by Anthology
She tilted her head in an inquiring manner.
“Here you are, widowed and, by your own admission, in such straightened circumstances that you must pursue a most irregular form of self-support. Why do you not marry again? You cannot lack for suitors.”
“Why, Mr. Prescott, is this a proposal? It’s so sudden.”
The words were a pattern of what any well-bred woman might say, but he detected a hint of mockery. “I could only hope to be so fortunate, some day. I merely wonder why you do not do as most women would in your situation.”
“But I am not ‘most women.’” Her tone was arch but with a tiny edge. “I have little use for romance and none for marriage, an institution of convenience for men and of servitude for women. Widowhood has its advantages.”
“Not all men are bad.”
“No, but how does one tell before it is too late? And forgive me, sir, but from what I hear, you would not seem well qualified to assert the nobility of your sex.” The laugh in her voice escaped. “Is that what you wished to speak with me about?”
“Ma’am, let me be forthright. I observe that, as capably as you have played this evening, you now lack resources for more than another round or two.”
“I still have my jewels.”
“But what if they are not enough? While you are skilled, the cards are notoriously fickle.”
“And your point is?”
“I would be willing to advance you an amount adequate to see you through some hours more of play.”
“You do not strike me as a philanthropist, Mr. Prescott. You doubtless have some form of collateral in mind against the loan.”
Her voice sounded strained, and Royce silently cursed the darkness that hid her features. “The surety I demand is…your lovely self, Mrs. Delaney.” He waited, wondering would she flounce off, scream, or slap his face.
“For how long?” Her tone was crisp and business-like. “One night?”
“For twenty-four hours,” he countered. “To do with as I wish, to explore with full carnality. You will submit to me utterly.”
“I see. Tell me, before entering into such a bargain, just how much am I worth?”
He named a sum, adding, “In gold.”
“Ah, a small fortune.” She thought for a long moment, before saying, “Very well, I accept.”
“Let us be clear, then, dear lady. If you win, you get the pot—and your dignity intact. If I win, I will take both, with great satisfaction.”
To reinforce his intent, he backed her to the wall, caging her against the siding with his bulk. He lifted her hand to press a lingering kiss on the palm and then leaned in.
She raised her face in expectation.
To keep her guessing, he dipped his head to inhale the scent of her hair, her throat, the pulse point behind her ear. With the tip of one finger, he traced the neckline of her gown, just a whisper of touch over her breasts.
Her breath caught in something like a sob and she ducked under his arm, putting a discrete distance between them. “What makes you so certain I will lose?” With that, she turned and glided away, leaving Royce to stare after her.
He’d been so confident of having the upper hand in the encounter; why did he have the sneaking suspicion he’d just been bested at his own bargain?
* * *
“Time to show your hand, Mrs. Delaney.” Royce struggled to keep the triumph from his words. On the table between them, the last two players, was all the gold he’d given her as well as her set of mourning jewelry. He fanned out his cards: A straight flush, queen high.
Face composed, his opponent dipped her head in acknowledgement of defeat. “Well played, sir. I bow to your skill and luck.” She rose from the table amid the buzz of the crowd. In spite of the mixed welcome she’d received, the atmosphere was conciliatory with many offers to shake hands and murmurs of, “damned shame.”
“Wait, please.” He plucked the pearl and onyx cross from the spoils and held it out, dangling from the chain. “Far be it from me to deprive you of the spiritual and sentimental comfort of an object that must be so dear.”
She gave him an inscrutable look before stretching out her hand and allowing him to drop the necklace into her palm. Without another word, she swept out. Not until the last length of violet satin had disappeared did Royce realize that she still held her cards.
* * *
Restless, Gemma smoothed down her dress, then her hair, for the twentieth time. Should she rouge? A glance at the mirror showed her cheeks were flushed, so why were her hands icy? By far, the larger part of her nervousness was sheer…eagerness. Too long had passed since she’d had a lover. Her lips felt fuller, her breasts tingled, warmth pulsed between her legs.
An interesting man, Royce Prescott. She’d been watching him since New Orleans, as had every female from the ages of twelve to eighty. Speculations were rife in the ladies’ parlor. He was rumored to be of good family (which Prescotts did he come from—Natchez? Louisville?) but cast off for his wastrel ways. Mamas warned off their daughters, while the more worldly whispered of dark appetites and women ruined beyond redemption.
Yes, Mr. Prescott was very interesting indeed.
Striking rather than handsome with laugh creases around the cognac-colored eyes, every gesture indicated considerable sensuality. It showed in the way he savored a sip of whiskey and the caressing gestures as he handled the cards. The thought of those elegant, long-fingered hands making free with her body almost caused her to stumble in her pacing of the room.
The rebel life she’d chosen, going against society’s norms, required strength, determination, and loneliness, a state that warred with her body’s desires. She burned inside for a man, for a firm hand and commanding voice—but only as far as the bedroom door.
Since last night, she’d relived their encounter on deck a thousand times, the hunger inside her ravening. She’d had all she could do to put him away from her and exit with dignity, resuming play as if nothing happened. He probably thought shock over his advances was what caused her defeat. She knew the art of losing well—as a set up for a greater victory. The hardest part was not to laugh at the end of the game. He’d been so smug, certain he’d bested her.
She would pay the forfeit gladly, whatever it entailed. She would take her pleasure as he took his and be on her way.
It was time.
The corridor, all flocked wallpaper and lamplight, stretched before her. The Mississippi Belle’s mighty steam engine thrummed, the vibration rising from the deck and through her body to form a counter tempo to the pounding of her heart. She kept her pace deliberate, resisting the absurd notion that she was advancing to meet with fate.
A gentleman approached, his lady on his arm. Would he recognize her from the card room? She shrank against the wall, gaze lowered. The couple passed by without a glance.
She stopped outside his door, willing her nerves to settle as she tapped on the wood.
The door was wrenched open. “Yes?” he barked, barely looking at her, peering over her head down the hall. “What is it, girl?” He was in his shirtsleeves. Without his frock coat, she could see his trim waist and muscular thighs.
“Really, Mr. Prescott?” She pushed past him into the room and shut the door behind her. “I thought you a man of greater observation.” She laughed up into his confounded face. “An apron and a calico dress make a rather thin disguise.”
“Very clever. A gentlewoman is notable, a servant girl is…”
“Invisible. I do have a reputation to uphold.”
“I assure you of my complete discretion. Shall we begin, Mrs. Delaney? Rather, I will call you by your given name, but remain Mr. Prescott or sir to you.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, sir. And the name is Gemma.” Outwardly meek, inside she shivered with secret delight.
“Remember, our agreement is that I may have every bit of you I desire, in any way, which I fully intend to do.” A half smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Charming as you look in that costum
e, I fancy I will prefer you out of it.”
He stood so close that she could feel the whisper of his breath on her face. He smelled of soap, Bay Rum, and musk. He swept off the modest cap she wore. The pins that confined her hair were pulled one by one, the heavy mass shifting and slipping. His fingers combed through her locks, shaking them free to tumble down her back.
“A woman’s hair unbound is such…an intimate sight.” He sat, stretching out long legs in shiny brown boots. “Now disrobe. Slowly.”
Slow indeed without her maid, but the simplicity of the clothing helped. Buttons, hooks, laces, and then she was stepping out of the circle of skirts and petticoats. She ventured a glance at her audience of one. His expression was impassive, but the amber eyes glittered. The fashionable stovepipe trousers clearly showed his arousal, which he made no attempt to hide.
More hooks undone and the pressure of her corset was released, allowing her the relief of a deep breath. Her lungs expanded, and the glow of desire spread through her from throat to loins.
“Keep going.”
With a shimmy, she pulled the chemise over her head.
“Enough. Come close.”
In pantalettes, stockings, and shoes, she stepped forward to stand between his legs. Naked from the waist up was somehow more vulnerable in comparison to his fully clothed state than if she’d been completely bare. It brought home the reality of how she had agreed to submit to him, a man she wanted and barely knew.
“Turn around.” He made a circling gesture. “Let me see what I have bought.” Royce examined her impersonally as if she were a horse he might consider buying.
“Stop.” His gaze on her body was nearly as potent as a touch. A finger reached out to trace the creases left by the confining stays. She hissed, her skin exquisitely sensitive, her nipples puckering hard at the sensation.
He stretched out a calf and gave a curt nod. “Boots.” A moment’s hesitation, then she turned her back on him and took a wide step over his knee, straddling, and began to pull. He raised the leg still farther until it pressed through the crotchless split of her drawers. After the first instant of shock, she couldn’t help the swaying her hips made.
“Do that again. Make that move with your oh-so-charming bottom.”
Closing her eyes, Gemma rocked, her wetness slicking the column of leather she held snug against her pussy.
“Tempting as it is to take you here and now, we’ll both enjoy it more for being postponed. Pray continue.” His voice was thick when he spoke.
Task completed, he pulled her to his knee, jouncing her as one would a child. One arm clamped around her waist, his free hand cradled one bobbing breast, eyes riveted by its movement. He ducked in, seizing the taut nipple in his mouth, suckling with strong, deep pulls.
Gemma wove her fingers through his hair and arched her back. Vaguely, she wondered if she was wetting the leg of his trousers. She was moaning softly, losing herself to the pleasure by the time he pushed her to the floor, regarding her with challenge. She stared back, wide-eyed.
“Must I remind you that you are fully in my control, Gemma? Our bargain overrides any sensibilities you may harbor.”
“It’s not that, sir.” She gave a saucy grin. “I was merely drawing out the anticipation.”
There was an edge to his voice as he said, “You’ll pay for that impertinence, but I’ll let you wonder how and when. Carry on.”
She started with his shirt, unable to resist the need to see his body. A scattering of dark hairs on his chest invited her touch. She tugged on them slightly, then more smartly, before grazing her nails down his skin to his waistband, watching the brown nipples pebble to hardness. His eyes glittered as she undid the buttons of his fly and licked her lips. He raised himself from the seat as she slid his trousers from his legs.
His cock stood straight up, pulsing in time to his heartbeat. Her pussy quivered in longing. One hand on the shaft, the other cupping his balls, Gemma rolled her tongue around his tip, absorbing the salty drop. Another lap and another, around and up and down his length, exploring each ridge and ripple, and then she stretched her mouth wide to draw him in. She felt him gather back her hair.
“Look at me.” Obedient, she rolled her eyes upward. His face was flushed. “Yes, like that, but suck harder. Let me see that pretty throat working.” She hummed with contentment, and she smiled to herself at his groan, knowing that for those few moments she was his master.
He cupped her chin and shifted to withdraw from her mouth. “Very nice. I do love to see a woman enjoy what she has no choice but to do. However, now we must deal with another matter.” His face was stern. “I ordered you to do something, and you were impudent. You took liberties. Such transgressions require correction. Go to the bed, bend over, and hold the bedpost.”
She did as bid…and waited. He was trying to drive her mad, she thought. He moved quietly around her. From the corner of her vision, she could see him turning this way and that, studying her. She had a sudden image of how she must look—naked back, breasts, and hair hanging free, the split of her drawers revealing her most intimate places.
“Eyes down. You are only adding to your chastisement, Gemma.”
As if following her previous thoughts, a finger parted the halves of linen and stroked the lips of her pussy, brushing so lightly over the hairs that a shudder passed up her body. The finger slipped in, dabbling in her silky wet desire. The touch continued, drawing up the cleft of her bottom, circling the tight pucker. Was that what he wanted, she wondered? So soon? Her pussy spasmed with disappointment. The finger was withdrawn.
The ties of the pantelettes loosened, and the pieces dropped, forming white rings around her shoes. A hand came down on her backside, making a crack in the still room like wood breaking. Gemma yelped at the smart. She should have expec—Another smack made her jump. Then another.
“This is what happens to girls who think themselves above orders and discipline.”
Steady blows landed on her buttocks and upper thighs. Her body was warming up. The pain was firing through all her nerves, expanding her awareness, translating to sensitivity in every pore and breath. Her legs were nudged wider apart, the finger exploring her once again.
“So wet. Seems the punishment is…pleasing.”
Before she could register the movement, his hand swung away and the open palm landed a slap full on her pussy. She gave a shriek, and then found herself hoping for another, which didn’t come. She heard a whimper and realized it was her.
“Tell me what you want, Gemma.”
“Please, sir. Please…I need you.” Her voice came out a breathless squeak.
“Say it. Say the words.”
“Please…f-fuck me. Fuck me hard.” She clutched the post and braced her legs. Her pussy was stretched wide and wider as he entered, but so slick and ready that her body offered no resistance to his girth. “Aahhh,” she moaned as he moved within her, coarse hairs on muscular thighs rubbing against her delicate flesh.
Then he was gone, leaving her empty and aching for more.
On the broad bed, he lounged against the headboard, all but naked, his open shirt spread around him, his hand idly stroking his glistening cock. He pointed at the footboard.
Gemma scrambled up, wondering what would come next.
He tossed her a pillow. “Get comfortable, and spread your legs.”
She complied, tucking the cushion behind her for support.
“Frig yourself.”
Her eyes widened, not at all what she expected.
“Mind me, Gemma. I’d beat you some more, but I fear you want that. What I want is what matters. Pleasure yourself. Do what you wish a man would do.”
She’d never been so exposed, his greedy gaze roaming her body as she explored herself. Two fingers churned inside while her other hand flicked and circled. Her hips began to sway and lift, meeting pressure with pressure, her back arched—
“Stop!”
Adrift in sensation, she heard the word, but it di
dn’t register.
He was across the bed in a trice, batting her hands away.
Gemma emitted a high-pitched grunt through gritted teeth, wanting to scream with frustration.
He fisted her hair, yanking her head back to face him.
Tears sprang to her eyes at the sudden pain.
His free hand wrapped around her throat with a suggestion of pressure on her windpipe. “You can finish when I give you leave.”
Her whole body twitched with the pounding of her heart, her pussy fluttering deep inside from being confronted with such power.
As swiftly as he had pounced, he released her, retaking his position at the head of the bed. “Come here, my pretty equestrienne.” He patted his flat stomach, his cock bobbing heavily. “Mount up, and ride like the wanton you are.”
On stockinged knees, she straddled his hips, positioning him with one hand, the other on his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she plunged down, impaling herself on hot, hard flesh. It truly was like riding a runaway horse—the power pounding between her legs, the mad beating of her heart, faster and faster, his strength carrying her along. Large hands molded around her hips, supporting her, helping propel her up and down. A searching thumb probed her split; guided by her gasps, he rolled her clitoris like a bead in oil.
“Please…please.” Tears leaked from her eyes with the effort of holding back her climax.
“Now, Gemma!”
She arched back, straining…the tension snapped. Burning waves surged out from her center, concentric rings of white-hot ecstasy. Her inner walls clenched around him, held wide by his thickness. From a distance, she heard her voice crying out.
Relentless, he plunged on and on. Royce came with a shout, clutching at her buttocks to bore into her as deeply as possible.
She could feel the pulsing of his cock, matching the huffs of his breath. The sharp intimacy caught at her heart and pushed her over the peak again.
Spent, they sprawled amid the tousled bedclothes. Gemma’s head was pillowed on Royce’s stomach, a few inches from the resting length of his cock. She smiled to herself—there were still hours to go before their bargain was done.
