“Quite well, thank you. That was—very pleasant.”
His lips quirked. “Very pleasant? That hardly seems an adequate description. Perhaps we should consult Roget’s Thesaurus. I believe I saw a copy in Carmela’s sitting room.”
“You were masterful, as you must know.” Pru heard the tinge of resentment in her voice. But it wouldn’t do to annoy the man if she wanted him to do this to her again, so she affected a wobbly smile. “What exactly was that at the end?”
Darius rolled away and leaned on an elbow. “What did it feel like?”
“I’m not sure I can describe it, even with the assistance of Dr. Roget.” Fireworks. Shooting stars. Earthquakes. Volcanic eruptions. Something so strong and sweet she folded in and out like an accordion. Even her nose tingled. She put a hand to it. Still there.
“You’ve never felt anything like it before?” He seemed inordinately pleased with himself.
“Never.”
“It was the little death, Pru. Your crisis. An orgasm.”
“Oh.” Charles had talked of orgasms, but as far as Pru knew it only referred to the man ejaculating his semen. He would continue on top of her for what seemed like hours, no matter how uncomfortable Pru was in those less-than-seven times, until he spent inside her. She really did have a great deal to learn.
“Well, it was lovely. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
But he hadn’t really had any. “Do you want me to do the same thing to you?” She wondered if he would take off all his clothes if she kissed him in such a way. She had seen statues, yes, and of course a lot of nude bodies since yesterday, but never a real-life man up close. Cyrus most definitely didn’t count, white arse be damned.
Darius’s jaw went slack. “Pardon?”
“You know, k-kiss you down there so you can have your own orgasm.”
“Ye gods,” he muttered once he got over his coughing fit. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Pru. Respectable ladies usually are not expected to engage in such behavior.”
Pru wriggled up so that she had the lace pillows at her back and her nightgown back over her legs. Mostly. “Why not?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say. We abide by rigid, ridiculous rules, which is why places like Jane Street exist.”
“So you are saying a courtesan would put a gentleman’s thing in her mouth but a lady would not.”
“That’s the general gist of it. There might be some exceptions, of course, if a man got really lucky.”
Pru made up her mind. “I came to Jane Street to expand my horizons. This is your lucky night, Darius Shaw.”
Chapter Seven
Somehow this starchy, virtuous widow had turned into a courtesan. Darius could not credit himself entirely for her transformation—Prudence Thorne’s blood was a stream of sensuality beneath her pale, pearly skin. He’d barely touched her before she came apart, bursting against his tongue like a ripe peach. Tasting like one, too. The scent of Damascene roses had clouded his senses as he feasted. She’d been wasted on that damn fool of a husband.
Ten years was a long time to go without sexual congress. The few months that Darius had trod his own celibate path had not exactly been a picnic. He was as hard now as he’d ever been in his life, but tonight was supposed to be Pru’s turn.
He had given her his gentleman’s promise, not that he was much of one. But there would be no true consequences if he allowed her to—
A woman like her wouldn’t like it. And for some reason he’d much prefer if he could bury himself inside her in the usual run-of-the-mill way, watch her lashes tangle as she cried out, see her small breasts rise and fall, kiss them to peaking pink perfection. Gad, but he was becoming alliterative, a sure sign he’d lost his mind.
Absently he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his infernally tight jacket. He was burning up. He needed to shrug it off, and where was Malcolm? Suddenly he was so tired he didn’t think he had the strength to kick off his boots.
“Darius?” she asked in a small voice. Here she’d made a generous offer, and he was hesitating like a schoolboy. But his head had started to pound just like when he had the summer fever in Alexandria.
Curse it. Not again.
“I—I don’t feel quite well, Pru.” Damn it. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. First the bout of sneezing, now this. He’d come home to escape the vagaries of Egypt, but it seemed he’d brought his troubles with him.
Her face crumpled. “Do I sicken you?”
“No, no.” The wretched pink stripes on the walls wavered.
“Is it your previous indisposition? You are not sneezing.”
He gulped for breath. He could not afford any delay for illness—the auction was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. All his invitations had gone out, and the event was already the talk of the town. “No, I’ll be fine.”
And maybe he would be. Perhaps the ill humors in his body had built up for so long he needed immediate release, and here was Pru wanting to provide it. A good come cured everything, didn’t it? At least for a little while. Then it would be a dark room, cool cloths, Malcolm at his side barking at him to drink his broth.
“I accept your offer, Pru. But if at any time you change your mind about it, you may stop.”
“I’m sure I’m equal to the task, if you give me some guidance.” She sounded like she was getting ready to pluck a chicken or polish the silver. Well, she would be polishing something.
“Do you mind if I disrobe? It’s rather hot, don’t you think?” He tried to stand and quickly thought the better of it. So he divested himself of his clothes sitting on the edge of the bed, slithering out of his breeches until he got to his boots. He pictured himself toppling off the bed onto his head if he bent one inch farther, so dizzy was he.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He took a breath. “It wouldn’t do to wake Malcolm. Can you help me with these?”
Pru scrambled off the bed, an angelic vision in her lace-trimmed, nearly sheer lawn nightgown. Her hair hung in shimmering waves, held back by the impromptu blindfold. When she knelt before him, he fumbled clumsily with the knot. She gazed up at him with such clear trust that his heart broke just a little bit. He was a cad to let her go through with this. If he had a shred of decency, he’d send her up to her room and put her on the first stage to Bath tomorrow morning.
But he was a Shaw. And she was a woman on her knees in his bedroom. And he needed—he needed—
She tipped backward pulling off the second boot. He gave her a hand, but his arm was as weak as his scruples.
“What should I do?” Her eyes were wide, taking in his sun-browned body. He sat up taller. He had nothing to be ashamed of—his life had included plenty of vigorous exercise as well as business cunning. He was, Darius thought ruefully, the total package—brains and male beauty. If only he had some money, he’d be an eligible catch.
But soon he’d have an adequate nest egg. In two days—no, it was past midnight—tomorrow the auction would commence, and by the end of the evening he’d be a rich man.
Rich enough to buy a country property. Rich enough for as many sheep as could bleat. Rich enough to take a wife.
If he was still alive. His vision blurred. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear himself. Pru pushed him back on the bed, following whatever directions he seemed to be giving. She nodded earnestly and eyed his rampant cock, which didn’t seem to care that the man it was attached to was experiencing some light-headedness. He glanced up at the mirror on the ceiling, saw the spill of Pru’s golden-ash hair, his own face looking back at him with a rather dazed expression. He watched as she bent over him, her soft hair tumbling onto his thighs. Sweet gods.
She began by smoothing him between her small palms, her touch so gentle it might have been butterfly wings.
“I won’t break,” he grunted. She gripped harder immediately, and he hissed his pleasure. Her hands were cool, strong, very nimble. She explored him with her thumbs, circling the tip of his cock, finding the pea
rl of moisture and sliding her fingers over it. Sheathed between her hands, he closed his eyes as the room spun. She moved up and down his member as though she’d been doing this every night of her life, and the days besides. One hand drifted down to cup his sac, and the exquisite pressure was enough to make him think he was going to lose all self-control.
He must have made some sort of noise, for her hands stilled. “Should I stop?” she whispered.
Never. “Kiss me,” he choked out. “Please.”
He could feel the heat of her body as she leaned over him, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. There was hardly anything more beautiful than watching a woman pleasure him so, unless it was seeing her secret smile as she came apart beneath him. Or above him. Darius was determined to observe Pru in all ways eventually. Right now he scrunched his eyes shut as her lips hovered over his cock. Soon she would—
And then she did. A tentative tongue swiped over its head. He stiffened even more and sighed.
Encouraged, she became bolder. Soon he was encased in the warm, wet heaven of her mouth. Between her hands and her tongue, she treated him to one agonizingly wonderful sensation after another. For a novice, she was most persuasive in her amorous skills. If Darius didn’t know better, he’d believe himself to be in the bed of one of the famed courtesans of Courtesan Court.
But Pru was no courtesan, and would not know what to do with what was about to happen next. With a growl, Darius extricated himself with some difficulty, rolled over onto his stomach, and pumped against the mattress.
He should feel some remorse for spending in an embarrassingly short period of time, but Pru in her artless innocence could not be resisted. And he was not himself. Not himself at all.
“Am I finished?” she asked.
He certainly was. Darius buried his nose in the furry bedcovering. Malcolm would have to clean it tomorrow.
“I am finished, my dear. That was—exceptional. Thank you from the bottom of my black heart.”
“Did you ejaculate your semen?”
Good Lord, but she sounded like she was reading out of an anatomy book. “I did indeed.” He rolled back over, covering his flaccid penis with one hand. To his shock, she brushed it away.
“I want to see.”
“There’s not much to see now.”
Pru squinted down at him as though she was looking at a beetle under a magnifying glass. Her eyes were bright in the lamplight, her face flushed from her exertions. “It looks very different now, doesn’t it? How very peculiar men are.”
“I suppose we are.” He was not about to ask how he compared to her late husband—he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of, even in repose.
“Did I—did I do it right?”
“Absolutely.” He took her hand in his, circling her palm. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”
Her cheeks became rosier. “Very sure. Until I came to Jane Street, I had a most imprecise understanding of what can transpire between a man and a woman.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to broaden your knowledge.” His voice was rough, his throat dry as dust. “Could you fetch me your brandy if you’re not going to drink it? I’m terribly thirsty.”
Pru rose, smoothing down her crumpled nightgown. She was delightfully disheveled, so much more attractive than her daytime scraped-back, buttoned-up self. In less than the space of an hour, she looked younger, freer, nearly wanton.
But perhaps he was hallucinating—the fever sometimes played tricks on him. Darius prayed to the various deities he’d encountered in his travels that he could stave off the worst of his illness until after the auction.
Pru returned with the tumbler and stood at the edge of the bed. “I suppose I should be going.”
“It is late. And you’ll be leaving first thing.” Darius took a punishing sip. “I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“N-now or tomorrow?”
Had he said that aloud? He must have. “Both. But I’m a restless sleeper. It’s best if you go on up to your own bed. If you stayed, though, tomorrow we could finish up the inventory and arrange the items for the auction. I won’t touch you again unless you want me to.” Please stay.
Pru’s golden brows knit. “Do you want to? Touch me again, that is?”
“Can you doubt it?” Darius wanted to touch her all over—every nook and cranny of her milk-white skin, every gilt hair, every toenail. He’d not even touched her breasts once—the same breasts that puckered invitingly beneath her nightgown. He decided her nipples would be pink, pale, and lovely like the rest of her. The thought of bringing Pru more pleasure was very appealing.
But not, unfortunately, tonight. He would mix Malcolm’s magic powder with the rest of Pru’s brandy and sleep until noon if he could.
“Why?”
Darius frowned. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to touch me again?” Her chin had lifted, her spine had straightened.
Gone was the soft girl in the throes of her first orgasm. Whether she stayed or not depended on whatever he said next. He wasn’t quite up to a flowery speech, and she would think it false in any case.
“I like you,” he said simply. “I don’t know why, because you’re not like any other woman I’ve ever been with.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but then must have thought the better of it. Instead she remained beside the bed, her fingers working at the blasted ring. He’d forgotten all about it.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, startling them both. “Go to bed, Pru,” he said gently. “I hope I see you in the morning, but if not, thank you for tonight. I’ll never forget it.”
She nodded once and was gone, closing the door behind her. Darius sprang off the bed, just in time to vomit up the brandy into the silver bowl Pru had brought up this afternoon.
He rang for Malcolm. At least he had not disgraced himself in front of Pru, although he’d much rather see her face above him as he lay dying—or wanting to—than Malcolm’s. She’d claimed to be good at taking care of people, but he would not willingly subject her to the next few hours.
What kind of man was he that he sickened so easily? He was not an eligible catch at all.
Chapter Eight
Judging from the slant of light in her room, Pru had slept the morning away. How wicked of her, when there was work to be done. And perhaps some play.
She’d decided to stay—what harm could another day or two do? Last night had been extremely informative. Transformative. She truly did not feel like her old self. What Darius Shaw had done to her—what she had done to him—had been an extraordinary adventure.
He had asked her to stay. Sounded sincere. And did not bother to flatter her with lies to get her to agree. She liked him the better for it—she knew perfectly well she was not the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance, or even in the top ten. He must have been exposed to a great many temptations in his travels, and Pru had little practice with seduction.
Face it—she had no practice at all. The less-than-seven times with Charles had not included any of the things that she and Darius had done last night. Not even the kissing. Certainly Charles had kissed her, but it was more like the accidental bumping of mouths. He had never swept in, swept her away, conquered. Pru’s lips tingled with memory. How she wanted to kiss Darius Shaw again.
Would it be too bold to do it over breakfast? But perhaps over luncheon was more apt—it was quite late. Pru could not recall the last time she’d slept in. But her body had been replete, drowsy, languid when she’d left Darius. She’d stretched on her narrow little bed and lost consciousness almost immediately.
When she woke up she washed and dressed quickly, wishing she had something other than a black dress to put on. Black reminded her too much of her embarrassing widowhood, when she was forced for propriety’s sake to mourn a man she wished to perdition. But she had nothing else—in fact was running low on unmentionables. She could not imagine asking Malcolm to wash her underwear, but later today she needed to do it discreetly.
She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, hoping to recover some of the rosiness she had when she had been blindfolded and bedecked with kisses. Pru opened the door and listened at the top of the stairs. The house was quiet, so quiet she wondered if she were the only person home. She moved down to the next landing. Darius’s bedroom door was shut, as well as the separate door that led to the sitting room, and she felt too shy to knock to see if he was within.
Her rumbling stomach sent her directly to the kitchen. It, too, was quiet, empty of people, but Malcolm had left her food on the plain pine table. When she lifted the linen napkin, she discovered a pretty china plate for her with a roll, a wedge of cheese, and an apple. He’d wrapped the teapot in a quilted cozy, but it had long gone cold, proof that she was a slugabed. When she pulled out her chair, she saw a grubby square of paper with her name mis-spelled—Mrs. Throne—in Malcolm’s execrable handwriting.
How strange. These must be instructions for her to carry on without him. Pru bit into her apple and unfolded the paper one-handed.
Madamn master is sik. Do not go in!!! Back latter. M.
Well! How shabby of Malcolm to desert Darius in his moment of need. Darius had complained last night of feeling somewhat unwell, but that had not stopped him from bringing Pru to heaven and back. But if he was truly ill today, he probably would not be interested in continuing Pru’s sensual journey. Drat and damn.
She hadn’t heard any sneezing or gasping or coughing when she hovered uncertainly outside his door, but it would do no harm to check on the man, no matter what Malcolm had said. Pru poured out the cold tea and set a kettle to boil. He’d responded well to tea the other day—tea cured everything, as her old nurse used to say. And she needed some, too, to clear her head and prepare for what might be rejection. Darius had been interested in her yesterday, but hours had passed.
Pru knew she was nothing special—if she had been, Charles would not have died in another woman’s arms. Well, in her rhododendron bush. But she was beginning to think Charles was not so special, either. His equipment was nothing—nothing—like Darius Shaw’s as far as she could recall. Even at rest, the man was impressive. Pru wanted to get her hands on him again, and her lips, too. Darius had made very satisfactory noises as she pleasured him, making her feel a power she did not know she possessed.
Lords of Passion Page 23
