by Nia Farrell
Given the lack of privacy, most passengers removed few of their garments. Indeed, it was common for men to sleep in their boots. My hoops, at the least, had to go, and the layers of petticoats with them. I made use of the small changing room to shed what I could, folding my underskirts and collapsing my hoops, tying them with the drawstring at the waist and forcing them into my carpet bag along with two of my three petticoats.
I had hoped to remove my corset, but, alas, my skirt was sized for my cinched waist. After removing my blouse and corset cover, I was able to undo the hooks part way, letting my breasts breathe the sweet air of freedom. The corset cover went back on, as did the blouse. Both would be a wrinkled mess in the morning, but such is the plight of any traveler.
I used the women’s privy and returned to my berth, carpet bag in hand, fully aware that the damned heat, combined with my torturous stays, would ensure a night of misery. Not seeing Edward, I put my carpet bag beneath my bed. My corset impaired my ability to bend, but I managed to remove my shoes, and kept my stockings on for modesty’s sake.
I let the curtains fall into place and settled back against my pillow, hot and lonely and wishing Edward was here to share my misery. I grew tired waiting and started to drift into sleep when a familiar set of boots appeared outside my little cave.
“Entrez, Edward.” For good measure, I put a French spin on his name as well. When he parted the curtains covering both our beds, the lamplight was low enough, I nearly missed his chimera of a smile. I sat back in my berth, feeling a bit like Goldilocks in “The Story of the Three Bears,” caught by Papa Bear en déshabillé.
I guessed that he had visited the men’s changing room. He carried his frockcoat, waistcoat, and cravat in a neatly folded pile that he placed at the foot of the bed above me. Strangely enough, my unbound breasts made me acutely aware of the closeness of our quarters. I hid behind my sheet and turned toward the wall, refusing to watch his ascent.
He did not go up. Instead he braced himself to pull off his boot. When one hand would not work, he tried with two, but keeping his balance on the rolling train was nigh to impossible. “Judas!” I murmured drawing my knees up to my chest. “Sit down before you fall and crack something open.”
Edward did not argue. He perched on the far end of my berth and shed his boots, setting them on the floor by my carpet bag. I hugged the wall, watching him surreptitiously, knowing I should not but unable to help myself. He hoisted himself up, his magnificent body passing like a ship before my eyes, all steely strength and elegant lines, in a move that made me understand just how fit he was. Boxing? Rowing? Swimming? Running? What did professors of history do to keep from turning to dust before their time?
I could hardly ask him now. Perhaps tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, when we were traveling east across Canada.
The question was still unasked when our train pulled into Rochester, New York. Edward had arranged one night’s stay for us at the Osburn House hotel (said to be the premiere lodging here) and had secured tickets for tomorrow’s train that would take us to New York City.
Mr. and Mrs. New Money, it seemed, were staying at the Osburn, too. The four of us shared a conveyance from the station to the hotel, a five-story brick and stone structure on the corner of Main and St. Paul Streets. The first floor appeared to be shops, with hotel entrances strategically positioned between storefronts. The reception desk was on the second floor, along with a bar and a dining room that would seat three hundred. One hundred fifty newly-remodeled guest rooms featured Brussels carpets, spring mattresses on the beds, gas lights, and private water closets.
I longed for a bath, but Edward wished to eat first. Once our things were delivered to our third floor room, we took turns freshening up, wiping off the grit of travel and dressing for dinner.
I saved the evening dress and chose a sheer blouse to wear with a coordinating skirt, dyed the same solemn black but of more substantial fabric. The July heat was relentless, and my appetite was still off. I would have preferred something simple—an egg, or oatmeal and fruit, but Edward ordered for me. The grilled salmon with fresh green beans was prepared to perfection, but the simple chilled tomato salad made my taste buds sing.
“Thank you.” I dabbed a bit of juice from the corner of my mouth and smoothed the napkin back across my lap. “This was perfect. Just perfect.”
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the moment was spoiled by Mrs. New Money, gliding over to our table to pay her regards.
“Lord Leighton,” she gushed. I shot him a look of disbelief. I knew that he was “of good birth” and his family had connections, but he’d never intimated that he’d been knighted (or whatever it takes to be so titled). “We have kept our evening open, should you and your sister care to join us. The more hands, the merrier, don’t you agree?”
Edward had not deigned to look at her and did not do so now. Keeping his gaze on me and his voice low and civil, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Parks, but no. No. You must needs look for other partners.”
There was an odd energy to the exchange, something beneath the surface. I knew I’d need to fish to get it out of him. Edward, it seemed, was almost as good as keeping secrets as I was. I waited until we were in our room, of course, before asking what Mrs. New Money had really wanted.
Edward looked over his shoulder from turning on the gas lights and cocked a questioning brow. “Are you certain that you want to know?” he drawled, shrugging out of his frockcoat and draping it on the back of a chair.
“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“Well then,” he said, sounding rather laconic, “what they wanted…was us.”
Chapter Eight
I wondered if I’d heard him right.
“Us?”
“Us.” There was a bit of evil glee on Edward’s face, an unholy delight at the shock that was shaping mine. “I did try to warn you.”
“Yes, but…”
“Yes. But. I told them on the train that we were not interested. It seems they have an open relationship and like to bring other partners into their bed. Are you surprised?”
“Um.” I must have been. Words eluded me.
Edward removed his diamond stick pin and undid his cravat, pulling the black tie from around his neck and draping it over his coat. “Almost speechless, then.” He took out his cufflinks and set them on the table. When he turned, I swear, he was smirking at me. “Perhaps next time you will heed the warning and let sleeping dogs lie.”
I hated his condescending tone. “Don’t be cruel, Edward. I’m not stupid. I have a mind. You shouldn’t keep things from me. I have a right to know.”
I knew I’d misspoken the moment the words flew from my mouth. He took it in the worst possible way and stalked over to me, rolling up his sleeves as he circled the hem of my hoop skirt, prowling like the lion he was.
“Really? Shall I say more?” he rumbled, the beast in him taunting me, making me feel like a mouse with its tail pinned beneath a paw, able to move yet helpless to escape. “Shall I tell you that her husband wanted to watch me with the two of you, then watch his wife with you?”
He was trying to shock me. And, damn him, he was succeeding. But he’d drawn a line and dared me to cross it. “And where would you have been?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“Where do you think?” he spat. “I’d be fucking him.”
I flinched at the vehemence in his voice. Nothing about him was gentle right now.
I closed my eyes, unwilling to let him see how his words were affecting me. “You’re right, of course. It’s nothing I would be interested in…with them. But you—” he inhaled sharply behind me “—you are not obliged to attend me, at the expense of whatever pleasures you would otherwise pursue, were you alone. If a…a…liaison is something you want, if that is something you desire….”
A harsh breath, rife with need. “Go on.”
“If I can’t please you, perhaps Mr. and Mrs. New Money can.”
He paus
ed in his pacing directly in front of me. A heartbeat later, I felt his fingers on my throat. The feel of them made me want to kneel at his feet, to surrender to his control, to put myself in his hands and let him do with me what he will.
“First,” he said, his hot breath fanning my face, “‘New Money’ smacks of snobbery, pet. And you dare to belittle yourself. Can’t please me?”
I shuddered, trembling beneath his touch. “But you said—”
“You. Misremember.” His fingers tightened, ever so slightly. “I said nothing about your ability to please me. I said that you had no idea what I want. What I…crave. Tell me. Do you remember now, hmm?”
Oh, God. “Yes, sir.”
A low growl rumbled at the back of his throat, deep, needy. “I want to hurt you,” he grated. “Punish you. Make you beg to stop. Make you beg for more. I want you to give me your tears. Take my fingers in your cunny while I’m marking your arse with my hand or a hairbrush, with my leather belt or the rod I’ll cut from the perfect tree, just for you. And when you’re on the verge of your climax, I’ll throw you onto the bed, pin your hands above your head, and shove my cock into your cunny so deep and so hard, they’ll hear you screaming two floors down.”
Dear lord, the look on his face. I wanted to freeze time, to paint him as I saw him in that moment. He looked…omnipotent. A god-king. Like Xerxes, ready to order his Immortals against a wall of Spartan shields. They’d have done anything for him, without exception, without a word.
His game. His rules still applied. I was forbidden to speak.
I dropped my gaze to his mouth and wet my lips, a timid dart followed by a slow slide across the upper one. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth, pulling it in and dragging it out, knowing it would glisten with the moisture that I’d placed there.
His nostrils flared. I met his gaze. Blue was supposed to be a cool color, but his turquoise was electric, a blue flame charged with sexual energy. No one had ever looked at me in such a way, as if he could turn me to ash.
I wanted it…this immolation. Like Icarus, I hungered to experience the heights of passion. I wanted him to take me, to make me come apart midflight and leave me lying on the bed, breathless and shattered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he grated.
I stared at him, unblinking.
“Last. Chance,” he warned, flexing his fingers on my neck.
I shivered, breathless, and tipped back my head, arching my body like a virgin sacrifice, offering my throat to him.
His grip loosened, fingers stroking my skin before they drifted to the top button of my blouse. He dipped his head, blond curls shining like spun gold in the lamplight. “Take off your clothes, pet. Inspection first, then punishment.”
Oh, God.
I shed my garments, nervous excitement making my fingers clumsy as I unhooked my skirt and loosened the drawstring waists of all the layers that I could reach beneath it, shimmying everything past my hips to pool in one great heap at my feet. Like Venus rising from a pile of black bombazine, I freed each button of my blouse from its hole, wrists first, then the front placket from bottom to top, catching the neckline and parting it to reveal what lay underneath, heretofore veiled by layers of sheer summer fabric. I slipped the blouse off my shoulders, helped it slide down my arms, baring skin adorned with excitement, gooseflesh dotted by Cupid’s pointillist brush.
I crossed my arms, caught the hem of my corset cover, and eased it over my head, dislodging the net that I wore. I dropped the cover and freed my hair, tossing the net aside.
He nodded approvingly. “The rest.”
I unhooked my corset, bottom to top, sucking in a deep breath as my ribs were released from their confines. My breasts ached, swelling slightly above the rounded neckline of my chemise, my sensitive nipples rubbing against its fabric. I let the corset fall.
He adjusted himself, arranging his phallus so that it stood erect behind the front of his pants. He curled his fingers around himself and rubbed, watching as I took off my chemise and bared my chest to his sight for the first time.
A low growl sounded at the back of his throat. He abandoned his self-pleasure and held out his hand. “Step,” he ordered, back to single-word sentences and monosyllabic commands.
I grasped his fingers and stepped free of my skirts.
“Turn.”
Inspection. I obeyed, presenting myself to him, clad only in split-crotch pantaloons, gartered stockings, and shoes.
“Bed,” he said. “There. Stop. Now, bend.”
I stood at the edge, legs against the mattress. Folding my body forward, I braced myself with arms outstretched and palms flat on the turned-down sheets. Edward came up behind me, not touching me at first, just hot breath and male heat that sent shivers of anticipation down my spine. Following in their wake, he stroked a finger along the entire length of my back. He dared to go lower, a teasing touch, finding the opening to my drawers, then the seam of my buttocks, circling the puckered ring of flesh so tempting to a sodomite. “Later,” he promised huskily before moving on.
He found my slit. Stroked it, one finger testing its ripeness. “Wet,” he murmured, sounding inordinately pleased.
“Knickers,” he said.
I dropped them, then braced myself again, waiting with baited breath for the punishment he’d promised. One large, strong hand shaped the globes of my bottom, each in turn, his fingers measuring, flexing, testing resiliency. Come morning, he would see that I bruised as easily as a peach.
He stepped back. I heard him unbuckle his belt, slide it free from its moorings, then thwack! The sound of doubled leather echoed in the hollows of our room, whispering of dark promises and secret cravings. My swollen lady parts tingled with arousal.
“I will not do anything that you cannot bear,” he promised. “If I misjudge, one word from you will end it. Not no or stop. Something…unique. A word that would seldom arise in conversation, let alone in the heat of passion. I need your word, Elena. What is it?”
“Delphi.”
“Delphi. Like the Oracle?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
The way that the corner of his mouth curled upward, I could almost hear the joke that Daniel would crack, were he here. Three guesses as to what’s in your future, and the first two don’t—
“Count,” Edward ordered.
The first blow landed with a force that made my knees buckle. “One,” I choked out, bracing myself for the next, and the next. I don’t know what I’d done to deserve twenty. Perhaps he was the kind of man who gained pleasure from inflicting pain. As much as it hurt to have my bottom blistered, the soothing strokes between blows tempered the bad with some good. I found myself arching into his touch, then meeting his blows, inhaling sharply when I felt his tongue tracing the lines he’d made when he marked me.
He had marked me.
I knew it, even if he didn’t. More than punishment, this felt like a claiming—a theory soon proven when he opened his pants, took out his erection, and started fisting it. He groaned, stroked, panted, pulled, bit back a curse and cried my name as he came, shooting streams of ejaculate across my kidneys. I dipped my stomach and tilted my hips, creating a hollow in the small of my back.
The coolness I felt as his emission started to dry heightened my awareness of the heat radiating from my bottom. I was certain, had I a mirror, that I’d have found it as red as a ruby, with the start of sapphire bruises. He shuddered and shook himself one last time. Tapping his glans on one cheek, he drew it against my tender flesh, like an artist signing his work.
“Stay.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a dry towel and a wet washcloth. He seemed almost reluctant to clean me, as if he’d have preferred to leave it and let it dry. Sighing, he wiped his seed from my skin, then stroked me with the dampened cloth, the skin of my back first, then between my legs, where a deep and abiding ache made me tighten my thighs, trapping his fingers against my swollen flesh.
&nbs
p; He snatched away his hand and jerked back as if I’d bitten him. “Christ, Elena.”
I choked back a sob of distress.
“Ah, pet. Pet.” He sighed. “What am I to do with you?”
Anything. Everything.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Just…more…?”
“Bloody hell, woman.” He edged closer, removing any distance between us. He was hard again. His erection thrust from the openings in his clothes, mesmerizing, terrifying.
I knew we would not fit.
“Thighs,” I whispered, hoping he would understand. Surely if he’d experimented as a teenager or a young college student, he’d found satisfaction this way. I knew of it only because I’d been a soldier, and there were times when a need grew so great that it had to be relieved. When female flesh was lacking, I was told that a pair of coarser-haired thighs would make do.
He knelt down behind me, nuzzled the line between knee and groin where my pale legs touched. He loosened my garters and pushed down my stockings, slipping them off with my shoes. Straightening his back, he leaned into me again, this time tracing the seam of my thighs with his tongue. Grasping my hips, he pressed his face deeper; his nose nudged my weeping flesh.
He inhaled, sharply. His moan vibrated against my pudendum. I arched my back and purred.
Wrenching himself away, he spread the towel on the bed and pulled me up, to lie on my stomach over it. I turned my head and watched him undress, until he was as naked as Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, arm outstretched to receive both the gift of life and the choice of how to live it.
Adam wasn’t the only one with a taste for forbidden fruit.
Smiling darkly, Edward spat in his hand and rubbed his length. Spat again, and again, until his engorged length gleamed like a column of polished marble. For extra measure, he took the cloth he’d washed me with and pushed it between my thighs, adding moisture. I licked my lips and bit the bottom one, fighting the urge to grind myself against his hand.
