Hard Liquor: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #2

by Blair Babylon

  Yes, the only thing.

  Lord Asshole Coatham sat on the Committee for Privileges and Conduct and thus could be the deciding vote in Arthur’s case, but Arthur was just a bit too idealistic to allow that to sway his response, so it was the subtle reassurances from Lord Butterfield that allowed Arthur to remain serene.

  Arthur was also too British to backhand the man at the dining table, so he settled for the occasional, scathing double entendre. “That’s a brave proposal.”

  Unfortunately, Lord Asshole was too drunk to understand Arthur’s proper British sarcasm.

  Perhaps that was fortunate.

  Codswallop.

  Fuckwit.

  Twat.

  The woman sitting just past Lord Asshole had chided the jerk a bit early on, trying to allow him to retreat from such prejudice, but he had scoffed at her as being a “special snowflake,” and his next comment had verged on virulent chauvinism.

  At that, Lady Dorothy Hart, Countess of Ashill in the County of Somerset, had pointedly turned her back to Lord Asshole and conversed with Lady Cressida Alexander, Countess of Weedon, on her other side.

  Lord Asshole asked Arthur, “Don’t you agree, Lord Severn?”

  Lord Butterfield raised his gray eyebrows at Arthur, recognizing the impossible position he was in. Earlier, Butterfield had mentioned in passing that Arthur should have an easy time of it with the Committee for Privileges, thus assuring Arthur of his vote.

  That was at least one vote in Arthur’s column.

  Arthur shook the vodka in his glass, mixing the melting ice into the tonic water. He said to Lord Coatham, “I’m sure that someone of your capabilities might think so.”

  Lord Butterfield snorted delicately into his double whiskey.

  Lord Asshole Coatham only occasionally attended charity events. Arthur had seen him at several fund-raising endeavors, although now that he thought about it, they had always been for arts foundations like the symphony or the opera.

  You know, white people’s charities.

  Arthur’s jaw clenched harder. He stared at the crystals of ice in his glass. Only another hour or so, and then he could escape Coatham’s bigoted diatribes.

  Spunktrumpet.

  Wallaper.

  Tosspot.

  Bawbag.

  Dobber.

  From down at the foot of the table, Gen looked up at him. Her lovely mouth curved at him, smiling, and her dark eyes twinkled even across the room.

  The emerald green cocktail dress she wore appeared to have been shrink-wrapped to her lush figure.

  As beautiful as she was sitting at the foot of his table as his hostess, Arthur would have preferred her to be sitting on the floor at his feet as he fed her tidbits, and he would have liked her to be naked except for some small strips of leather or silk that he had wrapped her in.

  The green dress was, however, more appropriate for the company they kept that evening.

  Later.

  Gen smiled a bit more at him, and then she bent her head to listen to Lady Bazalgette, who was by all appearances a much more pleasant dinner companion than Lord Asshole.

  Lord Coatham managed to top himself, saying something so offensive in his deep baritone voice that Arthur was knocked back in his seat.

  Was this the Britain that Arthur defended with his heart, soul, and body? Should he allow this to stand?

  What would Gen think if she had heard such rubbish and seen him sitting idly by?

  Rage erupted in Arthur’s head.

  Arthur turned to Lord Coatham. He kept his tone impeccably conversational, cordial, and British. “By repeating such statements, you offend me and the history of my noble family. By allowing them to infest your mind, you offend every British ideal of equality, freedom, and justice. Leave my home, now. Please consider leaving Britain, as your prejudices are never welcome.”

  He mentally added, you cockwomble.

  Arthur motioned to the butler, Mr. Royston Fothergill, to show the man out.

  Lord Asshole sputtered for a moment, but when Lord Butterfield refused to meet his eye and instead turned to converse with Arthur, he rose and followed the butler out of the dining room and, presumably, Spencer House.

  Arthur reached under the table with his foot and pulled the chair in, indicating that the previous occupant would not return.

  Down the table, Lady Dorothy Hart, Countess of Ashill in the County of Somerset, smiled slyly at Arthur over the empty seat. She said, “My sentiments, exactly.”

  Lady Hart was on the Committee for Privileges, too.

  Lord Butterfield raised one thick eyebrow at Arthur. “That’s one way to deal with the situation.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Arthur said.

  Lord Butterfield shrugged. “I was a Lieutenant-Commander in the Royal Navy when I retired. I am always gratified to see the ideals of our nation defended by the next generation.”

  Not the Bed but the Chaise

  ARTHUR stood in the opening of the front doors, framed by the light behind him and the imposing edifice of Spencer House, waving as the last guest’s car skidded on the tiled driveway around the fountain and drove off into the night. Exhaust from the cars fouled the spring breeze, but it blew out over the formal gardens and into the deer park within minutes, leaving only the stars, his estate, and his arm around the softness that was Gen.

  “Come inside,” Arthur said. “You don’t want to catch a chill, pet.”

  “Oh, is it ‘pet’ now?” Gen turned, brushing against his side, and walked ahead of him into the foyer.

  When she turned back, the chandelier above was shining on her lustrous hair, her dark eyes were flirting with him, and that emerald silk dress had been poured over her curves.

  Arthur lost his breath. “Gen.”

  “Yes, sugar?” She was still smiling at him.

  He slammed the door and was across the floor before he knew it and grabbed her.

  “Arthur! There are people—”

  “No, there aren’t.” The guests had all departed, and the staff would be cleaning up the dining room in the far wing of the house.

  He lifted her in his arms, tossing her a little to show that he could indeed carry her wherever he wanted to, and strode up the stairs.

  “Arthur, where are we—” She was giggling so hard that she couldn’t talk.

  “Upstairs,” he said. He tried to make it light, amusing, but it came out like a growl. His voice felt deeper in his throat.

  “What did that man say to you at dinner?”

  “No matter.” He didn’t want to talk about Lord Asshole. “Tell me no if you don’t want this. Tell me no or amber or red.”

  And it would rip him apart, but he would stop himself.

  He whispered, “Tell me amber or red or put yourself in my hands.”

  Gen wrapped her sweet arms around his neck, and she buried her face in his neck, kissing his skin above his collar.

  Fire and testosterone raced through his veins.

  She whispered, “I’m in your hands.”

  Arthur walked faster, taking the stairs quickly.

  Up the wide, dark wood stairs of the main hall, up to the second story, the portraits of his ancestors watched him carry the voluptuous American toward the blue guest room.

  The old name for that room was the Duchess Mary room, after his great-grandmother.

  Everything in Spencer House had a past.

  Especially Arthur.

  Through the long hallway, he carried her, a trembling, soft woman in his arms. The wainscoting and moulding were centuries old, hand-carved by craftsmen long since dead, but Arthur still cared for it all and knew every inch of the house.

  He kicked open the door to the blue guest room and spied the chaise lounge that he had had delivered after their conversation in the deer park. Fothergill had come through again. Brilliant.

  Arthur bypassed the couch and made for the bed.

  He tossed her on it and shoved the curtains aside. His tie knot was s
tuck, and he pried at the band, trying to get the damned thing off.

  Gen had pushed herself up on her hands and was staring at the cream duvet and curtains around her.

  Arthur finally wrenched the damned tie off his neck and struggled, shedding his suit jacket. It flopped to the floor behind him, and he used his toes to kick off his shoes.

  He scrambled onto the bed, reaching for her with his hands and finding her mouth with his own. She opened her lips, and he felt her tongue against his. He groaned against her, and her lush body filled his hands.

  Her arms grabbed around his neck again. When he broke off the deep kiss to taste her skin, she bent her head back, stretching her neck for him.

  He wanted every damn bit of her.

  Her skin under his fingers was so soft, satiny, and he mouthed down her shoulder while he found the tiny zipper down her side. He would have gladly shredded that dress to get it off of her, but he didn’t want to terrify the woman.

  Not unless she wanted him to.

  The zipper opened in his hand, and he grabbed handfuls of the dress, shoved it down Gen’s body and legs, and tossed it on the floor.

  My God. Her Myla lingerie was just silk triangles and ribbons, and she was still wearing the diamond necklace and earrings from the estate. Utterly brilliant.

  Arthur fumbled at the buttons on his shirt and stripped it off over his head, along with the tee shirt underneath.

  Gen stroked her fingers down the ragged tattoos over Arthur’s ribs, sending shivers through him. He sucked in a breath, light-headed, and used his teeth to tug the ribbons on her bra over her shoulders.

  She laughed, but she sounded as breathless as he was.

  Her arms were around him, but they felt too light. He needed to feel her touching him, holding him, and he pressed her arms around him.

  She held him more tightly. He wanted to touch every inch of her.

  He dragged the ribbons down her arms, freeing her breasts, and tongued her collarbone and down her cleavage to her tight nipples. The tips were dark rose, and he opened his mouth over one to suck hard.

  He loved the way her breasts lifted when she gasped, and he slipped one arm under her back to keep her back bowed so that he could taste all of her. His fingers found the delicate ribbons, and he untied the ones at her neck, back, and hips and yanked the silk off of her skin.

  Gen gasped, “Arthur!”

  In case she was going to use a safe word, he stopped and chewed his way up her neck, still holding her body against his. “Yes, my love?”

  She grabbed his hair and kissed his mouth hard.

  Arthur jabbed his knee between her legs, parting her thighs, and drove his leg upward to tease her.

  Gen gasped more under his mouth, rubbing her soft breasts against his bare chest and driving Arthur into a very un-British frenzy. He grabbed her breast with his other hand, running his thumb over her pebbled tip until she was moaning and shuddering.

  Not quite shuddering.

  She was shaking in his arms.

  Damn it, the bed.

  Gen was shaking in his arms even while her mouth was open under his and her arms were around him. Her hips pushed at his, and he was nearly blind with wanting her.

  But she was shaking.

  He didn’t want her to be frightened. He didn’t want fear lacing her response. He wanted her to come so hard that she wouldn’t ever forget him.

  Arthur slipped to the side, rolling off of her. Gen groaned and followed him, trying to slide back under him, but Arthur found the edge of the bed and stood.

  She reached up to him, her arms wavering, her dark eyes glazed.

  He gathered her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest, carrying her.

  She whispered, “Arthur, what are you doing?” Her voice was deep in her throat, and his name on her lips made him draw a breath.

  He carried her over to the chaise lounge, the one that he had covered with a blanket for her to sleep on, and sat down with her in his lap.

  “Arthur?” she whispered.

  “Like this,” he said, and turned her hips. “I’ll have you like this, astride me. I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  She looked over at the bed, her hair tangled around her face. “I’m okay. We can go back—”

  Arthur’s voice lowered. “Here.”

  Her glance back at him was startled, and she paused. “I—all right.”

  He struggled with his trousers, pushing them off while he sucked at her breasts, which were right at his mouth’s level, thank the stars. He dropped his trousers on the chaise lounge by his thigh. His hands kept rising to fill his palms and fingers with her sumptuous ass and thighs and press on her hips. Her waist was so small above her generous hips, and he ran his hands over every inch of her skin.

  Damn, he could just knead her ass all night. Her soft flesh felt so right in his hands.

  His cock was so hard that it bobbed between them in time with his rushing heartbeat. The shaft and knob of it ached.

  She reached down and touched the sensitive head, and air rushed through Arthur’s lungs.

  He picked up her hand, kissed her palm, and laid it on his shoulder. If she stroked him, he might not be able to hold back.

  Arthur ran his hands up the insides of her luscious thighs, stroking them, until he slipped his fingers inside her folds.

  Damn, she was already wet for him, and he slid his fingers inside her, painting her delicate skin with her cream.

  Gen moaned, and her fingernails bit his shoulders.

  God, yes.

  He massaged her until she was swaying above him, her head lolling back as she whimpered.

  She cried out his name. “Arthur! Please!”

  He was more than happy to oblige.

  Arthur flailed for his trousers and the condom he had pocketed earlier and rolled the skin on his straining dick. Gen moaned his name again, and he guided her body over his cock, angled himself, and pressed her down on him.

  Her heat slid over him. He was lost in her warmth and softness for the first time, and he arched up into her.

  He rested his hands on her hips as she moved above him, her curvaceous body undulating as she slid over his cock.

  Damn.

  Her hands rose to her hair, her fingers sliding through the thick tresses as she held it back from her face. Her heavy breasts lifted as she moved, and her skin was soft under his hands.

  Here, away from the bed, she wasn’t scared. She was engulfed in the moment. Whimpers escaped her lips as she ground her clit down on him.

  In that moment, something changed for him.

  Arthur liked to fuck women, to make them cling to him and scream his name, to be left a used, sore bundle on the bed when he was finished with them, though with a smile on their faces. He took pride in their exhaustion. If they cried afterward, mortified that in the moment of passion they had agreed to and then deeply enjoyed something that, later, was beyond what they had thought of themselves, that was even better.

  This, though, was different.

  She was different.

  Even though Arthur was physically in the act of having Gen, his cock inside her body, a greed for her was rising in him.

  He adjusted the way he was lying on the chaise, raising his hips to dig deeper against her clit when she came down. She lowered herself and arched, gasping.

  Yes. More.

  He wanted her to be a strong, vibrant woman in the courtroom, a force to be reckoned with that would make other men and women tremble when they tried to fight her.

  At social events, he wanted her wit to sparkle like he knew that it could, to be the center of attention and admiration, much like this evening.

  He didn’t want to change her, not exactly. He wanted to release her, to cut the bonds of fear and nerves and restraint that were holding her back and unleash her on England.

  And then he wanted to bring her back to his bedroom and vanquish her, to make her kneel before him and writhe and scream his name, to leave he
r a limp, trembling toy on his bed until the next time he took her.

  Yes, Arthur had always had a kink about power. He wanted Gen to have all of hers, and then he wanted it all for himself.

  Gen was shaking now, not from fear, but from the orgasm building in her.

  He grasped her hips and pressed her down, grinding her against him, and felt her body pulse. The wave drove up her, a blast through her flesh that he could see, and she threw her head back. A wordless cry tore from her throat.

  Like that, but his name.

  Next time.

  And the time after that.

  Her body fluttered around him, and the scent of her perfume—flowers and vanilla—hung in the air and mixed with the seaside scent of their lovemaking.

  He shoved her hips down on him harder, and this time, she let out a soft shriek as she came again. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as her body strained.

  The pinpricks of her nails blew past his self-control. He grabbed her body, driving her down on his cock again and again and he arched under her, a shout hoarse in his throat as the orgasm took him first with the blast of pleasure and then to that white stillness, the quiet, before he collapsed in on himself, and his balls pumped into her.

  When Arthur could breathe, when he could think, he realized that his arms were still wrapped around her, holding her, restraining her, exactly what she had said terrified her.

  And she was holding him back, her arms grabbing him to her.

  His forehead was pressed against her soft shoulder as he gasped.

  Darkness

  IN the velvet- and silk-upholstered guest bedroom of Spencer House, Gen slept wrapped in Arthur’s arms and several blankets on the pillowy chaise lounge that night.

  He didn’t even suggest that they move to the bed, a relief. Heavy curtains draped over the bed, enclosing it like a cage.

  The chaise lounge was just barely big enough for the two of them, even though it was some kind of weird, mutant, mastodon-sized chaise.

  Arthur had pulled blankets over and around them, wrapping them up securely.