The Viscount's Pleasure House (Irresistible Aristocrats Book 1)

by Suzi Love

  Once again the women looked at each other in search of an answer, but once again three heads shook in a row.

  Justin groaned before looking to the other men for assistance. He raised his hands in application. “I assume you gentlemen blame me for this.”

  Edward glared, and his words sounded as an angry hiss. “Who else should we blame?”

  Gillian placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Edward, please.” She looked at Justin and smiled. “The next window, my lord. What do you have in store for us there?”

  He moaned. “There’ll be an elderly gentleman in the next room who may be recognizable to you. Once again, I’d ask for discretion.” At their puzzled looks, he explained, “On his weekly visits, he receives special attention from one of our larger and stronger ladies.” He looked toward Bart, who shrugged and laughed. “Don’t expect me to explain his particular fetish. I may indulge in some of the other treats on offer here, but I detest pain.”

  Justin rolled his eyes. “This gentleman dresses in one of our silk slave costumes—” At their continuing looks of incomprehension, he said, “He enjoys the feel of female slave clothing against his skin, and being whipped on his bottom through it by a woman who pretends to be the wife of an Arab sheik.”

  “Oooh,” Anna said, screwing her nose up in distaste.

  Justin shrugged. “He’s quite harmless and he pays well for the privilege of kissing her feet and debasing himself before her. In the Sultan’s Place our policy is not to condemn but to provide for each member’s particular needs.”

  “And then accept a lot of money for providing it,” Bart said in irony.

  Justin ignored him. “To save you future embarrassment, I’ll share the gentleman’s name now. It’s Lord Mannerly.”

  “Bloody hell,” Edward exclaimed. “That pompous bore gave me a lecture last week on the rights and wrongs of well-mannered behavior of a gentleman. And he cavorts in a brothel every week dressed like a female?”

  Justin chuckled. “We prefer calling it a house of pleasure rather than a brothel, which always sounds so … low class.”

  Bart snorted his laughter and even Thomas grinned. Chrissie’s mouth turned up at the ends as if she tried not to laugh. Feeling slightly more relaxed, Justin linked Chrissie’s arm through his and waved to the next corridor.

  “Onward, ladies. To the next entertainment.”

  From within the next room grunts and moans, pleasure intermingled with pain, interspersed with squeals of pleasure. Squeals sounding suspiciously girlish, yet manly. Chrissie jumped back after one particularly loud groan from Lord Mannerly.

  “Steady,” Justin said in her ear. He ran his hands up and down her sides from her hips to under her breasts, but stopped short of the soft mounds quivering above his fingers. Holding his hands still, he beat down the urge to continue his explorations a few inches higher. With the slightest upward movement of his fingers, those lush breasts would fill his palms and her nipples would rise up in greeting.

  Her body tensed, poised for his next movement. Up or down? His body clamored for hers, but others stood near them, too close to risk arousing either of them further. His unruly erection, refusing to play dead again, prodded against her back, pushed against her buttocks. If he wiggled or gave the slightest forward thrust, his yearning penis would press in the right position to slide home. His fingers itched to slide the eye-catching red gown upwards, over her ankles, past her knees, to expose her thighs. They’d be white, smooth, and incredibly tempting.

  Hell, get a grip. If he wanted sex, he owned a houseful of willing prostitutes. Yet for months, he’d not felt a twinge of arousal, his mind and body deadened from overuse and overexposure. Only Bart knew the truth, because his reputation as the Virile Viscount had provided a necessary protection in many situations. Thank God matchmaking mamas and timid virginal daughters avoided him like the plague.

  Chrissie leaned back to speak to him and pressed her curves harder along his already taut length. Damn her! Didn’t she understand how dangerous it was? Or perhaps she knew, but did it to punish him. As he tried to puzzle out her motives, he nearly missed her whispered words.

  “I feel so terribly sorry for Lord Mannerly.”

  Justin leaned around to read her eyes, looking for a hint of her thinking. He prided himself on being able to outwit women, all women. Nevertheless, when it came to Lady Chrissie Wellsby, he floundered like a green youth struggling to make sense of his first love. An unfeasible task.

  “Why would you pity him? Listen. He revels in every lash of the leather on his bare arse. Comes back for more, time after time.”

  “But to suffer such debasement in order to feel manly, it seems somehow … pitiable. A lonely existence. Doesn’t the pitiful man have anyone in who cares enough to keep him out of a house of debauchery such as this?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Describing my establishment in such contemptuous terms is not the way to endear yourself to me. I’m more likely to refuse to help you and your friends.” She bit her bottom lip, clamping down her escaping giggle, but it did no good. He heard it. “You find my distress amusing?”

  “I doubt my mild descriptions of your establishment discomfort you in any way at all. With your reputation, you’re well used to being talked about.”

  He raised a brow. “Gossiped about, yes, insulted, no. No man enjoys being affronted by a beautiful woman he’s trying to impress.”

  “Nonsense.” She turned to the spectacle before her and effectively dismissed him.

  “N-nonsense? Why is my regard for your beauty or my avid desire to please you nonsense?”

  “Hawkesbury, practiced flattery may work on susceptible ton ladies, ones enthralled by your insincere words, and I imagine, swept up and into your bed. I am not one of them.”

  He studied her for a minute. “Ah, now I see.” He gave her a smug smile, knowing it’d annoy her.

  She pivoted, so close to his body she stood on his boot. He smothered his grin. To unravel this sparrow’s secrets, he needed to ruffle her plain brown feathers, expose the passionate female hidden beneath her dispassionate exterior.

  She scowled. “What? What is it you imagine you see?”

  “You’re unable to accept flattery for one of two reasons. Either you’re unused to it, as we did establish your husband was a blind fool who didn’t notice your beauty… “

  “Or?”

  “Or he used flattery insincerely, and in the way most husbands resort to in marriage.”

  One shod foot commenced a tapping rhythm under her skirt, and the frothy red flounce around the hem rose and fell like a sparrow’s puffing chest.

  “Oh, pray, do enlighten me. Although as you’re not married—” She inhaled, sharp and hissing. “Oh, dear. I simply assumed you’re not.” She stared at him and then shook her head. “No, no, of course you aren’t.”

  He lifted a brow in question. “Why so certain?”

  “Apart from my investigator describing your situation, it stands to reason you’ve no wife. If you did, you’d not freely cavort with actresses in your own house.”

  “Many men have no such qualms in their spouse’s absence. They entertain courtesans in their houses, under the noses of household staff.”

  “Yes, but you wish to return your mother and your sisters to their rightful home. You’d not cause scandal at your residence if you already had a family to protect.”

  “Ah, yet I auditioned the women there. And they demonstrated all their tricks to us, before you rudely interrupted.”

  “No, no. You cannot convince me your morals are lacking to that extent. But please, do continue with your fascinating lecture on the mind of a married man.”

  He frowned. Should he feel complimented or insulted? She’d barely made his acquaintance, yet read every thought in his head without effort. Bloody irritating. His turn to seize back control of the situation.

  “A man offers false flattery to his wife when he’s sinned outrageously and is desperate to crawl back int
o a woman’s bed. Any woman.” He shrugged. “A wife being the quickest and easiest to gull into surrendering her wet, warm sheath, a husband appeals to her.”

  “Your theory doesn’t always hold water. My husband never cared enough about his sins to beg my forgiveness by flattering me, nor did he care if he crawled into my bed or not. I failed, miserably, to hold his attention, sensually and sexually, and thereby forced him to seek other women to ease his suffering.”

  “Good Lord above! Did the bastard fill your head with those lies?” She winced, so he gentled his tone. “Why would you believe him?”

  She sighed, but raised her eyes to meet his gaze. Damn, he admired her bravery. “Because I know my limitations. I know I don’t appeal in … in a bedroom way … to men.”

  “Bollocks.” Ignoring her startled gasp, he lifted the back of her gown, hooked it over his elbows, and pressed his body down the length of hers. “You appeal in and out of a bedroom. Your fucking cad of a husband went to great pains to kill any esteem you held for your skills, therefore enabling him to do whatever he liked and to never apologize for his behavior.” He pushed against her back, once, twice, three times. “Trust me, I’ve more experience with judging female flesh than your husband, and I say yours is very enticing.”

  Her spine stiffened. “Now I know you are funning me. I’ve neither the petite physique not the coloring of the popular ladies. Even during three seasons in town, I didn’t come close to being considered an original. Not even striking enough to be interesting.”

  He trailed his fingers over as much of her bare skin as he could reach, gratified to feel her chest movements become quicker, more irregular, the catches in her breathing audible. She swiveled her head to check the position of her friends but didn’t pull away, a sign the sexual delights she’d viewed this evening had an effect upon her libido.

  God knew watching her view the erotic acts had affected his. Put paid to his belief he was doomed to permanent impotency. He could laugh about it now, although in the small hours of morning, on cold miserable nights, he’d privately lamented he’d never share his large inherited oak bed with a warm and willing woman. The forever kind, not the paid by the hour sort.

  He continued his exploration of her hidden treasures, primitively and arrogantly pleased to be the first after her husband to touch her. She’d not needed to tell him that, as her reactions gave her away as an innocent, despite her widow’s status.

  No gloves disguised the roughness of his hands, his callused fingers, the signs of a working man and not a pretend gentleman. But she hadn’t pulled away from his aroused body, and she didn’t pull away now. Breath seized in her chest, her inhalation suspended, her breasts no longer rising and falling.

  “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe. I promise I’ll not harm you.”

  He looked toward the others. Bart’s long body slumped in the corner, his eyes closed, hardly surprising after the little sleep they’d managed. Thomas hovered behind Anna, whose attention had drifted from the performance below as she listened to whatever story Thomas regaled her with.

  In the darkest corner, the shadowy forms of Gillian and Edward could be seen locked together—the recognizable sounds and smells of animals on heat filtered out. If their interlude grew any more intimate, the curtains surrounding them would ignite. Gillian’s groans filtered through the corridor ‘s silence like the screeches of a cat in mating season.

  Justin chuckled. “Your friends are too busy to notice anything we do.” He applied himself to his task, or rather, to the pleasure of touching her thighs, running his hands over the tops of her stockings and letting his fingers wander in a slow circular pattern. “Soft.” He spoke near her ear, his voice raspy and raw with arousal as he caressed the bare skin of her inner thighs. “Soft with excitement. It seems being a voyeur stimulates you.”

  “I-I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, then gasped when his fingers crept higher.

  “Liar. Ah, I’ve discovered another of your secrets, my not-so prim-lady.”

  “Wh-what secrets?”

  “You’ve forgone the wearing of pantaloons. Perhaps in anticipation of what might happen here in one of the rooms. Was that it? Did you expect to undress for someone? With someone. Perhaps for me.”

  “No! I did not. I refused to undress for you last night, and I’d refuse again if you asked me.”

  He touched one finger to the nest of curls between her legs and although she clenched her thighs against the intrusion, he kept his finger in place, resting in her damp thatch. “I think, Chrissie, you’re not telling the truth. You enjoy the feel of a man’s hand upon you there.” He moved his finger a little and she hissed in a breath. “But I think you’d prefer my hand there now. If I’m correct, nod.”

  A long moment passed when neither of them moved so much as a muscle. She moved her head in a slow motion that became a faster, more emphatic, nod. He released the breath he hadn’t known he’d held. Relief flooded him, though why her permission mattered so much he couldn’t say, simply knew it did. He ached, and needed her to suffer the same pain.

  He waited, and though it took longer than he liked, she relaxed her taut muscles, unclenched her thighs, allowed him access to her most alluring place. Her crevice, scalding hot and dripping wet, felt so good only rigid control prevented him from thrusting his entire fist up and inside her tight passage. Like a pirate, Justin yearned to pillage and plunder his captive princess. Like a salivating sheik, he dreamed of initiating his young bride into the erotic tricks experienced in his harem.

  Leaning forward, he nuzzled below her ear and dragged the tip of his tongue across the scented skin of her neck. Violets would forever be his favorite flower. She shivered, not a ladylike shimmer but a full bodied tremble that shook her from head to toes, and started a mirror movement in his own tightly held muscles. For a few moments, he savored the feel of her response as it rippled over them both, then flicked his tongue around the inside shell of her ear. Her limbs loosened, knees sagged.

  Keeping one hand snugly fixed in her groin, he draped his other arm across her body. “Lean back against me. I’ve got hold of you.” “What … what are you doing to me?” Her voice sounded dreamy, floating, and her body rested against his in supplication. Nothing had felt so good, no one had been so physically and emotionally close to him for so long, a lump rose up in his throat.

  “Pleasure,” he said, swallowing down the jolt of emotion threatening to weaken his knees as well. “I’m delivering pleasure. Can you remember what it feels like now?”

  He slipped two fingers higher still, slid through her sodden passage, shifted and wiggled inside her until she squirmed and writhed.

  “Shush, shush.” For his own part, he was barely able to murmur the soothing sounds, yet knew she’d be mortified if she screeched aloud and he did nothing to prevent it.

  The placket of his trousers stretched so tautly across his shaft it rubbed and chaffed with every movement he made, yet even torture was better than no relief. Veins carrying blood to his penis throbbed in time with his finger ‘s strokes inside Chrissie, his engorged head screamed to be let free of its confinement.

  He’d not known such torture since he was a gawky youth and the milkmaid had bargained a glimpse of her quim in exchange for a half- sovereign. For a full sovereign, she’d let him touch it while baring her breasts. His costly first sexual experience had lasted precisely one minute and the maid had laughed so hard when he’d creamed his trousers her cap had fallen down to catch between her pendulous bosom.

  Fighting back the agony of his fully aroused lust, he swirled his thumb over her swollen and protruding clit, circled, while with two fingers, he kept up a relentless motion, in and out, up and down. Her folds swelled under the tip of his thumb and she gave small soft moans which increased in pace and volume at every touch.

  She swayed from side to side, eager to increase the pressure between her legs on her most sensitive places. Bending her head sideways, she buried her mou
th into her shoulder to muffle her excited whimpers and grunts.

  Then it came. Her release burst free in jolts and jars, while the outside evidence trickled over his bare fingers and down his hand. Moisture continued to gush even as her inner muscles clenched as tight as a welder ‘s clamp over his fingers. He flicked his thumb over the tip of her clitoris with the lightest touch, again and again, prolonging her lengthy climax.

  He waited until the last twitch of her vagina ceased before he extricated himself in a slow, reluctant withdrawal. She moaned over his withdrawal from her body and he groaned over the loss of his sanity. Taking a half step back, he dropped her skirts to the floor. Her head dropped to her chest and she wobbled on unsteady legs, yet he didn’t dare touch her again. The temptation to scoop her up and carry her away to the nearest empty room ate at him.

  If he did that, gave into the raw lust riding him he wouldn’t stop until he’d sated himself in her lush warmth. Sated? How many times would it take? Once, twice, a lifetime’s worth of climaxes, both hers and his? Instead he strode away, sought to drag up his usual inner calm by putting a generous distance between them.

  From the room below, the performance continued. By Lord Mannerly’s cries, his evening’s ritual timetable had progressed to the part where his dominatrix commanded him to find his release using his fist, while she berated him in a loud cruel voice for tugging his prick and finding release the way green youths did in their beds at night. He hoped Chrissie and the others would be enthralled for the next few minutes at the agony and ecstasy his lordship endured.

  Justin sat on the darkened stairs, slumped against the wall, dropped his head to his knees and covered his face in his hands. Stupid, stupid! He berated himself. Had he not learned his lesson over the past years? Giving in to lust every time the urge struck him had entangled him in this mess in the first place. If he’d been at home when his family needed him, not as far away from his disgusting father as possible and rutting his brains out with some nameless French mistress, he’d know the hiding place of his mother and sisters.