Defiantly, she met his gaze, mesmerized by the unusual blue of his eyes. It was so dense, so inky yet vibrant, with a flame deep inside. Her dilemma dried her mouth, and when she licked her lips, Ritchie sighed, and his long eyelashes fluttered, dark as his hair was fair. Against her thigh, his cock kicked again, as if she’d suddenly stroked it.
“Yes…yes, I do pleasure myself. And I know it’s not exactly the sort of thing a well brought up young woman should do, but obviously I’m a bad person. A wrong ’un, with an overly sensual nature. Which is what put me in this predicament in the first place.”
Ritchie leaned forward and dropped a single kiss on the tip of her nose, almost affectionately. “Not a predicament, remember, just a mutually beneficial arrangement, with many advantages for both parties. Now, come on, Bea, tell all. I’m agog to hear it.” His hand slid up and down her thigh, ruffling silk, and then lifted, to cup her breast through the unfortified bodice of her dressing gown. “What do you do? And what prompts you to it?”
Now there was a question.
“I…I don’t really know. I suppose sometimes, when I read a novel of romance, I can’t help thinking what comes after the kisses and the marriage. Or if I read of a notorious scandal in a magazine, it just pops into my head, the question. What have these people done to instigate such a sensational report? It must be something desperately sensual and addictive, for them to risk discovery and shame.”
The moment was pregnant with other questions. Ones Beatrice feared. Was he going to ask her why she’d posed for the photographic images? It was a natural enough enquiry…but there was far less shame in frolicking with him than there was in admitting she’d been duped and made a fool of by a man who’d turned out to be a horrid sneak and liar.
But he didn’t ask. Instead, as if sensing her dilemma, Ritchie pursued his point. “So you lie in bed thinking about books and articles in magazines?” He chuckled, and as the husky sound rang out, his hand closed around Beatrice’s breast, gentle, yet affirmative. His thumb flicked back and forth across her nipple, to and fro, to and fro, making her gasp. “How very quaint… Anything else?”
It was hard to think straight with that wicked little action repeating and repeating. He was barely moving, but the effect on her constitution was colossal. She wanted to move, even more than before, to grind her bottom against his thighs and his cock, and part her own thighs so she could press herself, her very self, against him.
“Yes…there is…there are certain other magazines, magazines of Charlie’s…” She buried her furiously pink face against Ritchie’s neck, but it didn’t help. His spicy masculine lotion only made her feel hotter and more excited than ever. “He’s a bit careless sometimes. He doesn’t always put away things he should put away… I’ve seen…um…gentlemen’s journals, and also albums…cabinet cards…” She paused, wanting to tear open Ritchie’s shirt and taste him, she felt so wild. “Far ruder and more salacious than the ones I posed for, by a country mile!”
There, she’d broached the issue, even if he hadn’t.
“Ah, so you’re a connoisseur of pornography, my dear Bea.” Ritchie’s arm tightened around her, almost protectively. “Nothing wrong with that, I am myself. That’s how I found you and decided I had to have you.”
That fact should crush me. Why doesn’t it?
But she felt only relief, almost thankfulness. She would never have met this man if it hadn’t been for Eustace and his sly, persuasive compliments, his talk about creating art, and his neat way with laudanum-laced Champagne cocktails. In a bizarre twist of fate, she suddenly felt grateful to her nemesis.
“That’s all well and good. But there was hell to pay when Charlie happened to obtain one of my cards in his latest selection. I don’t know what appalled him most—the fact that his sister was a naked model, or that he was forced to confront me about it and admit to his fondness for such pictures.”
“That must have been very difficult for you, Bea.” Ritchie’s voice was soft. He sounded sympathetic now, rather than teasing.
“It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant revelation of my life, but one just has to deal with these things as best one can.”
Suddenly, it almost seemed as if the pair of them were set in amber, detached from their sensual game of back and forth. “And what does he think of my indecent proposal to you? Have you told him about it? Perhaps there’s another way I could explain the money, if you’d prefer me to.”
Beatrice stared at him, round eyed. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was the most peculiar man, and stranger with every second that passed. One minute he was a ruthless libertine, hell-bent on shocking her and breaching every decent standard. The next, he was considerate, sensitive, and as eager to please her as a bona fide suitor.
“I haven’t told him yet, but I will do today. I doubt if he’ll like it, but he’s not quite so proud and stupid that he won’t see it as the logical answer to our problems. Poor lad, though, he’s mortified that he’s failed as the man of the house.”
“Indeed, he has failed. He’s failed you, my dear,” said Ritchie. He sounded solemn but his eyes were twinkling. “But fortunately he has a sister who’s much cleverer than he is. One who’s unafraid to use her peerless assets.” Visibly amused by his own analysis, he dove forward for a kiss, and took it before Beatrice could draw breath, or reflect on the darker aspect of “using assets.”
Within moments, she was almost swooning with pleasure. Just from the kiss. How could the simple pressure of lips against lips, and the exploration of a tongue, seem so spectacular with this one particular man? He used the same anatomy as Eustace had, and dear Tommy before him, yet created an entirely new experience, like an angel or a god.
While his tongue played in her mouth, Ritchie’s hand moved just as deftly, squeezing first one of her breasts, then the other, in a light and teasing action as if his fingers were saying good-morning to her nipples. With the introductions over, he turned his attention to the frogged fastenings down the front of her dressing gown, and dispatched them with ease before moving with purpose to the defensive line of mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened the front of her nightdress.
He negotiated those little discs blindly too, his fingers whipping down the tight row, pop, pop, pop, right down to her waist. Beatrice moaned and clasped at the edge of his waistcoat as cooler air inveigled its way into the newly opened gap, and she was compelled to wriggle again as he prized apart the bodice of her nightgown.
“Oh yes…oh yes,” he whispered, pulling the opening wide in a ruthless gesture. “Tut-tut, my dear, your nipples are hard. How very scandalous.” His warm palm settled over her breast, enclosing it gently. “Although I must say, I’m far from complaining.”
Even after only one previous encounter, Ritchie’s touch was as familiar as if he’d fondled her a thousand times, yet just as thrilling as the first time, last night. The sensation of bare skin on bare skin took her breath away even more than his kiss did.
Beatrice trembled like a filly at the gallops. A man had pulled open her nightdress. He was handling her. Caressing her, and exerting the rights he’d just purchased. A miss more cognizant of life’s proprieties would have been gritting her teeth to endure it. But instead, she was loving every second. Moving excitedly in his lap, she edged forward, pushing her breast into the curve of his hand.
“Ah, my sweet, sweet Bea,” Ritchie murmured, the breath of the words right inside her mouth. “So willing. So eager. I adore a woman who’s honest about what she wants.” His tongue pushed in, the action unmistakable. Like the raw thrust of a man into a woman. Beatrice hadn’t felt that yet, but she had the instincts of every woman down the ages. Ritchie’s muscular tongue made her quiver between her legs. “You must never hide how you’re feeling from me, dearest. I want no hypocrisy. I’ve paid for the truth.”
Another reminder of money. But it still did
n’t repulse her.
How modern I am. Smiling inside, Beatrice essayed a thrust with her own tongue and garnered a grunt of approval from Ritchie. Not long ago, I’d have been frantically trying to pretend to myself that this was a pretty relationship, with an ardent but respectable suitor. But now…well…the truth is more exciting.
Ritchie’s tongue was relentless, dueling with hers, pushing in and possessing her mouth like an explorer in a foreign land claiming territory for the Crown. And all the time that he was kissing her, his hand was moving with the same sure confidence on her breast, squeezing and stroking, cup and release, cup and release. His other hand was at her waist, his grip unyielding.
A few breaths later she understood why he constrained her. With the tips of his finger and thumb, he took hold of her nipple and pinched it lightly until she squeaked against his lips.
Oh, that was piquant. It hurt quite a bit. But between her legs, her sex jumped and clenched, tingling with a rush of liquid heat. At his second pinch, her flesh rippled in a wave of sublime sensation and she jerked so hard on his waistcoat that she could swear she heard a seam burst.
“You like that, don’t you?” His mouth moved across her face and settled against her neck, beneath her ear. He licked her skin there as he tugged at her nipple again.
Beatrice felt as if she might ignite, explode. Wild energy filled her, an excitement and amazement that made it impossible to keep still. Her legs moved of their own accord, her thighs rubbing and scissoring, trying to bring ease to the delicious heavy aching right inside her.
Longing to reach down and enclose her sex in her own hand, she prayed that Ritchie wouldn’t squeeze the tip of her breast again, because she wasn’t sure she could bear it much more. Silently, she begged him to stop…and the same time to go on and on, because if he didn’t, she would die, she was convinced of it.
“Do you like that?” His voice was stern, insistent. It could have been mock sternness, but she wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, it excited her more than ever. She grabbed at a fold of her dressing gown, her fingers on fire with the need to touch herself, or to reach down beneath herself, search for Ritchie’s cock, and touch that instead. “Answer me.”
“Yes! Yes, I do!” She swallowed, drowning in a sweet maelstrom, yet coming up for air and the light of revelation. The dawning of the libido’s complexity. “I don’t know why, but I like it very much.”
“What does it make you want to do?”
Wriggle. Touch herself. Press herself against him. Do all those things and more. Much more.
But her throat seemed to have closed up. She couldn’t form the words, only move uneasily on his lap, jerking and pulling at his clothing and hers, while the infernal tugging on her nipple continued.
“Tell me, Beatrice. I will have an answer from you.” He tweaked harder, with a demonic twisting action.
“Ah! Oh my goodness!”
In a cooler moment, she would have acknowledged that really the pain was minimal, but the jolt of it made her sex ripple like a pond in a summer breeze. Was she spending? It was difficult to tell, the careening messages along her nerves were so confusing.
“I…it…it makes me want to touch myself,” she gasped. “It makes me want to rub myself…the way I do when I’m alone in bed at night.”
“Good, Bea, very good.” He carried on, relentless. She squirmed faster, clenching muscles she was almost afraid to clench. “Is this more stimulating than looking at those photographs and journals?”
“Of course it is, you idiot!” she cried, driven mad with impatience for more, more, more.
Ritchie laughed loud, kissing her neck again and again, muttering her name in a broken, husky voice. “You’re a treasure, Beatrice Weatherly, an utter delight. I knew you would be the moment I saw that photograph.”
“And I knew you would be a dangerous, unprincipled voluptuary the moment I saw you across the ballroom last night.”
“Very astute, Bea. Very astute.” He nipped her neck, then the lobe of her ear, tugging on that with his teeth as he carried on with his infernal manipulation of her nipple.
She was almost bouncing on his lap now, the entire cradle of her belly in ferment, racked by the grinding ache in her sex. She had to have relief. She must have relief!
“If you need to spend, my darling, you really need to do something about it.”
Suddenly, shockingly, he abandoned her breast and relaxed back in the chair, still holding her around her middle and pulling her with him. Beatrice could feel her face burning. She wanted to look down at herself, but she hardly dared. Her nipples felt like little stones, painfully hard, and she knew that where he’d tormented her, that one would be cherry-red.
“The solution is in your hands, Bea,” he whispered, his tongue flicking out again, tickling her ear, teasing the lobe and darting inside as if faking the act of sex. “If you want to have an orgasm, you must reach between your legs and stroke your own clitoris.”
Orgasm? Clitoris? How stimulating those words sounded aloud.
Against her will, Beatrice whimpered. She’d read about orgasms and clitorises, but to hear Ritchie speak of them thus in his warm, roughened voice was like performing the very act that he’d described.
She wanted to do it. Her body ached for it. But still she balked. The act was taboo, private, somehow more intimate even than letting Ritchie touch her. She imagined his eyes on her, devouring the way her fingers moved, how they glistened when she paused. Screwing up her eyes, she turned away from him, her heart thudding.
“I…I’m not sure I can…please don’t ask me to.”
“But you’re mine, Beatrice. You must do what I want.”
Again, his voice rang with that hint of stern, thrilling domination. She trembled, wanting to obey. Wanting it so very much, but somehow still not quite able to push through that invisible barrier and put on a show for him.
“I wasn’t expecting us to begin this very morning, Ritchie.”
There was a long pause. Would he insist? She almost wanted him to, really.
“You’re not a coward or a prude, Bea. We both know that, don’t we?” He kissed her neck again, very softly. “You’re a young woman with hot blood in her veins. I think you can do anything at any time. If it pleases you.” His lips brushed her skin again, an inch below her ear, as delicately as the wing of a tropical hummingbird. “And what pleases you, pleases me. Always know that.”
“Is that so?” Beatrice trembled. The kiss was so delicate, yet infinitely stirring. It excited her as much, in its small quiet way, as his attention to her nipple had.
“Yes, indeed.” He continued to kiss, as if it helped him think.
“So, have you pleased hundreds of women before me, simply in order to receive pleasure in return?”
He laughed, sending heated air fanning over her throat. “Nowhere near that many…Not by a long way. Certainly, far fewer than the scandalmongers would have you believe.”
She twisted, turning toward him, searching his face. There had been an odd, almost sad note in his voice. He gave a little shrug, as if shaking it off, then smiled at her, as greedy as a pirate.
“Come now, Bea, have mercy on me.” He reached up and brushed her hair from her brow, tucking a long red strand behind her ear. “Just show me a little of what you do, just for a few moments. You don’t have to persevere to completion. I’ll do that for you, if you’re shy. Just show me a morsel.”
He plucked at a fold in her skirt, tweaking encouragement.
Beatrice bit her lip and looked down at her blushing chest, and the curves of her bare breasts. Her nipple, where he’d fondled it was as vivid as a cherry and the other almost as pink and as pert.
A moment or two wouldn’t be so difficult, would it? Lord alone knew she wanted to be touched. What was the di
fference between his hand and her own?
Quite a bit actually, but she’d endeavor to try. Sliding her hand against Ritchie’s, she took hold of her fine cotton nightgown, and began edging it upward.
CHAPTER NINE
Playing in the Grove
“BEAUTIFUL…beautiful,” murmured Ritchie.
Beatrice Weatherly’s thighs were just as sweet and sleek in the flesh as they were in his most fevered imaginings, her skin as smooth as the surface of a bowl of cream. When she hesitated in the process of pulling up her nightgown, the hem still guarding her modesty, it was almost enough to be simply able to gaze on her.
Almost.
Still uncertain, she tensed and moved on his lap, the rounds of her bottom cruelly jostling his aching erection.
“Hush, nothing to worry about. You know you can do it.” He ran his hand up and down the immaculate expanse, exploring the texture of her skin, imagining blood flowing wild beneath, and nerves sending messages of excitement. Fraction by fraction of an inch, he let his fingertips slide higher with every stroke, edging ever closer to her center.
Last night she’d been delicious and responsive and he knew she could and would be just as willing soon. Yet still she seemed nervous about exposing herself.
How strangely contrary. You’ll pose unclothed for photographs that are circulated to hundreds of avid men, yet you won’t show your naked puss to me in private. You’re a conundrum, Beatrice Weatherly, a veritable mystery.
Again came that bizarre notion. That she was pure, somehow, despite her willingness to take her clothes off for the camera.
The possibility shook him hard. He’d thought her games of advance and retreat were just that, the feminine wiles of a woman whipping up a prospective lover with the thrill of the chase. Perhaps a woman who hadn’t had all that many lovers…but certainly some.
In the Flesh Page 10
