Rival Desires

by Annabel Joseph

  She trembled at his softly spoken suggestion. It wouldn’t be proper for you to do so, sir. That was what she meant to say, but instead she answered, “Yes, I’m frightened. Please...”

  For the fire frightened her still. It had been so loud and hot, so out of control, that it seemed to have imprinted itself upon her psyche, so it still blazed in her mind. She could still smell traces of smoke on Mr. Drake’s skin, although he’d clearly bathed and washed his Viking’s hair. As he bundled under the covers beside her, she wondered if she smelled of smoke, too.

  Next she knew, they were lying quite together beneath the blankets, his warm legs right against hers. He leaned on one arm and stroked her hair with the other, studying her with a kind, almost fond expression. She shouldn’t allow it, she knew. She ought to tell him not to touch her, but it felt so reassuring. Perhaps he’d had nightmares too. Would he only touch her hair? No, now he stroked her face, and she realized she was still shedding tears.

  “It’s been such a fraught night,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone either.”

  She leaned into his touch, even though she knew this was against the rules of decency and God’s will. “I’m not sure how to feel,” she whispered. “I wish I were at home, and none of this had happened.”

  “I wish that too.”

  His eyes were deeper green by candlelight, a strange, enticing shade of green she’d never encountered before. His jaw was square and strong, textured with a shadow of stubble. He was so close to her, this strange, fascinating male, and she thought, why not touch that stubble to satisfy her curiosity? How did such rough, masculine features feel? When she traced light fingertips along his jawline, his expression changed again, grew more intent. His hand covered hers, stroking it, gentle and rough at the same time.

  “Miss Layton, I must tell you—you’re so much more beautiful without the wig.”

  “Oh.” Her mind spun at his compliment. She had no idea what to reply. “I don’t like wearing that wig,” she whispered. “I’m made to wear it, to sing the character Armide. She’s a dark sorceress in the opera’s story.”

  “A dark sorceress?” He let out a small sigh. “And you’re a soft, sweet sorceress in real life, aren’t you? You’re so pretty, I’d like to kiss you.”

  “I don’t know if you should,” she said quickly. “I’m no sorceress, not really.” She was babbling in a whisper, for her voice wouldn’t work. “I’m not a practiced kisser, either. I don’t think you’d like to kiss me.”

  But she wanted him to, secretly, guiltily, because she’d never been kissed by a man before. So when he leaned his face toward hers, his eyes full of questions, she lifted her chin and pressed her lips to his.

  And oh, what happened then was so lovely, so unexpected. As their lips met, his arms tightened around her, drawing her close against his entire frame. Ophelia felt so many sensations, all of them warm, comforting, and delicious. This close, she could tell he’d used the same soap she’d bathed with, and also smell that bit of smoke, so the danger stayed between them, the danger they’d escaped. As his hands moved over her, exploring her body’s curves, she thought of him sweeping her up from the stage door, the way he’d plucked her right up with one arm and settled her onto his horse.

  He was very strong to do such a thing. Why, she might have perished if he hadn’t come along. They embraced with deep feeling and abandon, and as her pleasure grew, his attentions began to feel necessary, not improper. His kisses were a whirlwind, falling on her lips, her cheekbones, her chin, her eyes. He smoothed back her hair, murmuring that she was so beautiful, so lovely beneath her costume, then pressed a firm hand down her back, along her spine. She wondered why she’d been taught a man’s touch was so frightening and forbidden, when it felt so marvelous.

  For this was forbidden. She was a lady, the daughter of a powerful earl, and no man ought to even touch her hand without proper introduction and a chaperone’s permission.

  But she was so far outside the bounds of propriety and her strict upbringing that she began to feel unhitched from that part of herself. This was the freedom she’d longed for all her life. Mr. Drake said she was beautiful and lovely, and she felt for the first time that she was, that she was a desirable woman, and it made her feel happy and excited, and a little wild. She returned his kisses with a reckless enthusiasm that surged the more he caressed and fondled her. When he slid his palms down and cupped her bottom, she gasped, not in outrage, but pleasure.

  He made a soft sound, somewhere between a moan and a grunt, and rubbed his fingers over her round cheeks through the thin cotton of her chemise. She’d always been short in stature, and not at all voluptuous, but he sighed as if her bottom was the most glorious creation on earth. One of his legs wrapped about hers, drawing her closer. His chest and stomach were hard as a wall, and there was something else poking beneath the hem of his shirt, a thick shaft, but part of his body. His man’s part. She’d never seen one before, or imagined it would feel like this. He moved the hard thing against her pelvis with their clothing between them. Her hips arched toward the pressure as a curious longing built at the apex of her thighs.

  “You stunning creature,” he whispered. “How elegantly you’re made. I want to stroke you all over.”

  She didn’t protest as he inched up the hem of her chemise. Soon the light garment was pushed up her body and over her head, and he’d stripped her naked, all with her panting cooperation. She didn’t feel like Lady Ophelia Lovett anymore. She wasn’t even the fictitious Miss Layton. She was an aching, wild sorceress throwing aside the rules she’d been taught, because this touching and kissing was so powerful that she must be powerful, too. Mr. Drake touched his tongue to one of her bare nipples, and she arched at the heady sensation.

  “You like that,” he said with a smile in his voice.

  She couldn’t answer. She grasped his hair and tried without success to be still as he teased her other nipple with his tongue, but the sharp pleasure was too much. She ought to stop him, but she couldn’t stop him. Her fingers skittered over his shoulders and down his arms, looking for a place to hold. He tore open his shirt’s buttons and shrugged it away, and then she had his entire naked, hard chest to explore with her greedy fingers. She squeezed his tensing muscles, amazed at the force of him, his intensity. She stroked his neck, fascinated by the texture of his skin and the glorious beat of his pulse.

  “Miss Layton.” His rough voice drew her attention, and he held her gaze. His green eyes were not soft and kind now, but alive with desire. “God help me, I want you. Perhaps it is the situation. The fire.”

  “Sir, you have me. I’m here.” Why couldn’t she speak above a whisper? All her energy was elsewhere, in the teeming tips of her breasts, in the aching throb between her legs. “I feel as if I’m on fire right now.”

  “I do, too.” He slid a hand down to touch her quim just where it throbbed, and it felt too good to stop him, or protest about proprieties. He traced his finger over a tiny, needful bit of her flesh in such a way that she wanted to bite and scratch him, and eat him whole.

  “Are you sure you want this after all you’ve been through tonight?” he asked. “If you prefer, I’ll leave you to your peace.”

  Peace? It was senseless to speak of peace while he worked such magic with his touch. One of his fingers traced about her wet, hot opening, a place that had never felt so swollen with sensation before.

  “Please, sweet lady...” His voice was so strained it was difficult to hear. “You’re so bright, so lovely.”

  “Yes, please,” she agreed, and his finger eased inside her, there, where she was wet and excited. She was so shocked that she gasped. His finger felt big and strange there, but exciting at the same time.

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised.

  She was glad, because this intimacy was unexpected. Did men and women do these things? They must, because it felt so good.

  “Please,” she said again, even though she knew she shouldn’t. He said he would
be careful, and oh, his finger inside her felt naughty and stretching, and he was kissing her again, making it even more exciting. He shifted, coming over her. His knees spread her thighs, and then his thick rod was at that wet place, and then...

  He pushed it inside her with a slow, aching stretch. She hissed from the pain, although it wasn’t really pain as much as surprise that he would do such an unexpected thing.

  “I’m sorry.” He kissed and nuzzled her, arching over her but holding her close. “I know I’m a lusty size, and you so small. I’ll take care. I’ll go slow.”

  Oh, she thought. She wondered if going slow would help, because he’d begun this thing, and she was confused and a little injured, and he was pushing deeper still. This is too much. This is not what I meant when I said “please” to you.

  But even as her mind rebelled, her body opened for him, accepting his part inside her, accepting that the adventure she’d wished for had taken this novel turn. As he moved in her, she grew wetter from the sensation and pressure of his thrusts. His hair fell down against her face, a soft, sweet distraction. His eyes held hers as he paused within her, seated as deep as her body would let him go. “All right, my sweet?” he asked. “Does it feel good for you?”

  It felt...unsettling. She had let him go too far, without realizing. She was certain this was terribly wrong, perhaps the worst thing a proper lady could do with a man. She knew it, but she still wanted him to continue moving inside her.

  “I’m a little bit afraid,” she admitted, even as she arched against him. “I’m afraid I shouldn’t have done this.”

  “I’ll take care of you.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I promise I won’t spend inside you.”

  She didn’t know what that meant, only that she wanted him to continue stroking her and kissing her, and yes, pressing his thick, stretching length inside her while she clung to his broad shoulders. She craved the heat of his body against hers. She needed the ache and pulsing in her breasts and quim to be satisfied. There was a fire, she thought. And now there’s this...

  The two events might have been one and the same in her mind now. Both spawned worry, confusion, and unbearable heat. Rescue me again, she thought. Help me, please.

  When he commenced again, the shock was a little less. What had felt enormous inside her now felt tight and hot, and exciting. This was a man, then, when his proper clothes were off: urgent, powerful, mysterious, a little magical, because he brought pleasure that overrode any discomfort or pain she might have felt at the circumstances. She lay back and relaxed her thighs, and as he surged in her, she experienced sensations she’d never felt before. Squeezing. Pulsing. Tingling. Was this desire? A tightness or pressure built in her middle, not the pressure of Mr. Drake inside her body, but a restless pressure that desperately needed release.

  She didn’t mean to guide him with her moans and sighs, but somehow he read them anyway, and touched her just as she needed to be touched, just where she needed to be touched. He squeezed her breasts, which she liked, then tweaked her nipples, which made her tense all over, but in a nice way. When she ground her pelvis against his, he reached between them and circled his finger over that sensitive button again. Now that he was inside her, thrusting within her, it made her feel like she might explode.

  “Ah, yes,” he said in approval, as her cries turned to pleas. “Yes, my sweet sorceress. Exactly like that.”

  Exactly like that. Exactly like that... Even though she was acting like an undisciplined, lustful creature, he said exactly like that, and she felt safe and protected, and not afraid to reach for more. She bucked her hips, full of his power, dancing to his touch, and within moments, the anxious pressure inside her released like a rising wave finding its crest. A surge of sensation washed over her, spreading from the place they joined out over her entire body. She rode upon undulations of ecstasy, shocked once again by this new development. When this bliss was over, she’d be ashamed of herself, scandalized and disappointed that she’d let herself go so far, but for now, she basked in the pleasure that overtook her.

  By the time the astonishing paroxysms passed, she felt wrung out, sated and limp like a rag doll. Mr. Drake thrust within her a few more times, then surged deep. With a whispered curse, he jerked away from her, leaving her body. Tonight had been shock upon shock, and here was another, as he knelt over her and pumped his thick rod until it spilled a pale fluid upon her bare stomach. He growled like an animal as the stuff spurted onto her. It felt hot and sticky against her skin.

  She lay still, because her confusion was too deep by this point, and satisfaction had made her tired. He pumped his rod a few more times, looking down in the candlelight. “There’s blood,” he said, looking at his hands. “You’re on your courses?”

  She thought of race courses, stupidly. What did he mean? “I don’t know,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Less likelihood of a child, if you are. But I took care, as you see.” He wiped away the fluid on her stomach using the rough sheets, then lay beside her with a great sigh of satisfaction. “My dear, thank you for this lovely interlude. You excited me beyond bearing.” His smile widened to a grin. “That’s one way to chase away nightmares. A very pleasant way, I think.”

  Her mind was spinning with the remnants of pleasure, and sudden exhaustion. “I think I must... I must...”

  “Yes, use the necessary.” He gave her a boost out of bed, when it seemed her legs would fail her. She went behind the screen to use the chamber pot, and wished for water to clean herself. A moment later, Mr. Drake was there, offering the pitcher of water that had been warming by the dying fire. She took some time to wash, and a few extra moments to think. What have I done? What now?

  When she finally summoned the courage to emerge, he was watching from the bed, the man who’d done those amazing, and probably awful things, which she’d very much enjoyed. She returned his smile in spite of her misgivings.

  “May I stay here with you?” he asked, beckoning her back under the covers. “Only in case the nightmares come back. I promise I won’t trouble you again, unless you wish it.”

  She didn’t understand what that meant, to trouble her again. She moved into his warm embrace and curled up against him, remembering everything he’d done to her, trying to understand what had gone on between them, while he fell almost instantly to sleep.

  On the side table, the candle had burned almost to its end. She felt like that in a way, like all of her had been consumed, until she was nothing. But oh, like the candle, there had been so much flame, so much brightness along the way.

  Chapter Three: Morning’s Light

  Wescott woke from a disordered dream of fire and flames, and an exotic, black-haired sorceress. For a moment, he didn’t recall where he was. The room was dim, the small window above admitting only muted light. He finally remembered as he became aware of the soft, pale tresses trailing over his arm.

  He was curled up with the blonde—not black-haired—actress. Their legs intertwined beneath the tangled sheets, reminding him of the previous night’s intimacies. He knew he must wake her soon so he could return to his residence, and she to hers. This time out of reality and responsibility must come to an end, but first...

  Ah, first, he would enjoy a few final moments studying her pert, delicate nose and rosebud lips. Ah, those lips. They could sing, surely, but what else could they do? What lucky gentleman had regular use of them? Her coquettish manner of innocence and earthiness had driven him wild the night before, had sparked such intense lust he could hardly govern his actions. Now, he was loath to tear himself away from her.

  Dear God, how he wished to take her now, in the quiet light of morning. How he wished to tease open those enthralling pink lips with his stiffening cock, or perhaps rile her up with a sound spanking on her perfectly formed arse cheeks. They’d look so beautiful and red, marked with his handprints. Did her gentleman patron spank this sweet girl? A damnable waste if he did not.

  He drifted into a warm, arousing reverie, i
magining her pretty blue eyes filling with tears as the spanking continued. She would writhe on his lap and clutch his legs, begging for respite, not that she would get it...

  Next he knew, she stirred beside him, jostling him awake. He was as hard as he’d ever been in his life with the virile humors of sleep. Oh, how he ached to fuck her again, but he dared not partake of any more of her charms. They’d slept too late, in their exhaustion. His family must have learned of his absence by now, and would send out searchers in a panic.

  “Miss Layton.” He moved his hips so his unfortunate erection wouldn’t be the first thing she felt upon waking. “Miss Layton, I’m sorry to disturb you, but...” He nudged her shoulder and brushed back a tangled lock of her hair. “Miss Layton, we must rise and make ourselves ready to leave. I must take you home—”

  She came awake with great abruptness, clutching his arm. “No,” she said in a harsh whisper.

  “No?”

  She blinked at him, her eyes still blurry with sleep. “I— You—” She seemed to have trouble getting the words out. “You cannot take me home.”

  “But I must.” He frowned in concern. “Have you lost your voice?”

  Her hands flew to her throat, then reached to pull the blankets up high, covering her naked shoulders. “Yes. My throat must be swollen...from the smoke and fire...last night. It hurts.”

  “Don’t speak if it hurts you. I’ll be ready in just a moment, if you’d care to rise and dress yourself as well as you may.” He glanced at her brightly colored costume. What a spectacle they’d make, trotting across town, the Duke of Arlington’s son and a disheveled opera actress. There was nothing for it. He would not abandon her here, in the poorer streets of town, where one might mistake her profession. She might be a stage creature, but she was too clean and mannerly to be a common whore.

  “Please, Mr. Drake. You needn’t see me home.” She sat up and massaged her throat again. “Oh, no,” she said. “I shall not be able to sing.”