A Certain Latitude

by Janet Mullany

  Best to let him be angry, to hate her if he must, and she must accept the guilt and the chill he left in his wake.

  The note March had written had fallen to the floor and lay face up next to her.

  Madam,

  You told me what you wanted from a lover. These poor baubles are the best I can offer.

  Be mine.

  Lemarchand.

  She unclipped the cruel little clips from her breasts and ran the heavy stones over her hand. Light flashed in diamonds with the cold brilliance of stars; sapphires held the deep intensity of an evening sky and moonstones glowed, subtle and sensuous.

  “He remembered,” she whispered as the stones warmed against her skin and she could not help smiling with absolute delight and anticipation. “He listened to what I said. He understood.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Clarissa had once dreamed of walking naked by moonlight through an ancient house into the arms of the lover of her imagination. That man existed only as a foolish abstraction; his earthly equivalent had failed and insulted her.

  He had also offered her marriage and the protection of his name.

  March had offered neither.

  But it was to March’s bedchamber that she made her way, perfumed and adorned, by the light of a full moon casting splashes of silver light through the tall windows of the house. Her bare feet were as silent on the floorboards as those of his slaves.

  Did March own her, too, now?

  Outside March’s bedchamber, his valet, Finch, a taciturn Englishman who was one of the few servants in the household, moved forward to open the door.

  She stepped inside.

  The room held March’s scent. overlaid with that of the pungency of a scented candle alleged to keep mosquitoes away. The only other light in the room came from the moon, creating a dramatic interplay of silver and black. The moon was hidden, the room plunged into near darkness as, with a swish, the punkah descended—a canvas screen designed to create a breeze by its rise and fall, operated by a slave on the balcony outside. Moonlight flooded the room once more as the punkah rose.

  Ahead of her, March’s bed, draped in the filmy white of a mosquito net, awaited. And he—the hairs on her arms stirred beneath the wool of her cloak—he was present, hidden in the shadows. Watching her. Waiting for her.

  Her constricted nipples tightened.

  She heard the snap of fingers, and the punkah rose and stilled.

  “An apparition.” Silk whispered, rasped on male hair—she guessed he had discarded his banyan—and a dark shape moved between her and the window, a long shadow cast onto the floor; there was light enough to see that March was naked and fully erect. His loosened hair flowed onto his shoulders.

  “Show yourself, spirit,” March commanded.

  She raised her hands to the fastening of her cloak and let it drop, releasing a slight gust of salt that clung to it still. For a moment, the floor beneath her feet heaved and swayed like a deck, and she heard Allen’s voice again. Oh, please, Miss Onslowe, do shock me.

  March moved his head, a lift of the chin, summoning her from her ghosts to his imperious presence, and she stepped from the dark puddle of her cloak toward him.

  “Ah. The queen of the night.” His gaze traveled over her, pausing at the jewels at her ears and neck and breasts, admiring his possessions, the beautiful things he had bought. “The jewels become you.”

  She bowed her head.

  He gestured with his head again, a different command, accompanied by a slight gesture of one graceful hand.

  Down.

  She dropped to her knees and ran her hands up his thighs, long-muscled, cool, sleek with dark hair, to trail her fingertips up his cock— he was hot there, hot and eager, skin stretched taut. She explored him further with her fingertips, the dark weight of his ballocks, the tender skin of his inner thighs, the hair curling tight at the base of his cock.

  He didn’t move, but he was not indifferent. His breathing quickened.

  She touched her tongue to the smooth slick head, drew back and licked him, around and down, exploring the bumps of veins, his shape and taste and scent, for her own pleasure. Let him wait. Beneath her palm his ballocks tightened.

  Not indifferent at all. How long would it be before he dropped the control, the pretense? Before he demanded and took, gripping her head with his hands, groaning as he gushed into her mouth?

  She blew on his cock, damp from the attentions of her mouth and bit softly at the base. Why let him suffer further? She took him in her mouth, lasciviously sloppy and wet, her breasts pressed against his hard thighs as she sucked and licked. Her pinched nipples throbbed, wet heat pulsed between her thighs. If she squeezed her thighs together she could come, she was sure of it, but restrained herself—this was for his pleasure; all her concentration centered on him.

  He groaned, the first sound he’d made, and now his hands came up to cup her head, to guide her, tilting her face and throat, tremors in his legs and belly. His fingers dug in her hair. She raised her eyes to see him, head thrown back, jaw clenched, belly and arms and shoulders tight and sculpted—a man fighting to loose and spend. She took him deeper, breathing through her nose, working one finger to the very base of his cock, beyond his ballocks. Rubbing the ridge, a little roughly.

  Rough enough to make him surge salty into her mouth—a quantity indeed, although he was deep enough to spend mostly into her throat. But she wanted to taste him, to share the moment. Her quim clenched, the clips on her nipples announcing their painful presence anew.

  His hands moved to her shoulders. He sighed and toyed with a lock of her hair.

  “You may stand.”

  She did so, excited by his formality, the indifferent tone of his voice. She knew better—she’d felt and tasted his excitement, his abandon.

  She stood close enough for her jeweled nipples to brush against his chest.

  He raised a hand to tug gently at the jeweled strand, creating more pressure on her over-sensitive nipples. His mouth closed on hers, nipping, sucking; his tongue coiled against hers, sweet and arousing, drawing a soft moan from her. Slow wet kisses on her throat, her jaw, her lips, her shoulders, returning to her mouth with an insistent thoroughness.

  He pulled away. “Now make yourself come.”

  Dazed, wanting his mouth again, she stood and stared at him.

  He put his mouth to hers. “Do it.” His voice was low and seductive. His tongue licked her mouth. “Touch yourself.” He lowered his mouth and licked a swollen nipple. “I expect to be obeyed. You know that, don’t you, Clarissa?”

  “Yes, sir,” she managed to gasp.

  He pushed her toward the bed, drawing the mosquito net aside. “Sit.”

  She sat and let him arrange her— legs raised and parted, her quim exposed to him as she lay back against the pillows. One quick, painful flick to her nipple.

  “I’m waiting.”

  He retreated to the end of the bed to watch her. She was about to perform. Of course she should be shamed and horrified—she was, wasn’t she?—but another part of her dared and urged her on.

  Her breasts, first—tingling and swollen, the nipples hard under her fingertips. Maybe she could come if she stroked and flicked enough, but she knew March wanted more—to see her fingers dip into her quim, draw her swollen folds apart, and play with the erect ridge of her clitoris. First, a slow trail of her fingers down her belly, onto her thighs, a fleeting brush against the hair that, in her present position, concealed nothing, but framed her most intimate parts.

  March watched, motionless apart from a stir in his cock.

  Now her fingertip strayed to her clitoris. A slight touch, a little pressure—teasing herself, teasing him.

  “A moment.” March’s voice was not as steady as previously. He took the candle and moved to a small cabinet, opened it, and removed a bundle, wrapped in some sort of fabric. The cloth—it had the gleam of silk by the light of the candle—he tossed aside, revealing a model of an erect cock, gleaming white i
n the moonlight.

  “Ivory.” He ran his hand up the length of the phallus in a slow, sensual caress. “From the Orient. Wondrously lifelike, is it not?” His own cock lengthened and swelled. “If I may?”

  He brushed the head of the ivory cock in a slow sweep from clitoris to buttocks, then positioned, pushed, penetrated her. “Do what pleases you best, Miss Onslowe.”

  She grasped the base of the ivory cock in her other hand—cool at first, then warming as her body closed and took the length. Not quite like a man—too hard, without the flexibility, but enough to arouse her. Slow, even strokes while she teased her clitoris—Keep it slow, extend the pleasure, it’s what he wants—her captured nipples throbbed and ached.

  March’s cock rose. He stroked himself while gazing at her—what did it look like, the white of the ivory against the pink of her quim?

  Her quim made small, wet sounds as she eased the phallus in and out, releasing it entirely occasionally to rub it against her clitoris. Tension gathered in her thighs, her nipples, her belly, as she began the delicious climb to an orgasm.

  March’s hand continued the slow, casual slide on his cock. “You like that, don’t you, Clarissa?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was tight and breathless.

  “You like me to watch you.”

  “Yes.” She could barely speak now.

  He leaned forward, shifting his gaze from between her legs to her eyes. “Come for me, then.”

  Finally. She let go. Arched and cried out, her finger merciless on her clitoris, sliding the phallus ever faster as her orgasm took her, March’s eyes the constant in a plunging universe.

  She fell back, astonished and breathless, her hands falling away, and the ivory phallus sliding wetly between her thighs.

  “Now lick it,” March said. “Lick it clean.”

  He knelt between her outspread legs and pushed his cock into her, filling her—ah, that was better, the warmth and flex of a man—pushing slow, curving into her. He held the phallus to her mouth: she tasted herself, salty and with a touch of vinegar from the sponge, as her tongue explored the carved veins and folds. He groaned, his mouth joining hers on the shaft, and his tongue meeting hers, until they both abandoned the phallus and it tumbled away into the sheets. Now he thrust slowly inside her, the length and breadth of his cock stretching her, vital and alive. He rocked his weight back onto his knees to release the clasps that had so teased and pinched her nipples, and moved from her mouth to lick her there. Both of them moaning now, the playacting abandoned, lost in a drugged sweetness; the slick of wet skin and tangled hair and the scent of sweat-drenched bodies all that existed.

  He came with a tremor and a wet surge, although she held herself off in a sort of detached daze, as though an orgasm would detract from the wonder. This was March, so lordly and demanding and fierce, now vanquished in her arms, his head fallen onto her shoulder, his back heaving as he sucked in air.

  He kissed her shoulder as though too lazy, or too depleted, to reach for her mouth. “Well?”

  How was she supposed to answer that? She searched her dazed mind for suitable compliments on his virility and stamina, failed, and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

  He laughed and propped himself up on one elbow. A lock of his hair swept over his arm and tickled hers. “I don’t believe you have very much to thank me for that last time.”

  His admission surprised her, and embarrassed her, too. She was his mistress, the instrument of his pleasure. Did he want her to perform with the ivory phallus again?

  He kissed the corner of her mouth. “What would you like?”

  She remembered that first—no, second time—with Allen, where she was dumbfounded by his need to know how and what she liked. Then, of course, she had no idea, only overwhelming excitement. Now she knew.

  She took his hand and guided it between her thighs. “Here.” She pressed his fingers into the wet heat, against the swollen length of her clitoris, letting her knees fall apart. His face was serious, intent—a profile worthy of a Greek coin—his hand dark against her thighs as one finger dipped and played. She watched his hand dabble intimately between her thighs.

  “We’ll do this with more light and in front of a mirror,” March remarked. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see my hand on your cunny.”

  She gave a small gasp of shock and excitement. How easily he read her.

  “What else would you like me to do?” March asked, his voice calm as though offering her more claret at dinner.

  “I’d like you to lick me,” she gabbled in an embarrassed rush.

  “Ah. Where, precisely?”

  “Here.” She gestured. Her face heated—she really couldn’t tell whether it was shame or desire, so linked were the two emotions.

  “A capital idea.” March bent his head and took her clitoris between his lips in a deceptively gentle kiss. But only gentle for a moment—his mouth engulfed her folds, while his tongue beat a wicked rhythm on her clitoris. And his fingers, dear God! His fingers thrust inside her, hooking up to a surprisingly sensitive place—she gave up the idea of trying to trace the topography of her quim, as his fingers, tongue and lips merged into one splendid instrument of pleasure. Please, please, please. She writhed under the intensity of his caress, almost hoping he’d stop—and then spasmed against him, amazed at the wetness and violence of her response.

  He held her at the peak of her orgasm, as skilful as a musician sustaining a long note, while she thrashed and groaned and shook.

  “Oh,” she said in amazement, as the seemingly endless tumult subsided. Her legs still quivered and small shocks reverberated in her belly.

  He raised his head, very wet around the mouth, and smiled. “You are quite extraordinary.”

  “So are you.” She could barely move, quite limp and perfectly content.

  He yawned. “I should sleep.” He pulled the sheet up to his waist, leaned to kiss her lips, and closed his eyes.

  She curled onto her side and watched him. He seemed to fall asleep quickly, his breathing slow and even. His skin was almost as pale as hers in the moonlight, with a sparse slick of hair on his chest, thinning to a narrow line that ran to his navel. Below that, and under the sheet, she knew the hair thickened and spread around the base of his cock, and his legs were covered with a fine sheen of hair, as were his exposed arms.

  Beautiful. An odd word for a woman to use of a man, but beauty he had in abundance.

  Was she supposed to leave now? She regarded the sleeping man, sighed, and unfastened the jewels from her breasts. As she sat to place them on the bedside cabinet, he shifted and his hand landed on her shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She turned to him.

  “You don’t look happy,” he said quietly.

  “I…I’m confused.” His acuity served only to confuse her more.

  “About what?”

  “You.”

  “Ah.” His hand slid to her breast, cupping it in his palm.

  “I don’t know you. I feel I see you with a series of masks—as master of your plantation, as a father, as a man who takes and gives pleasure—” She bit her lip. She remembered Allen grumbling at her for not behaving like an obedient vessel of male pleasure. For one absurd moment, she wished Allen was there so she could ask his advice.

  “Our contract does not cover matters of the heart.” The words could have stung, but from March they had a certain kindness and gravity. He bent to kiss her breast and slid his hand to her hip. “I wish you to be happy, Clarissa. You are far from home and I suspect you have been lonely for much of your life. We can offer each other comfort and companionship as well as our bodies. I’m not an easy man to know and I think you, too, have your secrets. So be it. Let us start there and see what ensues.”

  She leaned to kiss his mouth. As her lips touched his he tensed and then sighed, pulling her close.

  “Sleep now,” he said.

&
nbsp; She woke later to gray light, with March’s cock rising against her spine, his hand at her breast. He rubbed against her, his intention perfectly clear.

  “Fast,” he murmured. “Not much time. Let’s see who comes first.”

  She wriggled to take him in. His cock bumped lazily between her buttocks and lingered, prodding, at her arse. He groaned and laughed. “Another time.”

  And then he slid into her, perfect and smooth, while he whispered how wet she was, how sweet her cunt, and he knew how much she liked to frig herself at his command. Or did she like to do it on her own too? More indecent, playful murmurs; his thrusts became faster, more urgent, and he released her breast to grip her hips and spend himself inside her soon after she clenched and cried out.

  He withdrew in a gush of fluid. “Finch will escort you back to your bedchamber.” He rolled over and rose from the bed. “It promises to be a busy day. I’ve much work to see to on the estate.”

  “Yes, of course.” Confused, Clarissa reached for her cloak, puddled on the floor where she had dropped it last night. She dropped the jewels from the nightstand into the pocket.

  “You’ll come to my bedchamber tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” She wrapped the woolen cloak around herself—itchy and unpleasant in the cold light and coolness of early dawn.

  “Clarissa?”

  She turned. March stood naked before her, drawing his hair back into a queue. He smiled. “Forgive my abruptness. I mean no disrespect. You have given me a night of wonderful pleasure.” He bent his head to kiss her lips. “I trust I pleased you, too.”

  “You did, sir.’

  “March.”

  “Yes, March, you pleased me greatly.” She reached to touch the corner of his mouth.

  So he had…but why this urge to weep?

  CHAPTER 14

  “Please sit down, Nerissa.”

  The slave stared at her, astonished by Clarissa’s request, and nervously perched on the chair in Clarissa’s bedchamber.