their bodies meeting in a tangle of hair and pleasure where they were joined. Charis felt—complete. Her inner channel was full, stretched and aroused by the length of the right man, the movements of the right man.

  And when that man began to thrust, slowly at first then more forcefully, her body responded wildly, lifting and bucking beneath him as his flesh stimulated hers. He lifted her, fingers gripping fiercely, hips hammering against her.

  She could sense the onrush of her climax and barely managed to open her eyes and watch his face. He was focused on their bodies, the slap of their skin, the whiteness of her belly and the slickly sliding length of his cock as he withdrew and reentered her.

  Charis shared his focus. For her, the world had become little more than Sinjun and what he was doing to her. There could be nothing else other than this moment in time.

  Had she ever experienced this before? She didn’t think so. Nothing could compare to the magic, the bliss, the flight into blinding madness that sent her heart soaring into a vortex as her blood pulsed loudly in her ears.

  She would like to have held back, to take the time to examine these sensations, catalog them, store them for future reference. But her body would have none of it. A process had begun that was inexorable, a flight that could not be sustained, only treasured.

  And Sinjun was with her. He squeezed her tightly, thrust roughly and deeply on a harsh groan, then froze.

  And her body shattered, surrendering to an impulse older than time itself. Her spasms were fed by Sinjun’s shout of climax and the ripples inside her as his cock exploded, flooding her with the warmth of his seed.

  Together they soared, locked as mates, blindly releasing all that they were into the other’s keeping, clinging tightly as the maelstrom of desire claimed them. And together they collapsed after a shining moment of eternity, panting and breathless.

  Tumbled in a limp mess of arms, legs, sticky flesh and tangled hair, they fought for breath. And Charis found herself content to lie silently in the arms of her lover for a few moments as her pounding heart slowed.

  “Marry me, Charis.”

  The words rumbled from somewhere above where her head lay on his chest. She blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Marry me? I don’t know how we’ll live or where, or what we’ll do to survive, but without you—well, I can’t imagine wanting to survive at all.” His voice was deep, serious even. He meant every word, she could tell.

  “I…but…”

  He lifted up on one arm and stroked her face. “I never imagined I’d find a woman like you. Never imagined sharing moments like this. And now I can’t imagine living without them. I’m not a lackwit, my love. But without you in my life, I’d be a lackheart.”

  Charis’ eyes filled with tears at his words. “Oh Sinjun.”

  “I mean it.” He kissed her softly. “You’re a special woman. We’re meant to be together. Can’t you feel it? It’s right, us being like this. As if fate arranged our meeting.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I feel it too.”

  “Then marry me. Say yes. Take a chance on a man who isn’t a lackwit?” His eyes twinkled as laughter shone in their depths.

  “Yes.” She smiled back, her heart full of joy and her lips curving even as he kissed them again. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. I’ll marry you.”

  He hugged her so tightly her eyes watered.

  “Wait. One thing.” She held him away. “How do you feel about breeding horses?”

  “They can do it themselves. I’m planning on breeding with you.” He chuckled. “But yes, I think I’d like that.”

  “Then it’s a deal. I will marry you, darling Sinjun. My not-a-lackwit husband-to-be.” She paused. “I wonder what the real lackwit will say about all this.”

  Sinjun cuddled her close, kissed her thoroughly, and then said the oddest thing. “I doubt he’ll mind at all.”

  *~~*~~*

  Some miles away, Louisa Lloyd-Jones stretched languorously in bed and wiggled her toes against her husband, Professor Owen Lloyd-Jones. “D’you think Sinjun will work out his problems?”

  “Still worrying about him, sweetheart?” Owen turned his head on the pillow. He was panting, happily immersed in sexual satiety. It was always th
us with Louisa. Always had been and, God willing, always would be.

  “He’s a very nice person. He deserves better than he’s had.” She sighed. “I do hope he took my advice and spent some time thinking about his future before letting it all be arranged for him.” She nuzzled Owen’s shoulder. “He struck me as being a very passionate man, Owen. The mere thought of him shackled to someone he doesn’t care for in the right way—well, it makes me shudder.”

  “Trouble is,” Owen paused. “Once men meet you, they start looking for someone like you. They don’t realize there isn’t anyone else like you in the whole world. If he’s off somewhere hoping to find another Louisa, he’s engaging in an exercise in futility.”

  As Owen had guessed, that flattering but true comment was productive of some delightful responses. Quite some time passed before he could gather his thoughts, since he found himself again surprised at the rapidity with which his wife could arouse him to full hardness.

  “That was quite lovely.” She sighed later. “But getting back to our earlier topic, there are plenty of women like me in the world. Women who believe that they deserve every bit as much pleasure from the sexual act as men. Women who aren’t afraid of their bodies and how they respond.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, darling.” Owen dragged the covers over them, agreeing with words, but doubting them in his thoughts. There wasn’t a woman alive like his precious Louisa. There couldn’t be.

  Of course, if he’d had chance to speak with Sinjun Randall at that moment, he’d have learned otherwise. There was indeed another woman who resembled Louisa in a variety of wonderful ways. And Sinjun had nabbed her before anyone else even knew.

  Charis was his. He’d compromised her, ruined her and intended to spend the rest of his life repeating his wicked deeds.

  And as for the woman herself? Well, she was far too content to think about anything other than the wonderful man lying beside her. Who happened to be gazing hopefully at her as his fingers wandered over interesting places on her body.

  Without hesitation, she returned the favor, letting her own hands roam freely, her lips curling into a wicked grin when she found a certain spot…

  THE END

  Jessie

  Prologue

  A street in London - late October 1814

  If she could only have found Lady Miranda. Lady Miranda Barbour she was now, but she had been Lady Miranda Montvale when Jessie had met her. Tall, red haired and beautiful, Lady Miranda had a way about her, a shy but appealing humour and grace that put Jessie immediately at ease.

  It hadn’t been hard to open up and reveal her situation once they started talking, thought Jessie. Miranda had immediately understood and offered funds. Jessie had refused, of course. But she had not refused the suggestion of work as a governess with a friend’s family, and for a while everything had been settled, if not wonderful.

  Then things changed with a marriage and a death, and suddenly a governess was no longer needed. Thing like this often happened, and Jessie had hoped to move to another similar position, but this time there had been little interest.

  And her life had steadily gone downhill from then on. Until here she was, lost, alone and icy cold.

  It was raining. Not just ordinary rain, but brutal, pounding, soaking rain. It rained as if the skies had just been given a death sentence and were sobbing out their agony.

  For the woman making her way down the flooded alley, the rain was just another burden pounding on her shoulders. Even when a passing carriage added a wave of water to her already sodden clothing, she ignored it, barely wincing at the cold seeping through her skirts.

  She clutched a modest bundle beneath her arm, doing her best to protect it with her body and the thin cloak, but knowing that walking through a deluge like this one had probably sealed the fate of the contents.

  Which were, she reflected, her entire worldly goods.

  At the end of the alley was a small corner shop, and outside was a bench, sheltered a little by an overhanging roofline. It was toward this sanctuary that she was making her way, although God knew she certainly wouldn’t dry off at all.

  It was a well-known spot for those seeking employment, since the window held notices of possible jobs and she hoped to find something there that would suit. Nobody needed one more than she did.

  She had given up hope of finding Miranda. She and her husband had left London and nobody seemed too clear about their destination. Apparently they both had a bit of a wanderlust.

  A shiver racked her, and she clenched her teeth, wondering if she was about to contract the ague. If so, then perhaps she could conveniently manage to pass away on that bench.

  At least it would put an end to this misery she currently experienced.

  Turning the corner, the young woman squelched to the bare wooden planks and gratefully sat, caring nothing for the wet beneath her, and everything for the relief at a momentary respite. Her feet hurt, and the soaked leather of shoes that didn’t fit had pinched and probably raised blisters.

  Catching her breath, she rested for a moment, too tired and cold to look at the notice board. She closed her eyes, wondering if these were her last moments.

  If this was where Jessie Nightingale would meet her Maker.

  “Excuse me, Miss…”

  She froze. That did not sound like the voice of God, or one of his holy messengers.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  She opened her eyes to see a smart pair of boots. Raising her gaze, she observed equally smart breeches, then a thick, many-layered cape wrapped around a man staring down at her. He tipped his head to one side, ignoring the trickle of rain that cascaded down over his shoulder. “Are you well? You seem…lost…”

  She wanted to laugh, but wasn’t sure if she remembered how. “Thank you, sir,” she managed. “I am resting for a moment. Until the rain might ease.” She nodded politely, hoping he would forgive her for not rising and curtseying. She just didn’t have the energy.

  Apparently her social oversight was unimportant. “I’d be happy to offer you a lift to wherever you might be headed,” he said gently. “My carriage is to meet me here in a few moments.”

  She blinked away the raindrops and looked at his face. He was an older gentleman, with a kindly demeanour, his eyebrows white, his eyes a soft brown.

  “I have a granddaughter, you know. I’d be quite upset if she were to find herself alone and soaked on a corner…” He extended his hand, slowly, as if afraid to scare her. “Truly I mean you no harm.”

  She looked at his fingers, his nails clean and short, the one small signet ring gracing his little finger. His skin was ageing, she noticed, in keeping with his declared status of grandfather.

  Out of nowhere in particular, Jessie asked the first question that popped into her head. “How old is your granddaughter?”

  He smiled. “She is about to turn fifteen. Every bit as beautiful as her mother, my daughter. And every bit as headstrong. Her Papa is going to have his hands full this season when she makes her debut.”

  He was quality. She had already come to that conclusion, but his words confirmed her assumption. “You must be very proud.”

  He nodded. “I’d be even more proud if I could persuade you to accept my offer of a ride. Look, here’s my carriage. I was due to meet a friend at the tearoom in Barnsley’s hotel, but sadly he is not up to snuff today. Why not join me there and save me from a lonely cup of tea?”

  “I…” She glanced down at herself. “You are kind, sir, but I fear I would not be too welcome anywhere in my current condition.”

  He smiled. “You do seem to have soaked up half the Thames,” he observed. “But I’m sure that can be corrected. And come now, wouldn’t a warm drink and perhaps a scone or two be a delightful respite from your journey?”

  Jessie met his gaze. “It would, of course, sir. But you should know…my journey only has one destination. I am, for all intents and purposes, on the road to Hell.”

  He considered h
er words for a few moments. “Well, in that case, I think we ought to add a shot of brandy to your tea, don’t you?”

  Chapter One

  He introduced himself as he settled her in the small carriage. “My name is Gerald Crawford,” he said with a nod, closing the door and tapping on the roof.

  Jessie thought for a moment. “Sir Gerald Crawford?”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgement, and a measure of surprise. “You’ve heard of me then?”

  She huffed out a sound between a laugh and a snort. “Everyone with an interest in finance has read your treatise on the current state of British banks, and how the impending difficulties in France are bound to affect England’s financial situation…”

  He blinked and stared at her, speechless for a moment or two. “You have just astounded me, young lady. What is your name?”

  She remembered her manners. “Forgive me, sir. I am Jessie Nightingale. Miss Jessie Nightingale.”

  His eyes roamed her face. “And yet you are familiar in some way…”

  She quickly turned to look out of the carriage window. “I do not believe we’ve ever met, sir. I would think it unlikely.”

  “Why?” He grasped the handle above the door as the vehicle lurched around a poorly paved corner.

  She raised her chin and stared ahead. “My childhood was spent in the country with my mother. I was informed my Papa had died in Europe fighting Napoleon’s forces. Mama contracted the ague and I was left alone at quite a young age. Luckily a distant relative required a governess, and because I showed aptitude with numbers, she engaged me for several years.”

  “If you’ve read and understood my treatise, Miss Nightingale, I would say your familiarity with numbers goes way beyond a mere aptitude.” He lifted a sceptical eyebrow at her.

  She shrugged. “Apparently my mind likes the logic of mathematics.”

  “I venture to opine that you are unique in that regard. For your gender, especially.”

  “I cannot take credit for it. It just is part of who I am.”