by Thea Devine
"They're watching," he whispered, and for one insane moment, she thought he was lying, that this was his way to get what every man wanted, and she would never ever know if somewhere behind the curtains, someone was really watching.
And then it didn't matter. His hand was magic, stroking and probing and persuasively, forcefully teaching her the pleasures of a man's fingers inserted in private and intimate places that were
so arousing, she made no protest and just let herself drown in the sensation.
And he kissed her. Concurrent with the voluptuous stroking of her body, he expertly stroked her lips and her tongue with his own, showing her, teaching her, arousing her still more.
This wasn't quite how she'd planned it. This wasn't nearly what she expected to feel after his raw plundering of her maidenhead.
She didn't know what to think. She couldn't think. The sensations swamping her body were too powerful, too compelling, and older than time. Her body knew things she did not know. How to move, to entice his further exploration of the hollows and holes of her femininity. How to respond to his kisses, what to feel, how to ask for more.
To ask for what she wanted.
No, not yet, not yet. Just let him keep feeling her naked body this way. She needed nothing else tonight, just this glorious descent into pure decadent pleasure. This was a man's secret, and a woman's downfall. All she needed was this, a willing man, an expert hand, and she would debauch herself forever.
If she gave him all this, how could she ask him to marry her?
And then it didn't matter. Somehow, he had removed his trousers; somehow he was between her legs, his hands cupping her face, delving deep into her mouth, nosing himself into her bush, pushing into her slowly, slowly, slowly.
She spread her legs, she grabbed his arms, she canted her hips all with a woman's instinct to invite that first forceful, penetrating thrust.
Not yet. Not yet. He gyrated his hips, insinuating his rock of penis into her by degrees, slow, slow, slow. Her body melted against the heat and hardness of him, her woman flesh liquefying as he pushed deeper, deeper, deeper.
He was there, he wasn't, not yet, not fully, and yet she felt every inch of him that fit and filled her with a fullness that took her breath away.
He pushed again, undulating patiently, slowly, gradually; there wasn't a word for all the sensations she felt as he worked himself into the tight, hot wetness of her.
Time stopped; there were no barriers. There was only the naked heat of their bodies, and the hot, urgent press and push of his penis to penetrate her wholly and completely.
And suddenly, shockingly, he was there, fully occupying her, thrust tightly against her hips and deep between her legs.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. This was real. This was naked; this was what everything was all about—this—a man's need to do it, a woman's need to comply.
How bad was it really? It was strange. It was .. . too raw, too encroaching—overpowering, even. A woman could get lost in it. Come to want it beyond all reason.
Oh, God, no. All she wanted was a solution, a way to escape her father. He could marry her and divorce her in the space of a month, and she would give him pots of money, Zabel's money, if only he would save her from having to marry Wroth.
This didn't have to enter into it at all.
Except—they were watching ...
If THEY were watching . .. them, together, their naked bodies fused in this voluptuous, primitive joining . ..
... with whose eyes watching . .. ?
Oh, dear God ... she ought to just marry Wroth and give up ... This was crazy, being invaded, penetrated, and occupied by a strange man whose name she didn't even know, in the best known brothel in the whole of England.
What did she think she was doing?
This was a really bad idea. She had to get away. The money she had taken from her father was probably enough to book passage back to America. She could travel steerage—if she had to. She could parcel out a sufficient amount from that to support herself once she got there. She could get a job, find a good man, have a decent marriage, a nice, if not luxurious life ... but she could take care of the details later ...
But think—she could be on her own, alone .. . don't be scared—she was so scared ,.. she could—
He moved. She died. No, she didn't die, she swooned, the pleasure was so intense, so all-enveloping, so sharp that she felt as if she might explode, from the center of her being, like a firecracker.
He moved again, twice, three times in, out, in, out, and the
sharp, hard feeling coalesced, peaked, and sent her suddenly, shockingly jolting over the edge.
Her body rocked with the aftershocks, one two three. She felt him folding her into his arms, taking the pounding movement with her, absorbing her pleasure.
What was that? What was that? Dear heaven, why did no one ever warn a woman about that?
"What was that?" That was her unrecognizable voice, a sibilant whisper, shaking and shocked with the new comprehension of the knowledge of Eve.
He moved again, a gentle back and forth as if there were no urgency; he had all the time in the world. For all of three minutes .. . and then his body seized, his hips ground against hers, and she felt his body stretch out tightly and pitch into the same kind of churning culmination.
This she remembered from the first time. His hot spew and the sticky flow of his come seeping between her legs.
And someone was watching all of this—this, which should be the most private and intimate congress between two people ... someone, in this house of indiscriminate fornication, was watching.
It was an abomination. It was a different kind of violation.
"Shhh . .." Kyger murmured against her lips.
"I know," she whispered back trenchantly, "they're watch-ing."
He didn't respond. His face was buried in her chocolate hair. He wondered if he even wanted to know who she was, or whether she just ought to remain the edible virgin to him.
Because he fully intended to eat her before they left this room. Eat her and nibble and suck on those hard pointed nipples that were so tight against his chest, and just devour every last inch of her and mark her with his tongue.
His penis, still wedged deep in her deliciously tight vagina, immediately ramped up. His penis liked the idea of him gnawing on her perfect skin, sliding his tongue all over her raspberry nipples and rooting deep between her legs.
Oh, yes. Before he left this room, he would cover those tight hard nipples with his hot saliva and suck hard on those firm tips until she melted and broke all over him again.
Most definitely.
He shifted his weight so that he was slightly above her. He nudged one of her perfect breasts.
Immediately she pushed against his bare chest to stop him. "Wait a minute."
"There's a part of me that can't wait a minute. It hasn't forgotten it's a bull.. . and it knows exactly what a bull does."
The insufferable fool. Another lesson. A man was too full of himself after ... well, after ...
She took a deep breath. This was such a stupid idea, but she was here, she had found him, and she was in for much more than two thousand dollars this time.
She was in for her life.
"You have to help me," she whispered urgently.
"Anything you want."
"You don't even know my name."
"Oh, I know you..."
She bucked against him. "I have to leave."
"I wouldn't dream of letting you."
"This is a waste of time."
"Not after the commotion you made. Everyone knows you're here. Someone is watching. You can't just walk away. They won't let you. They'll come after you. No, you have to play this through, and then we'll talk."
He was scaring her, badly. She summoned up some bravado; she really was her father's daughter to the core. "Oh, I see. I'm trading ... this ... for your help ... ?"
Was she? There had bee
n a different kind of urgency in the air before she barged into the room. He'd been suffused with another purpose, a different pressing mission. And now everything had shifted in one direction—upward—and all he cared about was fucking her. Every which way he could think of. And he was thinking ... hard—his body, his mind, his senses suffused solely with the sexual sense and scent of her.
What was it about this woman?
He wanted to stay embedded in her body forever. She was the embodiment of Eve, pure unadulterated temptation, made to be fucked, to be sucked, to be devoured by ...
By him—no one else. And she was still so virginal in so many
ways. That was the sticking point. He couldn't conceive of letting her—
Letting her what?
What the hell was she doing here anyway?
This was crazy. She needed his help. He needed to get on with what he had come here to do.
He couldn't move. Didn't want to move. Didn't care who was watching or what was thought behind the curtains, or in the minds of the miscreant perverts who had created this place and watched over it like Olympian gods.
He wanted this woman. No one else. Period.
And he had always thought himself immune to those emotions.
"You don't understand," he whispered finally, taking control of his impulses, but keeping himself firmly planted in her. "There are other things at work here. You can't make a commotion, demand a penis, and then say, 'Sorry—didn't want to fuck after all.' This is a flesh factory plain and simple. There are too many secrets and there are tight controls. So if you've paid out the money, you are expected to fuck until forever or they want to know why."
"All right," she breathed. "You can do it. What's one more time after . .. ?"
Jesus. Like it meant nothing?
He wanted to shake her, his overwhelming desire to do it again warring with his more pressing need to get her away from here altogether.
"You want help," he asked finally, barely mouthing the words and feeling paranoid beyond reason suddenly. "What kind of help?"
Finally, The point of it all. Angilee felt a wash of relief. He would listen at least. He might be mercenary, but he wasn't a bastard, and he was tolerable altogether in ... other ways.
Like kissing. And ... the pleasure she felt so keenly between her legs . ..
"I have money .. ."
"What do you want?"
They were almost mouth to mouth, so tightly wedged together because they were watching, but because of that, she couldn't re-
ally see his face clearly. Couldn't gauge his response, or his reaction to anything except the primal thing.
He wanted that. No question about that.
The real question was, would he even consider the other?
She wouldn't know unless she asked for what she wanted. She'd given away a lot in order to circumvent her marriage to Wroth, and this man was her first and last chance to escape him.
And now, she needed something, and she was at point with the .. . bull.,. who was still bull-nosed tightly between her legs, which made it hard for her to think clearly at this most important moment of the whole misadventure.
Maybe the best thing was to just say it, she thought. Another lesson learned from her father. Ask for what you want. Plain-speaking. A good old Southern virtue.
All she had to do was make it clear to the bull exactly what she wanted. He could only say no, after all, and then she would come up with another plan.
Later.
But why would he refuse if there was a willing body and lots of money on the table? She swallowed hard. He must not say no. The time to ask was now; he was listening and, she sensed, even willing to help her if he could.
"I want you to marry me," she whispered finally. "I have money. It wouldn't be forever. But right now, I need your help—I need you to marry me."
Chapter Six
... marry me ...
The words sat there, perched on the edge of his consciousness.
... Help me .., She meant that kind of help?
Holy shit. No.
No. He wanted to say it. He didn't say it. No.
"I will not marry the pig," Angilee whispered fiercely. "My father doesn't care that I'm not pure anymore. All he cares about is influence and connections. He doesn't care about me anymore. So I have to find someone to marry, and then he can't force me to marry ... that... that..."
No. The edible virgin was not going to seduce him that way. Never. No.
She pushed away from him. "If you're not going to help me, I have to find someone who will—tonight."
"Now, just a minute—" Kyger pulled her back.
She bucked against the pressure of his arms. "I'll pay you. It doesn't have to be for the rest of your life. It just has to be long enough to convince my father that I'm married to someone else and he can't marry me to the pig ... And I thought—I thought..."
"For God's sake . .. would you just—?"
"I can't—I don't have time." She kept fighting him, feeling too
open, too naked, too vulnerable with a strange man who was nothing more than a hired penis in a brothel. She should have known. What was wrong with her? How could she ever have thought... ?
He wasn't going to help; she'd been naive to even think it was possible. Her desperation escalated. "If you won't do it... then—"
"I know... I know—you have to find someone..." He tucked her into his arms with some difficulty, but he had to calm her down. "... just stop—right now. Stop—"
"I can't—I have to go ..."
"Shhhh!"
She wilted suddenly, defeated. He was too strong, and she'd given away too much already. Her ill-conceived gamble had not paid off. Nor did she have guts enough to approach another stranger, despite what she'd said. It was just too risky.
She had no time anyway. It was over. Zabel had won.
And the stranger was staring at her too intently. She averted her eyes; she blinked back tears.
Kyger saw them trickling out from under her long lashes.
Damn and hellfire. He felt time seeping away, felt the press of her need and the urgency of his commission intersecting in a way that was going to blow them both to kingdom come.
He couldn't allow her to get away. He couldn't marry her. He couldn't take her with him where he needed to go. He couldn't... he couldn't... he couldn't—
What could he do to keep the edible virgin tight in his arms?
"Now... tell me..."
She sniffled and swallowed hard and whispered in a soggy voice, "We were coming to England because my father wanted to find a husband for me who was worthy of his wealth and position. But he had already arranged this very strange and unexpected marriage to Viscount Wroth before we even arrived. Without my consent or my even meeting him. And there's no getting out of it, as far as my father is concerned."
"You're American—from where?"
"Georgia."
The accent. The money. A buccaneer. Of course. Shit.
"And so you thought..." he prompted in a whisper.
"He put such a price on purity, I thought—" She didn't need to elaborate further. The picture was clear.
"Well, I thought wrong. He chained me to the bed, to keep me from doing anything else to spoil his plans. So—well, what else could I do but run away and try to find someone else to marry me?"
Of course. What else indeed? And—the words, chained me to the bed, suddenly registered. Holy hell. Now he was aware, he noticed the welts on her wrists. Dark, red . .. who the hell was this barbarian?
No, he didn't want to know—he'd kill him, and he couldn't afford the luxury of those emotions. And while the edible virgin would probably love that, such a drastic measure would present a hundred more complications he didn't need.
Jesus holy hell—what was he going to do—because for certain, he couldn't allow her out of his sight now. She'd scavenge room to room auctioning her body for the price of a marriage license and kicking up a new c
ommotion, and his whole mission would go to hell in a handcart.
Just what he needed, a spoiled, wealthy Southern buccaneer calling attention to him. God almighty, how the hell had he gotten this involved with her?
Help me ...
The magic words. He had no help. He had no words. "You could just say you're married."
"You don't know my father—he would check it out thoroughly. He'd find the clerk who issued the marriage license, and the minister who married me, before he'd believe it was even possible. No, it has to be real, this marriage, even if it's just an arrangement."
She sounded so forlorn, it raised every protective instinct in him. He couldn't afford that. He couldn't afford her, on so many levels, even if she paid for it.
How would she pay for it?
She'd run away, she said. She'd offered him money to marry her. She couldn't go back, she said. There was an arranged marriage in the offing that was so repugnant to her, she'd taken the desperate measure of hunting him down here.
How could she have even known I'd be here?
He pushed away from her this time. Forcibly. Away and out and apart from the temptation of rooting in the moist enveloping heat of her luscious body. It was too distracting. It was too seductive in a place where seduction was used as currency for things outside the realm of sex, things like influence and alliances.
Things she said her father hungered after.
Not a coincidence.
He had to get away from her. He couldn't think, and now he was thinking things he didn't want to think—
Like this was a Banbury story and he was a gullible fool. That nothing about it or her was true, and that the whole thing was a ruse to keep him embedded in her needy innocence and far away from the secrets of Bullhead Manor.
Shit. He jackknifed himself into a sitting position.
"Who the hell are you?"
She looked shocked, bereft even. She was a terrific actress.
"Who are you?" she retorted.
They stared at each other. He couldn't believe this was a betrayal. Her emotion was too real. Her bewilderment.
Nothing is exempt from consideration.
