by Sharon Page
She froze for a minute—how far would this biting go?—then relaxed as he eased back to licking her nipple. His large hand slid between her legs, stroking her, making her wet.
She ached inside. She felt empty inside. Instinctively she knew she wanted to be filled. Her hips arched up rhythmically. She wanted to press her cunny to his hand. Ease the ache, the hunger for more.
But if he wasn’t going to undress, they weren’t going to make love—
Greybrooke opened the fastenings of his trousers, revealing his thick, engorged erection. Large. Pointing at her. He got on top of her, braced on one arm, balanced on his knees. He slid something onto his shaft. A slender, almost translucent sleeve. “A French letter,” he said. “It prevents my seed from entering you. Prevents us from creating a child.”
“Oh. That’s rather a good thing.” She didn’t want an illegitimate child. She knew, from her sister Margaret’s tragedy, how terrible that would be.
“I want to make you ready,” he said softly. He brushed her sensitive nub with the head of his erection.
She quivered. Tugged at her shackles. “I am ready. I want you.”
She was a mistress now. She could have the pleasure she wanted. And she ached for it.
“This will hurt a little, I’m afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll be gentle. But soon, love, you’ll want me to thrust as deep and hard as I can.”
His hips shifted. It was amazing—he could direct his cock just by flexing his hips. Her nether lips tugged a little, resisting the big, full head of his enormous erection. Helena held her breath.
She had never felt so close to anyone in her life.
“Relax,” he murmured. “Just a twinge, then it will be good.”
His cock slid forward, gliding in her wetness. He went in only an inch, and she kept gasping, as she felt his hugeness inside her. Yet her body began to relax around him, and he fit as snugly inside her as if she’d been made especially for him.
Greybrooke’s hands settled on her narrow bed on each side of her head. He was bearing his weight on them, and he drew his cock back. Just when she was ready to sob, he thrust gently forward again. Over and over he pumped, going a little deeper each time.
This was her whole world. The sensation of his cock inside her, filling her. She couldn’t touch him, but she could fill every other sense. She could look at his gorgeous jawline, his long lashes, his longer body. She could smell his maleness. Hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
“I’m inside all the way, love.”
He stayed like that, and she savored the moment, getting used to being filled by him. Working against the ropes, she arched her hips up, just a bit, but it sent his thick cock in deeper.
She gasped.
She wished she could see what they looked like joined, but like this she couldn’t see the mirror. She watched his face. Could see in the way his mouth tightened how good it was for him. She could see everything in his eyes. Lust. Need. Pleasure. Everything she felt.
Never had she dreamed she would be tied up for her very first time. Yet it was thrilling to have him in command. Greybrooke’s hair was damp with sweat—perspiration she’d caused. She felt rather wickedly proud.
“Does it still hurt?” His voice was soft as a caress.
“No, not anymore.”
Slowly he began thrusting. Long, elegant strokes. Her body loved it and her hips moved, seeking more.
His strokes sped up, became harder. She pounded up against him, encouraging him.
“I want you to come,” he growled.
He pumped fast, his shaft kissing her aching clit with his every thrust. He sucked her nipples, kissed her neck, gave her so much sensation, she couldn’t think.
Yes, oh yes!
She felt it coming. Felt her whole body grow tense, knew it was the moment before everything burst—
She was coming. Coming and coming and coming. Her body was a slave to pleasure, and she thrust back against him more, taking herself to the peak again. He seemed to be indefatigable, as if he could be hard forever. As if he could keep thrusting in her, making her climax until she dissolved into a boneless puddle of pleasure.
Then he tensed over her. Helena sensed it, even groggy with her climax. His back arched, his head bowed, and he let out a soft growl. His hips smacked hard against her, and he stayed absolutely still.
Goodness, he was coming too.
She was exquisitely beautiful. Her cheeks glowed pink, and her hair was damp from perspiration. Her eyes were closed, and she was taking quick, soft breaths.
Grey was gripped with a yearning to give her a gentle, sweet kiss on her parted lips.
Hell.
He braced himself over Miss Winsome and withdrew from her, then he discarded the French letter beside the bed and quickly buttoned his trousers.
This was what he always did with mistresses—when he was done, he left. With Lady Montroy, as with all his other paramours, he kept to a schedule. Many men kept a mistress for company, for a sympathetic ear. He had never done that.
Sure as sin, he could not do that with Miss Winsome.
Grey withdrew a key from his pocket and opened the shackles, releasing her wrists, then he untied her ankles.
His body was spent, exhausted, but he wasn’t about to lie down on her bed and take a nap. He’d never given a woman her first time. He’d had no idea how intense it would be, how much it would touch him to know he was her first.
The way her blue eyes had glowed at him as he thrust into her—
He had to forget that. He couldn’t trust her. He had to find out what she wanted and why, and to do that he must coax her to trust him.
Even though he’d freed her from her bonds, she didn’t move. She looked dreamily at him, obviously as languorous from pleasure as he wanted to be.
“Like your house?” he asked.
“The house?” She blinked, a fetching flick of long, golden-brown lashes. “Oh . . . it’s lovely. More sumptuous than anything I could have dreamed of.”
“You’re my mistress, and I want to shower you with extravagance. After all, we are intimate now.”
He watched her flinch. Just a touch. She was keeping secrets, and she was not immune to guilt, he realized.
She sat up, then looked down at her naked body. A blush touched her cheeks. Now that sex was over, she must be feeling exposed.
Good.
She tried to grasp the sheet, but he caught her wrists and sat on the edge of the bed, preventing her from moving.
“Uh . . . do you wish to do it again?” she whispered.
“Not today. I believe you will be sore after your first time. I will return tomorrow.”
“Oh. What should I do?”
“Whatever you wish,” he said.
Miss Winsome frowned. “I don’t really know what a mistress does. My days have always been so regimented. What is it, as your mistress, I’m to do?”
A laugh escaped him. He’d just made love to her; she was concerned about organizing her day. Then he bit back his grin. Probably she was worried about that because she was spying on him. She didn’t desire him or want him. Just like his mother had once paid a girl to go to his bed and betray him, Miss Winsome was probably more concerned about having time to plot against him.
The question: Why?
Part of him was tempted to grab her, scare her a little, get the truth out of her. But he didn’t think Miss Winsome could be threatened.
And he couldn’t carry through on a threat like that. He couldn’t hurt her. He couldn’t hurt any woman. He had to use seduction to get at the truth.
“You want to know what to do? This. When I want to make love, that’s what you do.” Grey paused for a moment. “The rest of the time, you are free to do what you wish. Read. Take walks. Meet friends.” He watched her eyes closely. Saw a quick downward glance—he knew how to watch and read faces. She kept her features devoid of expression, but she had not been able to control that tiny sign of guilt.
He
wanted her to have lots of freedom. His plan was to have her followed. He released her hands and stood. “This is all for today, Miss Winsome.”
That night, Betsy, the youngest of her maids—a poor girl of sixteen who was a bit slow-witted and who had been thrown out of her former places—brought her a calling card. Helena’s heart leapt. It must be Greybrooke. He must have decided he couldn’t stay away until tomorrow.
Helena stared at the name, her stomach churning. It was Whitehall. Of course, she hadn’t escaped him. She wanted to forbid him entry. But she feared what he could do to her family, so she told Betsy to bring him to the drawing room.
“Lovely house,” he remarked as he took a seat.
She did not say anything. She did not offer him tea or even a drop of Greybrooke’s brandy. “You want to know what I found. I went through his desk, found a journal, but there was nothing written in it. But I’m sure, with a little more time, I can coax him to reveal things to me.” She was stalling—stalling for time.
“I’m sure you can, if he’s rewarded you with this for tupping him.”
She went flaming red. “I will get what you want, but I will not sit and listen to insults. I do not want you in my house. You are to go—”
“Shut up and think of your family. You’re no better than you ought to be. But now that you’re his mistress, get the truth out of him. I will return in two days.”
“It will take longer than that. And there’s no evidence on paper. I’m sure of it.” It was not quite a lie. There was no evidence of treason in Greybrooke’s possession.
Whitehall stood and took a step toward her.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “I have servants, and if you lay a hand on me I will scream for them to come.”
“I don’t need to manhandle you to hurt you,” he said smoothly. Coldly. “Remember that.”
Then he was gone, and she dropped her head into her hands. She could not give this man Greybrooke’s secret. She would not.
A message arrived at midmorning, brief and to the point:
I will visit you this evening. Greybrooke.
Having a full day alone, Helena went to see Will. She told him Greybrooke’s secret, certain she could trust him. When it came to news, she knew Will had great integrity. She told him of her dilemma. She didn’t want to hurt the duke and his family. Will had promised to keep the secret to himself until she decided what to do.
Returning to her town house, she had her lady’s maid, O’Hara, see to the filling of her bath. The tub was huge, and it was glorious to soak in it. In her years as a governess, she had to bathe in metal tubs. She had no idea what to wear though. Did she dress for bed? Was that too contrived? What would the servants think?
Though, really, they had to know why she had this house. Still, she had pride and she put on her prettiest gown—the one he’d called wretched.
As soon as Greybrooke came into her drawing room, he lifted his brow. “That comes off.”
He held out his hand and led her to her bedroom. Helena expected him to tie her up, but instead he undressed her with efficiency. He took off all her clothes, yet he barely touched her skin. To be so close to him and not be touched made her feel balanced on a knife’s edge.
As soon as she discarded her shift though, his fingers skimmed over her naked bottom. She blushed at his caress. She was no longer innocent, but she certainly didn’t feel experienced.
“Bend over your vanity table, love,” he instructed.
She stared at him, confused. So he clasped her hand and led her there, positioning her the way he wanted—with her hands braced on the marble vanity top, her bottom sticking out.
“You are incredibly beautiful.”
Then he took something out from his tall leather boot.
A riding crop.
She flinched, expecting him to strike her. But he caressed the curves of her bottom with it, tracing around and around until her skin became highly sensitive and she moaned.
“Good?”
“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “It is.”
Lightly, he tapped her bottom. Then again, in little teasing pats. She focused on every one. Her bottom rippled with each soft strike. Sensation spiraled through her. Then he did one a bit hard, just a touch, just enough to make her truly feel it. He slowly built the intensity until each spank of the crop seemed to vibrate through her quim. Her inner muscles began to clutch, and her clit ached with need.
She was soaked with arousal. Almost in pain with the force of her desire. “Are we—are you—?” She could not quite bring herself to ask if he intended to make love to her.
“You can play with yourself, angel. Make yourself come while I spank you.”
“I—oh—no, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. There’s nothing wicked or naughty or bad about it. You told me yourself that pleasure should make you happy. What I want you to see is that pleasure is not wrong.”
He guided her hand to the damp curls between her legs. She felt her sticky wetness. Touching herself there released her erotic smell.
“It pleases me to watch you,” he said softly.
Her fingers brushed her nether lips. The sensation made her gasp. She rather liked it. And stroked herself again. Her fingers moved higher, and she found her sensitive nub. Oh yes. Yes.
Then she realized he was murmuring words of encouragement. Telling her how sensual and beautiful she was. His husky words wrapped around her, seducing her into pure wanton delight. He spanked her bottom with the crop, and she arched against each stroke, wildly aroused. She played with herself, stroking fiercely.
“Make yourself come,” Greybrooke growled.
And she did. It struck like a fork of lightning slamming into a field. She rocked with it, shuddered with it, sobbed his name. Greybrooke. Heavens, Greybrooke.
He bent and kissed the nape of her neck. Glorious kisses that made her almost delirious on top of her climax. Then he stopped kissing her, and she collapsed onto the vanity stool.
He picked her up, carried her to her bed, then gave her a robe.
She held it against her, brushing her loose hair behind her ear. Greybrooke prowled across her bedroom. Strange—the room seemed to be filled with tension.
He then sat on her vanity stool, his long legs splayed out. He hadn’t joined with her or had a climax. Instead, he tapped the crop against his thigh, watching her.
“I want to know about you, Miss Winsome. I want to learn everything I can about you.”
Oh no! She could not tell him who she was. “I’m a governess,” she said simply, aware of his focused gaze. She prayed she looked guileless and innocent.
“You had to be something before you were a governess.”
“I was a young woman in need of a future and a position.”
Greybrooke’s eyes narrowed, and Helena knew she could not evade his questions without infuriating him. Could she lie? She didn’t want him to know of her connection to the newspaper, or to have any suspicion she was spying on him. But if she told a blatant lie and he found out the truth . . .
“I don’t know who I really am.” She hated telling more lies, so what she was going to do was twist the truth. “I don’t remember my father. He died when I was just two. My mother remarried and had more children—those are my half siblings. Then she died—” Well, she had lost Mama, though much later.
“Who was your family?”
“My mother was a viscount’s daughter. But she’d married against her father’s wishes and was turned out of his house. When she was widowed, she had nowhere to go.”
She had been too young to understand the danger they faced—starvation or a workhouse. Then Mama had met Arthur Rains, and their lives had abruptly changed from disaster to happiness . . . at least until the sadness of losing Margaret, then their mother, then her stepfather. She believed Margaret’s death had hurt them both so badly that they had not lasted long afterward.
It had all been long ago, but her chest was getting tight, her th
roat felt sore.
But Greybrooke might want to know about her stepfather. She couldn’t talk about him without revealing too much. “When my mother died, I was sent away. I went to live with one relative after another. So many I don’t remember their names. At sixteen, I made my way to London.”
Greybrooke got off the stool. Concern drew lines in his forehead and etched them around his mouth. “What did you have to do to survive here?”
“I didn’t get dragged into a brothel or anything like that. I became a governess at once.”
“You are a viscount’s granddaughter.”
She supposed she was. She hadn’t thought about it, since the man had no place in her life.
Was Greybrooke satisfied? How much did he need to know about her?
She must distract him, so she ran her tongue slowly over her lips. Saw his body tense at the gesture and she felt his awareness. “Would you make love to me now?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said gallantly. He stood up from the vanity and strolled toward her bed. He carried something now—there was a spill of color in his hand.
As he reached her, she saw what it was. Four silk scarves.
Hours later, Helena woke suddenly with a gasp and sat up. She had gone to sleep! Were mistresses allowed to do that? Where was Greybrooke—?
She blinked. The duke sat on her vanity stool, a book resting on his knee. She saw the pencil in his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Drawing your likeness, angel.”
Curiosity drove her to scramble out of bed and go to see, though first she pulled on her robe. His gaze followed her as she approached, holding her robe closed over her body. He watched her until she came to stand at his side and look down on what he’d done.
“You drew this?”
Greybrooke nodded. “You look very lovely when you sleep. I enjoy drawing, and your beauty was so tempting, I had to capture it.” Then he frowned. “Is something wrong with it?”
