Sexual Hunger

by Melissa MacNeal

  She would not have believed it, had she not seen it herself: was that the venerable Mrs. Booth wearing a bridal gown? Veiled in white lace—probably so poor Quentin wouldn’t look upon her withered face—she sprawled on the narrow bed with her legs spread as her lover knelt on the floor beside her.

  “Oh! Oh, my darling, you’ve ruined me for any other man!” the housekeeper moaned. She writhed and opened herself farther, clutching the gown’s voluminous skirts to keep them out of Quentin’s way. “Please, we have so little time before the duke returns to—”

  The butler stuck out his tongue and teased the rim of Ruthie’s portal. She cried out, pleading incoherently as he rubbed and licked her into a frenzy. His hands splayed over the tops of her white stockings, plump thighs that shimmied with her excitement.

  Maria clenched, shamelessly aware that she was getting wet. Jason had been gone for too long! Jude had stayed away because it would be too obvious if he stayed the night. As she felt the inner tremors intensifying, she focused on Quentin’s busy tongue. What a lucky girl Jemma would be if she encouraged this young swain’s attentions, for he knew how to satisfy a woman…in ways that would keep her chastity intact.

  Not that she herself would encourage Quentin’s attention. He already knew too much.

  But the little play went on—another exchange of heated endearments—until the housekeeper screamed and grasped her lover’s head. The narrow bed knocked against the wall, faster and faster, until Mrs. Booth let out a primal cry. As she lay panting, still spread-eagle with her gown thrown up over her head, Quentin rose to his full height. He wiped his mouth on a small towel and tossed it back to the nightstand.

  Then he looked right at her. As if he knew she was watching through the keyhole.

  Maria covered her mouth to keep from gasping. How could he possibly have sensed—?

  But he was grinning. As though the joke was on Mrs. Booth.

  Maria relaxed, yet the ache between her legs had become an itch needing to be scratched. She should retreat now, return to her room before the Daringtons’ housekeeper suspected her presence—

  Except Quentin was unfastening his pants. Quite nonchalantly, as though he wanted to display himself to her, the young butler let his trousers drop.

  He wasn’t wearing anything under them.

  Maria’s eyes widened as he stroked himself to an impressive length. Slyly he turned toward the bed again, giving her a profile view, and then he loudly cleared his throat. “You know the rules, Ruthie,” he announced imperiously. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Assume the position—and be quick about it! If His Grace returns, I’ll swear you provoked me, you wicked thing!”

  With a short laugh, the housekeeper rolled to her knees. White garters stretched down her thighs as she spread her legs so her backside protruded lewdly. While her attributes didn’t interest Maria in the least, it did fascinate her that these two had developed such a ritual…which implied a longtime arrangement. Quentin entered her without ado and began pumping, eager to relieve his pent-up energy. Ruthie had come first, after all.

  Maria watched, chiding herself for spying, and yet…hadn’t Quentin set this up? Wasn’t he baring himself to her as much as finishing the script with Mrs. Booth? His dark hair swayed around his collar as his head fell back; his lean hips thrust and thrust and thrust—until he grimaced and gripped his partner’s hips. His entire body shook as he released his seed. A deep breath steadied him, and then he withdrew, almost businesslike.

  “I can’t think Miss Palladino shall be gone much longer,” he announced. “We’d best freshen ourselves and resume our duties downstairs. And while you enjoy her veil, you’d best find another prop. Only a matter of time before we tear the delicate lace or leave an…unseemly stain on it.”

  Maria’s eyes widened. That was her veil! She’d been so intent on watching the servants’ little game, she hadn’t noticed how the familiar headpiece shimmered when its seed pearls caught the light from the window. Mrs. Booth wiped herself with the towel and then dropped her white skirts over her legs: at least she was too short and stout to fit into Maria’s bridal gown!

  Maria rushed down the hall on light feet and descended to her second-floor bedroom. She closed the door quietly and locked it. Checked her armoire: yes, the gown she’d worn for Jason still hung there, behind the dresses she’d worn since his mysterious disappearance. Should she follow Quentin’s cue by slipping outside to make her official entrance, after the two lovers had time to return to their posts?

  She thought better of it. Still felt needy…with images of Quentin’s quivering hips and Mrs. Booth’s spread, white thighs flitting through her mind. And then it was Jason she imagined, just as he’d been in this very room, the last time she saw him. Jason, playing the pirate…growling lustily in her ear, telling her what he intended to do to her as she remained his captive, tied to the bed in her blindfold.

  Aarrrrrgh! Naughty wench! There’s no help fer yer wicked soul save to tie yer pretty arse to the mast and spank it!

  She suddenly had to have him back, if only in her mind. Maria reached into her nightstand, behind her lace handkerchiefs and the prayer book she’d had since her childhood…back to her fiancé’s favorite toy, wrapped in another of his bandannas. When she beheld the dildo of sleek ivory, she felt a jolt of passionate need. He’d brought her this oversize, rather lurid gift after one of his journeys to southern islands where Darington ships took on their cargo of cacao beans. While she loved the chocolate he provided her after such trips, she craved the handsome voyager’s touch even more.

  And she needed it now. Placing a knee on the cushion of the window seat, she slipped the phallic toy, so suggestive of Jason’s bold, brazen cock, up her skirts.

  There’s no help fer ye then, save to let Blackbeard have his way with ye. Plunder and pillage, it is! Assume the position, lass. I’m comin’ in!

  Maria inhaled his masculine scent from the bandanna, working the ivory column against her inflamed folds, scratching an intimate itch. Her hips wiggled, fueling the flames she’d ignited while peeking through Mrs. Booth’s keyhole. She surged toward release, rubbing the nub that cried out for attention. Finally she plunged the thick phallus inside herself.

  “Jason…Jason…” In her mind, he was pumping her from behind, moving his body against hers with the decisive power that swept her away with his fiery-bright passion. She hadn’t been able to see him that afternoon, wearing his eye patch and bandanna, but she hadn’t needed to: the pressure of his hands was forever emblazoned on her body, her memory. And the thunder of his low voice still rumbled in her ears.

  You drive me mad with the hunger, woman…. It was all I could think of from the time I arose: your hot, sweet cunt swallowing my cock.

  His intimate language, hot and crude, drove her over the top. Maria clenched and strained toward satisfaction, in perfect rhythm and harmony with her absent lover. As he moaned those love words again in her imagination and shot his warm honey inside her, Maria muffled her cries with his pirate scarf. She writhed against the dildo until the spasms ceased and her sexual hunger felt sated—for now.

  My God, it felt so real. His hands had pressed into her flesh and the coarse curls on his chest had tickled her back. She suddenly wanted him so badly, missed him so much…needed him. Maria rested her forehead against the wall as tears slithered down her cheeks.

  There was no way around it. She had to find Jason Darington.

  Her resolve rising, Maria freshened herself in the bathroom and put away her toy, one of the last things Jason had given her—

  But this is not his final gift! He WILL return! We WILL be together!

  Relieved and recommitted to him, she reached into the pockets of the muslin underskirt she’d worn to the post office. More than a dozen envelopes addressed to Miss Crimson…from readers asking to be noticed or advised, most likely. An unembellished script drew her attention to one of them, so she slipped her fingernail beneath its seal, which was
a blob of red wax without any initial or insignia. The paper was coarse, and she saw no return address. Having seen your plea in behalf of Jason Darington, Miss Crimson, I can no longer withhold what I know.

  Maria’s breath caught. She skimmed the page of plain penmanship, sensing the answer to her prayers.

  I cannot reveal my name or how I came upon this information, but I suspect the handsome, intrepid Jason Darington met with a twist of fate during his bachelor party on the pier. He is most likely aboard a ship. Most likely in the unwilling employ of its captain. I pray for his return, and for Miss Palladino as she awaits him.

  Maria swiped at her eyes. Who could have written this? How did this reader know about Jason being aboard a ship against his will—and how had he gotten there? It fit with Rubio’s visions of endless water and a rocking sensation, didn’t it? And it coincided with what Yosef Polinsky had uttered, as well.

  Frantic yet hopeful, Maria pawed through the remaining notes and instinctively plucked another one. It only made her pulse pound faster:

  Miss Crimson: please inform Miss Palladino that her beloved, Jason Darington, was most likely shanghaied—

  Shanghaied! Maria sucked in her breath. Who had done this to him? Had he been knocked unconscious? Taken hostage? How had this happened while he was among his friends—the very cohorts who’d come to his wedding the next day unaware of his fate?

  Or had those three been covering their lack of vigilance? Covering a truth so horrible they hadn’t dared reveal it to her, or—more likely—to Jason’s temperamental father, Lord Darington?

  Maria exhaled, trying to control her wild thoughts. Whom could she ask about this? It was a minor miracle that she’d received two responses to that impulsive plea she’d published in her column, but she’d written herself into a corner: if she asked just anyone about this matter, her identity as Miss Crimson would be revealed.

  She folded the notes back into their envelopes. She stashed the muslin skirt and the rest of the letters in the bottom of her armoire and shut its doors. Down the stairs and out the front door she went, praying Quentin and Mrs. Booth were still putting themselves to rights. So intent on her purpose she was, Maria strode quickly between the passersby thronging the side streets—past the flower girls and street vendors—until she turned onto Regent Street. She entered the side door of the tall building that housed the LeChaud Soeurs couturier.

  From the small waiting area, she heard her brother’s voice as he gave a reading in the back room. But she could restrain herself no longer.

  “Rubio!” she cried. “Rubio, we must talk! Something quite urgent has occurred!”

  11

  “Yes…yes, this affirms my original visions. I sense that your Jason is far out to sea. Sailing west across the Atlantic…perhaps toward the Caribbean.”

  Maria grabbed her brother’s arm, rattling the letter he held, in her excitement. “What else do you see?” she cried. “Is he all right? Does he realize what’s happened to him?”

  Rubio closed his eyes again…raised his face in utter concentration. For what seemed like forever, he remained absolutely silent. Then his eyelids vibrated. His respiration slowed. “The Americas,” he murmured as his hand fluttered to his crown. “He is alive but—”

  Maria gazed at his face, so striking in his trancelike state: his lustrous hair fluttered back over his shoulders and the tiny ring in his nose caught a ray of light from the window. He smelled of sandalwood and exotic cologne, and his silk poet’s shirt shimmered in shifting shades of red and purple as he searched inwardly—searched the universe—for signs of Jason. “But what?” she finally rasped.

  Rubio’s eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for his gaze to stabilize. “I get no sense of him, but all around Jason I feel great…resentment. Desperation.”

  Maria frowned. After begging for information in her column, waiting endlessly, and then receiving two responses, she did not want to hear bad news! “What do you mean, no sense of him? Either you have contacted Jason’s spirit, or—” She stopped there, afraid to think the unthinkable.

  Her brother held her hand between his. He inhaled deeply to clear away whatever he’d seen—or wherever he’d gone—on a different plane. “While I sense he is present aboard the ship, I cannot feel his unique vibration,” he explained patiently. His dilated eyes looked huge in a face paler than usual: his astral journey had required a surge of sheer determination and psychic energy. “I have not established contact, meaning Jason has not responded, but I believe he is alive. Possibly injured or perhaps…unconscious.”

  Her throat tightened around a scream. “Why do these little forays into your spiritual realm always leave me with more questions than answers, Rubio? This is so—damn—” Maria exhaled forcefully, fighting a fit of self-pity. All the tears in the world wouldn’t float Jason home, after all.

  “Frustrating,” Rubio completed her complaint. “Frightful. Annoying. Do you think I enjoy leading you partway to the answers we seek, dear sister?” He sighed, pondering. “I would rather not involve other parties in our search for Jason, but time is of the essence. So we must.”

  Maria’s eyes widened as she considered the possibilities. “You’re not going to consult with Yosef Polinsky to—”

  “Why would I have anything to do with that impostor?”

  Maria smiled meekly. “I’m sorry, Rubio. I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t powerful enough to—”

  “Considering Lord Darington’s shipping interests on the eastern shore of North America, I believe we can best expedite this search by informing him of this latest—”

  “You can’t tell him Miss Crimson received these two replies to her column! They’ll string me up and hang me by my toes!”

  Rubio’s expression mellowed, yet he obviously wished she was more astute. “No, but you can tell him your brother, London’s most celebrated medium, has seen visions of Jason on a ship bound for America.”

  “As though he’ll believe that!” Maria sprang from her chair to pace the small room where he performed his readings. “Jason’s family already considers me beyond the fringes of acceptability, so I can’t very well tout my brother’s predictions about—you’ll have to go to Wildwood with me!” she declared. “That doesn’t mean Jason’s father will believe either of us, but perhaps if Dora clutches these most recent straws—”

  Maria paused, irritated, when she took in his catlike smile. “Why do I suspect that’s what you had in mind all along?”

  “I don’t know, Maria. Why do you?”

  Maria waited anxiously in the manor’s vestibule with Rubio while Thomas, the butler, announced them. It seemed they had arrived while a tempest raged among the Daringtons, for voices rang in a room down the hallway.

  “It is only proper to declare ourselves in a state of mourning!” Dora cried. “My son—the heir apparent to the Darington title and estate—has been absent for an unseemly amount of time, and he’s sent us no word! People are beginning to talk!”

  “Mother, that’s absurd!” Jemma replied just as vehemently. “Why should I forgo my social engagements, just because my brother got so stewed at his bachelor party—”

  “Jemma! You will not speak ill of your dear, departed brother!”

  “And besides that, I refuse to shroud myself head to toe!” the girl retorted. “The way black drains the color from my face, I might as well be dead myself! You’re just wanting a whole new wardrobe, even if it is weeds!”

  “If you insist on this infernal bickering,” Lord Darington interrupted, “you shall take it to another wing of the house! I’m reading my newspaper, for God’s sake!”

  Maria cleared her throat nervously. “I don’t like the sound of this,” she murmured. “Perhaps we should return another—”

  “Nonsense.” Rubio draped his arm around her shoulders. “Perfect time to present them with a preferable alternative. No one wants Jason dead, after all.”

  A movement in the hall caught their attention—the butler, muttering a
s he stalked toward the back of the house. But when Jude came out of the parlor, Maria’s hopes rose. “Jude!” she called. “Jude, what’s happening? What’s the fuss about?”

  Jason’s twin brother brightened immediately and strode toward them. With a cautious look at Rubio, he grasped Maria’s hands and bussed her temple. “Just another day of drama here at Wildwood. Do you see why my brother insisted on living in town?”

  “Perhaps we can help,” Rubio suggested. “We’ve received new information that might lead us to him!”

  Jude’s eyebrows rose. “You should have come back to the—”

  “I’m waiting to be announced…like the outsider I am,” Maria remarked quietly. “And I doubt Thomas could get a word in edgewise, with all that squawking in the parlor.”

  “Damn manners anyway.” Jude led her by the hand, past impressive gilt-framed mirrors and marble statuary. Then he stopped short of the doorway, his voice covered by the rising tide of female voices in the parlor. “It is positive news, I trust? Mum’s in a peevish way today, I’m afraid.”

  “It is. And you may be a part of our revelation, Jude.” Rubio winced when Jemma shrieked in defiance. “And it should quiet your darling sister, as well.”

  “I’m for that!” Jude straightened to his full height, as though the past days had been difficult: the onus was on him for not knowing how his brother had disappeared on the eve of the wedding. “Mother and Father! Jemma! Look who’s here—with news about Jason!”

  The three in the parlor turned, looking doubtful. Dora appeared thinner and her red-rimmed eyes bespoke a mother’s grief, a state of unraveling like a worn rug. Jemma’s cheeks flared as she clutched Willie to her shoulder, while Lord Darington glowered at them over the top of his newspaper. He looked ancient today; the lines around his eyes were etched more ominously than Maria had ever seen them. Clearly Jason’s absence was hitting home now, causing everyone here the same concern she’d been suffering alone in her room.