A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  She shook her head and took one step back, throwing up her hands to hold him off. "You are drunk."

  "Why did you do it?"

  That shocked her into dropping her hands. "What?"

  "Why did you play the whore for him?"

  "I—" She shook her head again, and all the defiance leached from her eyes. "I knew I could win."

  "No. Your hand wasn't that good. Any thrice would have beaten your running flush. Oh, yes, I was given all the de­tails of your transgression. So why did you risk it?"

  "I don't know. It was a stupid impulse. A mistake."

  "A mistake. A mistake like taking the wrong turn on your way to the park, or perhaps leaving a glove behind after a visit?"

  "A more dire mistake than—"

  "A mistake. Like telling one man you will never take a lover, and telling another that you will spread your legs for a few hundred quid?"

  "No," she whispered.

  "I would have offered more. I still will, Emma, since you haven't been sullied up yet. Will two thousand be sufficient? I consider it quite generous."

  "I did not mean to follow through."

  Her chin trembled a little and the sight of it brought him joy. "Ah, so you are not a whore, just a cheat."

  "Yes." Her trembling chin rose, trying to look proud.

  "Why did you come here, straight to the lion's den?"

  Emma took another step and her back was against the paneled door. He wanted to press her hard against it.

  "I wanted to apologize to you, for causing you any embar­rassment."

  "Liar."

  "I. . . I knew you would . . ."

  "You think you've injured me, and you feel guilty, and you want me to make you pay."

  "Ridiculous," she hissed.

  "And then you will leave here feeling better, and telling yourself you owe me nothing."

  "You are drunk and irrational. I needn't listen to this."

  "Wonderful. I'm through talking."

  She was drawing herself up to argue when Hart shot his arm out and wrapped a hand around the back of her neck.

  "Oh!"

  Her body stumbled into his when he tugged her forward. Hart tightened his hold and pressed his mouth to her temple. "Marsh," he growled into her ear, "a worthless piece of rub­bish."

  "Hart—"

  "Shut that lovely mouth, Emma. Or I will shut it for you." Her teeth clicked together. "Good girl."

  He reached behind her to open the door, then edged her out into the hallway. Morton was nowhere to be seen, but Hart knew he was close. "Have wine sent to my chambers," he snapped and was rewarded with the quick appearance of a bowing footman.

  Emma jerked from his grasp, but she did not fly toward the door. Instead she followed the sweep of his hand and moved regally toward the staircase. She stepped carefully up, calmly toward the second floor. Toward his bed.

  Hart's cock, already swelling, stiffened to heavy attention. She would be his now. Regardless of what she'd offered that disgusting bastard, she would belong to Hart. Only to him.

  This could only make it worse, could only make her be­trayal more painful, more personal, but he did not care in the least. He wanted her as he'd never wanted any woman. In his youth he'd had the women he'd wanted, had them every which way. And later . . . well, later he'd never wanted like this, because he'd never let himself.

  But now the sight of her trussed waist and swaying hips moved him. His heart, that heart rumored to be made of ice, shifted with each of her steps. It lurched at the thought of her spread naked on his bed, trying to appease his anger with her body. She could not make it better, but she could damn well try.

  And she wanted it like this, he knew it. She wanted him angry and demanding, so she could tell herself that she'd been overwhelmed. But Hart had no intention of absolving her of responsibility. She would ask for what she wanted, or he would not oblige.

  Emma had reached the top of the staircase and now she stood, uncertain and suddenly younger. Hart took her arm and walked her to the set of carved doors that led to his chambers. The footman was close behind with the tray, so Hart simply led her through the door and stopped her in the middle of the room.

  When the door closed, he offered a glass of wine, and wasn't the least bit surprised when she finished it in four gulps. "Another?"

  "Yes."

  "Trying to catch up? I warn you that I've three hours on you."

  "I'll do my best." She sipped the second glass more slowly while Hart circled her, assessing his prey. Good Lord, she was beautiful tonight; the wine added a flush to her cheeks, or it could have been fear or arousal or both. Her eyes followed him, then darted away when he met her gaze. Her tongue peeked out to lick a drop of wine from her pink lips, and Hart knew just what he wanted.

  "Turn 'round."

  He took the glass from her hand as she obeyed. Her skin felt hot when he placed a hand on her shoulder and trailed it down the bare skin of one shoulder blade.

  "I have never touched you here," he murmured, testing the texture of her skin over her spine. The dress dipped low in the back and he followed her spine down, and then up again, all the way to her neck. Emma shivered, but she froze when he reached for the tiny hooks of her gown and began to let them loose.

  He did not hurry. There was no need. She would stay as long as he wanted.

  The hooks fell open, one by one, exposing a simple ivory corset. Hart moved his hands lower until he reached the small of her back. The dress gaped; his cock began to throb as he reached to ease the straps of material from her arms. The silk fell away, crumpling into a dramatic pile on the floor. He made short work of her petticoat, and that fell too, revealing the flare of her hips beneath a transparent ivory shift. The globes of her buttocks were clearly visible, naked and rising against the thin fabric of her chemise.

  He placed his palm high on her spine again and traced it down, but this time he continued over the hard brace of her stays, then down, down to the soft curve of her bottom. He cupped one warm cheek and spread his fingers out to meas­ure that flesh.

  Emma gasped as he smiled. Her flesh was yielding here, firm and tender at the same time. He followed the rise up to her hip and stepped around to enjoy the view from the front.

  Ah, this was even better, and there was no pretense in the smile that showed his teeth and his hunger. Her breasts were pushed high enough to reveal the shell pink edge of her are­olae. Below the corset, the linen did nothing to hide the dark shadow of her sex, and the shift itself ended above her knees. Ivory garters gripped her thighs and held up pale gold stockings.

  He took her hand to help her step from the circle of her discarded clothing and was well pleased at the sight of her, almost naked, but still wearing her heeled slippers. Yes, she looked made for his indulgence.

  Her eyes glittered as she watched him watching. She knew the picture she presented as she stood a little taller and arched her back the tiniest bit. A wider edge of pink showed above her stays.

  "Have you wanted me to see you like this, Emma? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror and thought of me watching?"

  "Yes," she said evenly.

  His heart skipped. "It is a lovely sight. Beautiful." Step­ping closer, he curved his hand over her jaw and kissed her gently, reverently. Her mouth opened with no urging, and he eased his tongue inside to trace her lips and teeth. The heat of her, the wetness. Her tongue met his to rub desire to other parts of his body. Other parts that wanted that slick heat and velvet tongue.

  He kissed deeper and her hands rose to hold his wrists tight. She pressed her lips harder, angled her mouth to take more. When he drew back her mouth was pink and swollen, and the dozens of times he'd entertained this particular fan­tasy rose up to strangle him to breathlessness.

  "On your knees," he whispered.

  Her hands spasmed, clenching his arms tighter. Shocked knowledge flashed through her eyes.

  "Your knees," he rasped, and she sank down, slow as a feather, eyes still on his fa
ce, fulfilling every picture he'd painted of this moment. She held his gaze as she let go of his wrists and reached for the buttons of his trousers, and Hart unfastened his shirt and shrugged it off.

  Her fingers were a torment, pressing into him as she worked the buttons free. "Would you have done this for him?" he demanded.

  She shook her head.

  "Say it."

  Her hands trembled against him, torture, torture. "No," she finally said.

  "And will you . . ." He stopped to draw a rough breath when she slipped her hand into the opening she'd created. "Will you do this for me?"

  "Yes," she whispered as her hand closed around him, cooler than his heated flesh, and drew him free. He wanted to gasp but held it back.

  Her eyes fell to his jutting erection. "Yes," she said again, with a little hiss of eager breath.

  Her hand fell open, until just the tips of her fingers touched him, and those fingers drew fire as she traced a tentative ex­ploration of his shaft. He shuddered. His knees wanted to shatter, so he locked them against that weakness and watched her slow petting.

  She traced the rim of the head, skimmed her palm over the tip. Her eyes rose to meet his for just a moment, then down again to his cock. When her hand fell away to rest on his thigh, his muscles jumped beneath the thin fabric.

  She pursed her lips to press a simple kiss, and Hart couldn't help the loud hiss of the air he drew through clenched teeth. Her mouth twitched up into a little smile that faded just as quickly as it appeared.

  Something froze inside him. He knew he'd remember that forever: Emma smiling against his sex. Then she licked a tiny taste, quick as lightning, and Hart forgot the smile.

  She licked again, a flick of her hot tongue, and then a more lingering trace of that wetness. His cock twitched and she jumped a little, eyes darting up.

  A shock of pure lust shot through him, trailing some deeper pressure. A hint of a shadow, a dark wisp of suspicion.

  She pressed another kiss, twirled her tongue over and around the head, and for God's sake, he was sure he'd die with any more teasing. Finally, she parted her lips and eased her mouth over him, just a tiny bit, an inch. He felt her tongue pressing wet and strong, then she let him go with a little pop.

  That wisp of suspicion unfurled into a certain, stunning realization: she had never done this before. Never.

  Her seventy-year-old husband had never asked her or never wanted it. She had never taken another man like this.

  My God.

  He supposed that this should have shamed him or less­ened his demand, but it only pushed his lust to a more dan­gerous peak. His knees shuddered.

  "Emma."

  She glanced up, and he was sure he saw eagerness there. Please, let it be eagerness.

  He took her pliant hand in his, telling himself he should draw her to her feet, but knowing he would not. Instead he wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft. She squeezed, a deli­cious amount of pressure.

  Hart eased his shaking hand to her hair. His fingers found a half-dozen hairpins and tugged them free. The thick cur­tain of her hair fell down to brush her shoulders, her back.

  "Do you want to do this?"

  "Oh, yes." Her breath curled over him, a promise of ec­stasy to come. "Yes, I want to. I've wanted to. I'm sorry I don't. . . I—"

  "Open your mouth."

  Her lush lips parted.

  "More. Now, now your tongue . . ." He eased her head closer. Her tongue slid under him, her mouth took him in. Hart felt the tight grasp of her hand and the slippery pres­sure of her mouth as she swallowed around him. He urged her back, then guided her closer again, and when his hand fell from her hair, Emma took up the movement herself.

  He watched past fading vision, body aching with stiff ten­sion, as she found a slow rhythm and took him deeper. Her fist offered a steady pressure that held him still for her plea­sure, gave her control.

  She was sin and innocence twisted all together. The picture of seduction, in her corset, on her knees, her face a study of innocent concentration, her hair a wild temptation. Hart wanted to thread his fingers through the silky length, urge her to take him deeper, faster. He wanted to control her, but this was even better: Emma learning what she liked, what he liked. Emma doing what she wanted.

  Her eyes opened slowly, and she watched him through her lashes as her mouth slid down, all the way to the edge of her hand.

  Hart groaned aloud. His whole body shuddered as plea­sure wound tighter and tighter, suffocating all thought and rationality. Desire was a heavy, perfect weight that began to pull him toward the edge. And her mouth . . . so wet and warm and unknowing.

  He could not last. And this was part of his fantasy too, Emma drinking him up as he spilled his seed. But some hes­itation stopped him. He clamped down on the rushing need and cupped his hand around Emma's head to slide her back.

  She was panting, her bottom lip still pressed to his cock, breath rushing over him in cold puffs of torment.

  He had to slow down. He wanted more than this. He wanted everything he could take.

  "Enough," he groaned, taking her hand to pull her to her feet.

  She watched him, pupils wide with lust, lips bruised. Primal possessiveness crashed over him, pressing the breath from his lungs. She was almost innocent despite her lustful nature. And he wanted to keep her for himself, seduce her, teach her things that she would do with no other man.

  Then the thought of what she'd meant to do with Marsh fell like a rock through his twisted, stormy thoughts.

  He was losing control here, treating her as if she were dif­ferent, as if she were precious when he'd meant to show her she'd become less to him. Meant to show her that their strange friendship had ended and she was just like every other woman he'd had.

  Hart refastened his trousers and her brow crinkled.

  "Let us go through the ground rules first, shall we?" He strolled over to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. He didn't offer her any as he returned to stand in front of her tempting form; he didn't dare hold out a glass and reveal his shaking.

  "You will not speak of me to anyone. You will not confirm or deny our relationship. If I hear even a hint, a whisper, some intimate knowledge that has been passed on, I will cease to know you. Not only will our interlude come to an end, I will cut you dead. Understand?"

  The lust had faded from her eyes, leaving them narrowed against hurt.

  "There will be no other man in your bed while I am there. And there will be no further flirtations. When the affair ends there will be no tears, no hysterics. This is purely physical. It is not love, it is not the start of love. It is only the natural end to a mutual attraction. Is that clear?"

  Her mouth was tight with rage. "Is this the speech you give all your lovers?"

  "It is."

  Her head jerked back a tiny bit. "And how do those women react to this list of demands?"

  "Some look at me as you are doing now . . ." Oh, she did not like that at all. Did not like being compared to nameless, faceless women. "And some seem cowed. But they all agree."

  "Arrogant coward. Are you really so afraid?"

  He shrugged and took a sip of wine. "I prefer to be in con­trol."

  "Oh, but not always." Her eyes drifted down his naked chest to rest on his lap.

  Hart was quite happy with the anger that raged back to full strength at her words. "I am in control now, Emma, and that should be all that concerns you. Remove the rest of your clothing."

  "You insult me."

  "Ha. You may pretend at your outrage, but you have wanted this from the moment we met. Almost as much as I have."

  Her jaw jumped at his words. "I did not want this!'

  The last of the wine quenched his dry throat, but it did nothing for the angry want that was stretching his skin tight as a drum. He only felt angrier when he tipped the glass down and met her gaze.

  "You came here knowing I was a man on a razor's edge. You knew I was half drunk and damn near violent, and y
ou came to me. You may not want this, Emma, but you need it.

  "And I. . ." He smiled, smiled until her eyes fluttered with nervousness. "I am pushed too far. Everyone in the world is talking about me right now, my sweet. Laughing at me. Discussing me, my life, my stupid, lustful, unwise heart. They are looking at me, Emma. And I will damn well have tonight even if I never deign to speak your name again."

  He let his rage free with one wide sweep of his hand and the fragile crystal shattered in a musical crash against the door.

  Emma backed up one step.

  Hart rolled his shoulders and willed his boiling blood back to a simmer. "Now. Let's start with the corset, shall we?"

  Chapter 17

  The corset was squeezing her, pressing her lungs too tight. She couldn't draw more than quick, useless gasps of air that did nothing to help her find reason. Instead, every shallow breath sent little bits of sparkling pleasure to her sex.

  She was afraid, afraid of Hart, and that only made her body throb with more intensity. Between her fear and that arousal, Emma couldn't think what to do. So she turned, and Hart began to work on the tight lacing that held her in.

  As soon as she felt the ties loosen, Emma reached to free the hooks. Suddenly, she could breathe. Blood seemed to fill with life and rush to every nook of her body. Emma had expected to feel relief, but there was no ease in those breaths. Instead, an urgency overtook her.

  The final hook gave, and she let the corset drop to the floor.

  "Now the shift," Hart murmured, and Emma drew it over her head, thinking of him staring at her naked backside, knowing how much he would like that.

  "The shoes," he said. "The stockings."

  She could not fathom how he knew her so well. Was it simple recognition on his part, like knowing like? Or was it etched on her skin, a terrible heritage writ in subtle code that Hart had seen from the start? Or was it possible that every woman wanted this?

  Rolling down her last stocking, Emma reveled in the thought of how exposed she was for his eyes. When she turned and found that Hart had undressed as well, the sight of him seized her heart. His body was lean and tightly mus­cled, his cock thick and rock hard. He would be inside her soon, and she felt she had waited her whole life for that.