In the Flesh

by Portia Da Costa

  Ritchie smiled, looking very pleased with himself, and then licked his lips. Which made Beatrice’s clitoris leap again, the little action was so wicked and suggestive. Especially now… “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bea. I thought you might…although occasionally the more delicate ladies find it somewhat alarming at first.”

  “Ah, well, as I keep informing you, Ritchie, it’s turned out that I’m even less delicate than my reputation suggested.” She shrugged, wriggling a little way across the bed. With her puss still so close to Ritchie’s beautiful mouth, there was a strong temptation to surge forward and demand through action rather than correct Latin word that he “service” her once more.

  “Reputations are meaningless, sweet girl.” Ritchie rose to his feet, a creature of perfect elegance despite the fact he must have been kneeling rather uncomfortably on the carpet. “And you are exquisite.”

  So are you.

  Looking up at him, her heart rolled inside her. He was exquisite. Yes, dynamic and masculine, but still a rare jewel of mature male beauty. In the opening of his shirt, the skin on his chest gleamed, and she wanted to rub her face against the bit of soft sandy hair there. She wanted to kiss his throat. Touch his face. Then press her cheek against the front of his trousers as she’d done at Lady Arabella’s ball, and feel the hard heat of his male shaft through the cloth.

  And she still hadn’t seen the damned thing!

  Ritchie’s eyes twinkled and she realized he was following her appraisal, right to its inevitable destination.

  “Lie back against the pillows, Bea. You’ll get your wish,” he instructed, and as she started to slide into place on the bed, he joined her, on one knee, and gripped her by the waist to help her move.

  So strong. Beatrice wanted to wind her arms around him and pull him to her. And possibly never let him go.

  Never?

  The feeling was sudden, alarming, and not at all sensible, but a wiser and more perceptive part of her nature suddenly acknowledged that it had been there all along.

  Nonsense. Don’t be a fool. You can’t fall like that for a man like him.

  But it was true, and in a strange reversal it had happened. In this peculiar Vita Nuova, it was Beatrice that had fallen for a rather disreputable Dante at very first sight. The realization shook her, but it made her want to hug him even more, for reassurance as well as pleasure.

  “You’re shaking, Bea. Don’t be afraid.” Ritchie inclined over her, stroking her face, that complicated panoply of emotion in his eyes again. He looked intense, dark, almost confused and, unbidden, she reached up to stroke his face in return.

  “I’m not…well, not a great deal. I’m more eager than anything really.”

  The darkness flew from his eyes and he laughed softly. Beatrice felt a great lightening inside herself, a bubble of the spirits, comprehending the extent of her female power.

  “In that case, my dear, I’d better not keep you waiting any longer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  His

  UNABLE TO LOOK AWAY, even if her life might have depended on it, Beatrice watched as Ritchie set about the buttons of his trousers. His hands were deft and clever, as always, but something about the way his fingers darted over the fastenings—and then wrenched the fine cloth aside to attack his shirttail and his undergarment—told her he was as nervous, in his own way, as she was.

  But she didn’t worry. He was experienced and she knew that with him, her first time would be the best it could possibly be. There would be no blundering and fumbling, and no being left wondering what all the fuss was about, such as she might have endured at the hand and cock of some naive notional husband.

  Husband?

  Ah, the lure of that dangerous line of thought again. She banished the word, along with the unwise feelings that went with it. Best to be on her guard against fancies of that order, and always remember this was a pragmatic arrangement, a deal struck for a month and for money. The fact that her fellow negotiator had turned out to be unexpectedly likable, as well as the most physically attractive man she’d ever met made no difference whatsoever.

  A second later, all pangs and notions and unwary thoughts flew clean out of her head as Ritchie prized his erect member out of his linen.

  “Goodness me!”

  There was a considerable difference between imagining what Ritchie’s handsome masculine appendage might be like, and even touching it, to seeing it in the flesh, in all its glory. Beatrice’s first response was a tingle in her fingers.

  Who would have imagined that the thing would be so…so appealing?

  How extraordinary. Beatrice wasn’t quite sure whether she’d describe Ritchie’s member as beautiful, exactly, but it was certainly fascinating, impressive and seemed to have a life of its own, almost independent of the man to whom it was attached.

  “I didn’t expect it to be quite so rosy… . It’s…well…it’s quite remarkable.”

  Ritchie guffawed, subsiding back against the pillows, still clutching himself as he laughed and shook his head.

  “Beatrice Weatherly, you are priceless,” he said after a moment, rolling back to face her. “So…now you’ve finally seen it, you’re not feeling too alarmed to proceed, are you?”

  “No, indeed not…but…well…may I touch it again first?”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” Reaching out, he took her hand in his bigger one, and curled her fingertips around his cock, enfolding it and them with his own fingers.

  So warm, so smooth-skinned, and to her hand, so familiar, it almost felt as if it were designed specifically for her caress. Beatrice knew the Almighty had given men this state in order that they might join with their women, but even so, there was something about the feel of Ritchie’s hard, hot shaft that simply invited a rhythmic movement, to and fro. It had been her natural instinct beneath the tablecloth just as it was now.

  To and fro.

  Ritchie made a low, murmuring, indistinct sound that might have been “Oh dear Lord” or maybe just a growl of some kind. His long lashes fluttered and his hips bumped, instinctively pushing his flesh through their linked fingers. He was enjoying himself, that much was very obvious, and that in turn made Beatrice feel deliciously powerful. Ingenue she might be, but still she seemed imbued with natural gifts.

  Conscious of his sensitivity though, she kept her manipulations slow and of an even, rhythmic pace. Ritchie’s lips parted, and he bared his white teeth, gasping hard.

  “You have a most particular skill, darling Beatrice,” he said, his chest heaving. “Particular and far too delightful. I’m sorely tempted to just lie here and let you pleasure me on and on until the natural conclusion occurs.” His lashes dipped, so sultry. “But if I do that, I’ll have nothing left in the barrel to make love to you with. Well, at least not for a while.”

  For a moment, Beatrice was tempted to take him to that limit, so she could watch him spend in her hand and see the mysterious substance men ejected. But much as that would have delighted her, she wanted him inside her even more.

  Ritchie’s eyes snapped open, and again, as she’d so often thought in the short time she’d known him, she could almost imagine he’d divined the thoughts in her mind.

  “And I do want to make love to you, Bea, more than anything.” Controlling her fingers, he drew her hand away from his shaft.

  Make love.

  He’d called it “make love” rather than “fuck” or “have” or “know” or “possess” or any number of lurid or fanciful terms for the act. It wouldn’t actually be making love, because there was no love involved—at least not on his side of the balance—but to use the expression afforded the process a special grace. Impulsively, Beatrice leaned over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, then shied away again so he couldn’t see her eyes.

  Almo
st immediately, he turned her face with his hand, back to him again, and his indigo-blue eyes bored into her, testing her soul. Shaking, she continued to try and evade him. She couldn’t let him see that see she was already making far too much of their liaison, even before they’d joined their bodies.

  “Are you ready, Bea?” Still he probed her. “Are you really ready?”

  “Yes! Yes, I am! Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be here for?” Aware that she sounded fractious and on edge, she gave him a crooked smile and reached to delicately stroke his cock again. “He wants it, too. Look how eager he is to get on with the business.”

  “Blind beast that he is, he isn’t the only one,” Ritchie said, with a sudden grin. “Now roll over onto your back, beautiful girl, and we can all get on with it, can’t we?”

  Beatrice subsided against the pillows, glad that her corset was light and flexible and she could lie back comfortably wearing it. Feeling loose and free and daring, she began to toy with her own nipples as she gazed back at Ritchie, her senses fired by silvery streaks of pleasure that darted straight to her cleft.

  His eyes still managing to remain fixed on the small motions of her fingers, Ritchie searched around behind himself, one-handed, on the bedside chest. Finding what he wanted, a small decorated tin, he opened it and drew out an item that Beatrice recognized from her afternoon at Sofia’s establishment. Arabella had been fitting one onto her playmate Yuri, just before Beatrice had been compelled to abandon the peep show, too overheated. She knew what it was, from Polly’s racy talk.

  “So that’s a French Letter, is it then?”

  “Indeed it is,” observed Ritchie, then proceeded enrobe his shaft in the tube of fine rubber before Beatrice’s fascinated gaze.

  It looked most unusual. But then, in these, her first really close observations, the male member looked somewhat unusual, too. It seemed a shame to cover up such a magnificent masculine monument in what amounted to a mackintosh, but she was grateful for Ritchie’s caution on her behalf. Especially as she’d heard also heard from Polly that many men were quite aggressively resistant to the idea of prophylactics, claiming that the rubber spoiled their pleasure.

  But what if he didn’t use one. What then?

  Deep in her soul, Beatrice was astonished to find a well of disappointment. And an absurd longing. Whatever scraps of her reputation that remained after her month with Ritchie would be vaporized if he left her enceinte and without a wedding band.

  And yet, that tiny ridiculous flame of madness still plagued her, and behind her closed eyes, she saw an image of a gurgling infant boy with a head of bright blond curls.

  “No!”

  “What is it, Bea?” Ritchie’s brow crumpled in concern, even as his long fingers lingered at the root of his penis where it emerged from his trousers. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No, not at all,” she gasped, reaching for him and at the same time waving away the ridiculous notions. “I’m just a little nervous…I don’t know what I’m saying… Please, Ritchie, please…please make love to me.”

  “My lovely Bea,” breathed Ritchie, moving over her and settling between her thighs. “My beautiful, beautiful Beatrice. Since the first moment I set eyes on your image, I’ve wanted this. Most of the time I’ve been able to think of little else.”

  Yet still his progress was measured, mindful of her. Holding his weight off her body, he reached into the vent of her drawers, between her thighs, to stroke and play with her. She could hear the small slippery sounds where he dabbled in her wetness.

  “Tilt your hips, my sweet, that’ll make it easier.” Abandoning her puss for moment, he clasped her bottom through the silk of her underwear. Adjusting her position, his fingertips lingered on her, curving around her buttock. “There, that’s better.”

  Then the tip of his cock touched her, right at her entrance, hot, and feeling larger there even than it had appeared to her eyes. Despite the might of him, Beatrice surged up, unable to help herself.

  He was knocking for admittance and she was quivering and ready to admit him.

  “Yes,” urged Ritchie, his weight on one elbow as he reached under her again to pull her tight against him. His shaft was prodigious, but as he pushed—slowly and intently, yet with simmering energy—her body yielded, his entry made easy by her natural fluid, their play with the godemiche, and the equestrian prowess of her girlhood. What little resistance remained was slight only, and waned again almost immediately, without the faintest trace of pain.

  What resulted was a peculiar but exquisite sensation, and uniquely moving.

  It’s him. In me. We are one.

  Tears welled in Beatrice’s eyes, but not from sorrow. As her body adjusted, and the sublime, familiar tremors miraculously began to gather, she could honestly say that she’d never been happier in her life.

  Ritchie’s lips found hers in a kiss. Light as a breath, his mouth seemed to dance on her lips, gentle and insubstantial in a way that made the thrust of his flesh below seem all the more solid. The contrast of the two stole her breath from her body.

  “Are you well, Bea? I’m not hurting you, am I?” He was questioning her in a calm, responsible way, yet his voice was ragged, as if he were clinging to self-control by the merest tip of a fingernail. She could sense him fighting his own nature in order not to frighten or alarm her and that sweet solicitude made her heart turn right over. Her desire to reward him drove her just as hard as her lust for pleasure.

  “No…no, you’re not hurting me at all.” His flesh felt strange inside her, but exciting and stirring, like the trigger of some immense, titanic process. She was teetering on a hairspring, eager and voracious. “Please, Ritchie…don’t hold back…I want your pleasure. Go on…fuck me! Fuck me hard! As hard as you like!”

  He laughed and she felt it inside her. Every last fiber of her body vibrated with it.

  “You tempt me, siren,” he growled, gathering her to him, adjusting their bodies, pressing in further, if that were humanly possible. “But if I please myself, I may not be able to please you as much.” He gasped in a deep breath. “My pace might be somewhat faster than yours, my sweet. I’ve been anticipating this since the first moment…and I’m a man, and we men are sometimes weak when it comes to the demands of our blessed cocks.”

  As he kissed her face, then the side of her neck and her ear, she whispered back at him as a wanton sprite danced inside her, “Well, you don’t feel weak to me, Mr. Ritchie. In fact I don’t think I could ever imagine anything less weak than this.” As if by instinct, she squeezed him with the muscles at her core. She hadn’t known she could do that, but his sudden, passionate exhalation of breath told her it felt as just good for him as it did for her. Embracing him again, she pressed her whole self up against him.

  “Oh Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice, you’re a natural-born angel of seduction. When you do that, have you any idea at all how it pleasures me?” Bracing himself, he gripped her bottom hard, and thrust at her, plumbing her in short, sharp jabs. Beatrice saw stars as, with each stroke, his pubic bone knocked her clitoris.

  “Well, I have an inkling,” she gasped, fighting for breath. “I’m just experimenting…I really haven’t a clue what I’m doing.”

  As Ritchie laughed again, her body seemed to assume a life of its own, moving eagerly, matching his movements. Her parted legs flexed, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to bring up her knees, tilt her pelvis and open herself yet more to him. As she locked her ankles around his hips, he let out a sigh, and an instant later, his thrusts accelerated, becoming jerky, wild and primal.

  “Oh Bea, I wanted to last,” he gasped, his teeth clenched. “I wanted to be so good…for you…to hold on and endure.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care a jot…I really don’t…I like it like this!”

  And she did.
And so much more than like. Thumping herself up against him, she whimpered at the delicious friction, the shimmering heat gathering around his fast-pumping shaft. Letting out moans so feral that they almost made her laugh at herself, despite the pleasure, she grabbed at his bottom through his trousers and at his back, wrenching at his shirt and tearing the fine cotton fabric.

  All was action, straining, gasping, grabbing, reaching for the pinnacle of sensation that seemed to barrel down toward her, channeled through Ritchie’s dear, surging body. Sweat poured from her, soaking her undergarments, pooling beneath her breasts, and in the creases of her groin so close to where her lover labored powerfully. She clutched at him harder, trying to climb inside his flesh just as he plunged into her. As his face pressed to the side of hers, she felt him perspiring, too.

  But was it really sweat? Or was his face wet from some other fluid?

  As she tried to look at him, he surged in deeper, deeper than before, his athletic hips somehow circling as he plunged.

  And then it came. Her spending. Expected but still sudden.

  There was no great cataclysm, no violence, no wrenching of heaven and earth. Just the sweetest, lightest, most silvery plume of sublime bliss that seemed to gently bloom and glow in the core of her body, and flow on outward.

  “Oh, Ritchie,” she sighed. “Oh, my darling Ritchie…”

  In her heart she said other things too, but kept them quiet.

  * * *

  ROLLING AWAY from her, Ritchie’s heart roared in protest at the parting of their bodies, but still he kept quiet.

  He was elated, stunned almost to insensibility, confused and drenched bone deep in the aftermath of pleasure. The intense lust he’d conceived the moment he’d first seen Beatrice Weatherly in those beautiful and explicit cabinet cards had been fulfilled, and so much more. So much more. His limbs tingled and he felt as strong as a conquering lion and yet as weak as a kitten; more wrung out by this swift tumble with an inexperienced virgin than by any amount of protracted bouts of sophisticated love play with the most hedonistic society beauties.