by Ashe Barker
Full, so full. Stuffed. The sensation was sublime, both holes filled with him. By him. Bizarre words whirled around her brain—possessed, taken, powerless. But powerful too, because this was her choice. She chose to do this, could have said no, could have stopped him.
She would never stop him. She loved him.
Adam pulled back, then thrust again. His cock rubbed against her pussy walls, the friction delighting her. She squeezed, gripping hard, everywhere. She wanted harder, faster, more.
He delivered, setting up a brisk, demanding rhythm. He twisted his fingers inside her arse. That heightened her arousal, causing her to gyrate her hips madly, seeking… something.
“Stroke your clit.”
“What? I don’t…”
“Reach back, and stroke your clit. It will feel good.”
He was right. She knew he was right. Tossing aside the remaining shreds of her tattered and wholly useless modesty, she did as he suggested. And was gone. Her climax was instantaneous, powerful, an avalanche of erotic sensation that stole her breath for several moments as her pussy and her arse convulsed.
Adam continued to pound his cock into her, at the same time thrusting his fingers in and out of her rear hole. Beyond coherent motion, Victoria gripped her clit between her fingers and pressed hard. Her actions were clumsy, untutored, but enough to prolong and enhance her release, sending her to even dizzier heights.
Only when she eventually started to return to her senses did she become aware of Adam’s guttural moans, his low, tortured breath sounds. He rammed his cock in hard, and held still as his erection lurched inside her. The familiar heat of his semen washed her inner space. Victoria tightened around him, as though by doing so she might hold him with her forever.
Chapter Fourteen
Six weeks. Had it really only been six weeks since he left? Well, six weeks and two days. Forty-four days and nights?
Victoria set down her pen and recapped her inkwell. She would finish her correspondence tomorrow. Or the day after.
What had happened to her? She used to be so much more diligent, so much more hard-working. Adam had changed that. He had spanked her for working late—twice—and maybe that had brought about some change in her. But she thought his influence was probably more subtle than that.
He had shown her a new and different way of living. He had awakened in her desires she had never dreamed of, appetites she could not have imagined. And he offered possibilities; new, delightful possibilities. He could fill her body and her life. She was just beginning to believe that perhaps he had.
She loved Adam Luke, she knew that. She wanted him. Every day, every minute since he had left Wynne House the morning after the awards dinner, she had craved his return with a desperation that frankly unnerved her. And in the last couple of weeks, she had begun to suspect he had left her with more than just fond memories.
Her monthly courses were almost a month late. She was just daring to hope.
She let her thoughts drift back to that morning, which seemed so long ago now. She had slept in Adam’s bed, a deep, satisfied sleep despite her earlier wakefulness. He had roused her as the fingers of the dawn light just started to penetrate the curtains, which she supposed he must have closed. They had definitely been open when she entered the room; she remembered the moonlight quite vividly. He had murmured in her ear that she should return to her room, that she did not want the maid to find her bed empty when the girl came to make up the fire.
For a brief, heady moment Victoria had wondered if she cared a jot what the maid found, or thought, but on further reflection decided he was right. She was resolved to live her life as she chose, but discretion would make things run more smoothly. Victoria was not a woman to court problems if she could avoid them. She kissed Adam and slid from his bed as he retrieved her discarded wrap from the floor. He helped her into it, tied the belt at her waist, then accompanied her down the hallway to her own door. He cupped her chin and kissed her, and told her not to be late for breakfast.
She was not late. She was first to enter the dining room, in fact, closely followed by her mother. Hester poured tea for them both, then took her usual place at the table. Victoria sat opposite, choosing a seat where she could see the door. She had not intended to, but found herself watching for Adam, listening for his footfalls as he crossed the hall from the bottom of the stairs.
“I trust you had a successful evening. Did we win any awards?”
Distracted, Victoria beamed at her mother. “We did. Two, in fact.”
“I see. Shall we need to have a cabinet built, do you think, to show off our accolades?”
“Perhaps. I intend to weave much more in the way of fine cloth. Can I leave the showing off to you?”
“Of course, my dear, I shall be very good at it. A nice cherry wood, I think.” She reached for the sugar bowl and selected a small lump to drop into her teacup. “So, did you and Mr. Luke have a good time at the dinner?”
“Yes. He is good company. We danced, and…” She had faltered, searching for something safe to share with her mother given the nature of the evening she had spent with Adam. At least, the latter part of it. “…and we spoke.” It was not wholly untrue. They had spoken. A bit.
“He is a pleasant man. And handsome too.”
Victoria nodded as she reached for a slice of toast. “I suppose he is. Pleasant company, I mean. And an excellent business partner.”
“You like him?”
Victoria looked up in surprise. It was unlike her mother to quiz her on such a matter. “Yes, I like him. It was very good of him to agree to a partnership, to allow me a chance to regain our livelihood. He did not have to.”
“No, of course he did not.” Hester sipped her tea before levelling a sharp look in Victoria’s direction. “Nor did he need to return Wynne House to us. That was most generous of him.”
“Yes, it was.” Her mother’s pointed look was not lost on Victoria. She knew that expression, and she waited.
“You did not sleep well, I fear.” Hester lifted her teacup, sipping from it in her dainty way, a skill her daughter always envied.
Victoria frowned. “Why would you think that? I slept very well, thank you.”
“I see. You fared better than I did then. I woke with a terrible thirst, no doubt caused by the lamb casserole we had at dinner. Mrs. Bridger is a wonderful cook, but she does have a heavy hand with the salt cellar on occasions.”
Victoria remained silent, apprehensive. Her mother was working up to something. She had a growing fear she knew exactly what that would be. Victoria folded her hands in her lap and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“I had to go in search of a drink of water, down to the kitchens. It was perhaps three o’clock, maybe a little later. I noticed that the front door was locked, and supposed you had turned the key as you came in. But I am a mother; I fuss, I daresay. Anyway, I needed to be sure that you were home safe so I peeped into your room on my way back to bed. You were not there, though your lovely ball gown was hanging on the front of your wardrobe so I knew that you were in the house. I waited, perhaps for twenty minutes or so.”
Victoria met her mother’s steady gaze. She could lie, she supposed. She could no doubt come up with some half-reasonable explanation for her whereabouts in the middle of the night, and her mother would accept that. She would not believe the tale, naturally. Hester Wynne was too astute for such deception. Nothing more would be said, and they would both know where they stood. But Victoria loved her mother, and she respected her more than she could find words to express. She could not lie to her.
“I see.” Not an admission, nor a denial. She settled for that, for now.
“You were with Mr. Luke.” It was a statement.
“I was.”
“You slept with him?”
“Yes.”
“We both know that the term ‘sleeping’ is a euphemism.” Another statement.
“We do.”
“He is your
lover?”
“He is.” The description was near enough.
Hester’s gaze was level. She did not miss a beat. “You chose well, my dear, though I would naturally expect that of you. You have impeccable taste. Do you intend to marry him?”
Victoria regarded her mother warily. She had expected somewhat more in the way of censure. “No. We have—an arrangement. It will not end in marriage.”
Her mother lifted one dainty eyebrow. “Oh? Mr. Luke is already married, perhaps?”
Victoria shook her head, her denial emphatic. “No, of course not. I would never do such a thing. I… I asked him before we…”
Her mother spared her the need to elaborate. “I am relieved, though not surprised. You are a woman of strong principles, I am well aware of that. You inherited your integrity from your father. So, why will you not marry?”
“He has no wish to marry me, nor I him. We have an agreement that suits us both. Our relationship is to be a temporary one.”
“Because he sails for America later today? He will be back, I gather.”
“Yes, he will be back. But no, it is not because of his trip.”
“I see.” Hester paused to spread a thin veneer of butter on her toast before fixing Victoria with that look again. “We owe Mr. Luke a considerable sum of money. Is this ‘arrangement’ of yours linked to that circumstance?”
Victoria met her mother’s gaze, not for the first time wondering where such a well-bred and elegant lady gained her steely grasp of the less than salubrious aspects of life. Hester Wynne was formidable, a force to be reckoned with. Her manners were perfect, her bearing beyond reproach, but when she chose to go for the jugular, she hit her mark with unerring accuracy.
“I, I… No, not really.” Victoria had no ready answer for her.
“Not really? Did Mr. Luke exploit our straightened circumstances in order to manipulate you? Coerce you?” Hester’s expression was intent. She had opened the can of worms and would have the facts if she had to drag them from her daughter as though pulling teeth, one at a time.
“No! No, he did not do that.” Or did he?
It all seemed so immaterial now, but Victoria could fully appreciate why her mother might suspect foul play. But Mrs. Wynne was wrong. Victoria had done what she chose to do, she had had alternatives, other perfectly acceptable choices.
“I went to see Mr. Luke—Adam—in London. I offered to work for him, to manage the mill as his employee, for a salary and a share in the profits. I intended to use my share to repurchase Wynne’s from him, over a number of years. It would have taken time, but the mill would be ours again, eventually. And we would have an income to live off in the meantime.”
“I know this. We discussed it, and the economies we would need to make to remain within our reduced means. Am I to understand then that this bargain was not acceptable to Mr. Luke?”
“It was. He would have accepted my offer, he told me that.”
“I see.” Clearly, she did not.
“But, he made another suggestion. It was more… personal in nature, but would enable me to pay off our debt much sooner. I considered his proposition, and decided it was preferable.”
“And the house? Was the return of Wynne House part of this bargain you struck?”
“No, it was not. Adam knew this was our family home and he returned it to me unconditionally. We would have had our home back, whatever else I decided to do.”
“But he has only just completed the legalities. He brought the papers with him yesterday, and last night you shared his bed. Was this just a coincidence?”
“He did not invite me to his room. That was my idea. And last night was not the first occasion. I went to meet him before, in London…”
“Last weekend, I know. I had begun to piece this together for myself…”
Of course she had. Mrs. Wynne had put two and two together as she so often did, but on this occasion was coming up with rather more than four. “Mother, you have to believe me. Adam is a good man, a decent man. He has not forced me to do anything. I have done only what I wanted to do, what I chose. I am old enough to make my own decisions, and… I wanted him.”
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
“A simple question. Do you love him?”
“Perhaps, a little bit.”
“How little?”
“I don’t understand.”
“In my experience a woman either loves a man, or she does not. Love does not come in graduated quantities. I am not asking if you prefer one lump of sugar or two in your tea. I am asking if you are in love with Adam Luke, and I gather from your reply that you are.”
Victoria remained silent. As usual, her mother was absolutely correct.
Hester reached across the table to take her daughter’s hand in her own. “I believe I mentioned earlier that you have impeccable taste, my dear child. If I were a little younger, and less well brought up, I might allow myself to love him too. I would certainly have slept with him, given the chance. And had I not been so happily married to your dear father, of course. I do not blame you, nor will I judge you, and I applaud your choice. You are most certainly old enough to make your own decisions, and to take responsibility for the consequences should there be any. I don’t pretend to be entirely comfortable with the manner in which this liaison appears to have started, but I accept your account of it. And I trust my instincts. Yours too. He is a good man, as you say. I like him, but still I fear you may be hurt.”
“He would never hurt me.”
“Not intentionally, I am sure of that. But, you love him, so you are vulnerable. Unless he loves you too.”
Victoria shook her head. “He likes me, and we get on very well. But he does not love me, and he has said quite categorically that he has no wish to marry. Not me, not anyone as far as I am aware.”
“That could change. I suspect you might have been similarly adamant as little as one month ago.”
“I do not wish to marry him either. I told you that, and I am happy as I am. Or I will be, once I have my mill back. I have all I want, right here.” There was a note of vehemence in her voice. If she said it often enough, emphatically enough, it would be true.
“I am delighted to hear that, of course, but if you will forgive me for mentioning it, you do not look entirely happy.”
“I just,” she started. “I do not want you to be disappointed in me. Because of this. I would never want to feel that I let you down.” She couldn’t meet her mother’s gaze, staring instead at their joined hands on the table top.
Hester reached with her other hand to tip her daughter’s chin up. Victoria could not help comparing the gesture to Adam’s. The two would no doubt find much common ground if they were to become better acquainted.
“How could I be disappointed? You are my pride, my joy. I am in awe of the way you stepped in, almost from the moment your father died, and took responsibility for this family. I could never have coped without you. You were the rock, for all of us, and you have never let me down. You never will. You have earned the right to live as you choose, and I know you will choose well. Whatever happens, I will love you and be here for you. So will Georgina. We are a family, and we will take care of each other.”
“Even Edward?”
Hester let out a mirthless laugh. “Ah, that foolish boy requires a very special, very forgiving type of care. But yes, even Edward. I would understand though if you felt unable to echo my views on him.”
Victoria considered that for several moments, then said, “I would never have forgiven him if we had lost our mill. But that is not going to happen now so perhaps, in time…”
Hester stood to come around the table and hug Victoria. “Yes, my dear. In time.”
* * *
Now, several weeks later, it seemed to Victoria that she had far too much time to contend with.
She had received letters from Adam, three in fact. He wrote to her as soon as he landed
in New York, a short, business-like letter telling her to apply to Mr. Catchpole for any information she might require regarding their mutual business interests, and advising her to give careful consideration to the opportunities offered by Thomas Edison’s recent invention. A light bulb capable of providing illumination for a prolonged period of time would have profound implications for industry. He ended by reiterating his admonition regarding the perils of over-working, and hinting at dire retribution should she be so foolish as to defy his wishes in that matter. Victoria’s buttocks clenched. She knew exactly what he referred to.
The second letter reached her from a place called Chattanooga, in Tennessee. He wrote that his business in New York was satisfactorily concluded, and he was making his way overland to New Orleans. He praised the American railway system, which he claimed rivalled that now linking the remoter regions of England and Scotland, though armed guards were deployed in the more untamed areas. He wondered if the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway company might be persuaded to consider a similar practice for the stretch of line passing through the outskirts of Liverpool. He concluded that letter by hoping to be able to advise her soon regarding his likely return home, and reminded her that Horace Catchpole was at her disposal.
Victoria privately doubted she would find much she wished to discuss with the lawyer. She folded the letter and placed it with the one already kept safe in her drawer in her bedroom.
The final note had arrived just yesterday, from New Orleans. It was dated almost a fortnight ago, and in it he announced that his business was concluded. He intended to secure passage on the Luciana, a merchant ship of the Luke Line, which was due to sail from Baton Rouge for Portsmouth in a week’s time. Victoria hugged the letter to her chest. If he had indeed sailed on the Luciana, and if the ship had departed on schedule, he would be on his way home already.
He had not given an indication of the date he expected to arrive back on English soil but Mr. Catchpole would know. She was desperate for news, so much so that she resolved to swallow her instinctive dislike for the lawyer and ask him. She could send a telegram, and probably get a reply within the day.
