In the Flesh

by Portia Da Costa

  Beatrice quickly found the prophylactics, and prized one out. It was slippery and tricky and seemed determined to wiggle in her hand, and yet Ritchie, with his hands now behind his blond head and a smug look on his handsome face, seemed equally determined that she should do the honors.

  She tried. And tried. But the wretched thing would not behave, and Ritchie’s splendid cock was a terrible distraction. Afraid of hurting him, Beatrice fumbled even more.

  Eventually, she gave up the battle. “Look here, I’m a beginner at all this, remember.” She tossed the rubber sheath onto Ritchie’s bare belly. “I think you’d better deal with this device or we’ll both die of frustration.”

  “You’re probably right,” murmured Ritchie, catching up the troublesome rubber sheath and in a matter of moments, deftly enrobing himself. Beatrice frowned. He’d made it look laughably simple.

  “I’m sure I’d get better with practice.” She reached out, touched a fingertip to his shaft in its fine protective coat and smiled inside as Ritchie gasped, baring his teeth. “But I’m afraid that requires you to be on hand.”

  Ritchie clasped her wrist, easing her hand from him, his finger resting against the spot where her pulse thudded. “I’ll have a box of the finest imported West Indies bananas delivered to you, and you can hone your skills with those.” He dropped a momentary wink. “They’re rather tasty too, I think you’ll find.”

  Not as tasty as you, no matter how fine and costly an import.

  She winked back at him and he laughed, as if he’d heard the thought as clear as day.

  “Now…how the dickens do we do this?” Beatrice peered at Ritchie’s member, no less imposing for being sheathed, and pointing up at a fierce, rampant angle.

  “You’ll have to kneel over me…position me against your puss…and then bear down.”

  “But…um…you’re pointing up too much.” She eyed his rigid cock dubiously.

  “Don’t worry…you can manhandle me a bit…it won’t break.” He squeezed her hand encouragingly where he still held it.

  What followed was quite a performance, and Beatrice was convinced that her role in it was somewhat less than graceful. But Ritchie didn’t seem to mind her maneuvering and crouching and huffing and, yes, manhandling him. In fact his eyes blazed bluer with hunger at the sight of her, and with his strong hands at her waist, he helped her find the perfect pose.

  “That’s it, my darling. Ease down…ease down,” he urged huskily, still guiding her.

  Her thighs burning with gathered tension, Beatrice obliged him.

  Down she slid, as Ritchie reared up, holding her firm. His cock pushed upward, in, in, into her, filling her up, possessing her body, almost too much.

  “Ooh,” she gasped. “I…I’m not sure…”

  The sensation was stunning. It took her breath. Even from his supine position, Ritchie still seemed to master her. His penetration encompassed more than just her sex. It was as if his spirit were rising up into her also, and flowing from his cock to touch her heart, her mind, her soul.

  “Breathe, Bea, breathe,” he urged. “Relax…let me in…let us be one.”

  His words were rough yet strangely sweet, like spiced honey melting her fears and doubts. As he whispered “Relax” again, her body yielded, admitting him further.

  With a shuddering sigh, she settled down upon his pelvis.

  “I…I…”

  The sensations rendered her speechless. Feeling his cock inside her, lodged so deep, was more dazzling even than when he’d lain on top of her and possessed her. The might of his flesh imposed itself totally on her senses. But even if her mind wouldn’t work, her body knew what to do. She squeezed down on him, caressing his flesh from within.

  Ritchie let out low ragged sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. His face contorted in a grimace, his eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yes, my dearest Beatrice…oh yes…” Rearing up from the pillows, he slung an arm around her and hugged her where she sat, astride his hips, perched on the prow of his sex.

  Their bodies haphazardly aligned yet profoundly joined, they rocked and wriggled against each other, Beatrice’s eyes almost popping at the impact of each movement. Every time Ritchie adjusted his hold, or bucked upward with his hips, the action dragged tellingly, tugging at her clitoris from within her own body and inducing ripples and flutters of intense delight. Flinging an arm around his neck, she embraced him, her fingertips digging into scars and pristine skin alike as exquisite feelings racked her.

  His chest heaving with hard gasps, Ritchie held her tight for a moment with one arm whilst his free hand cast around behind him to heap the bolster and the pillows at his back. Then he rested against them, smiling back at her from his position of greater comfort.

  “You’re remarkable, Bea,” he breathed, still gasping, his face flushed, eyes alight as he slid his hands back to her waist and held her firm, hard, down on his cock. “A pearl beyond price…I never realized how precious, even when I desired you from your image.”

  Beatrice didn’t know what to say. When he spoke like that, it touched too closely on her secret, hidden, never-to-be-voiced desires. The longing she nurtured to herself because she couldn’t reveal it to Ritchie, not ever. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back, arched her body and bore down on him, squeezing his rigid flesh again with her inner muscles. If she couldn’t tell him that she loved him, she could at least pleasure him to the best of her ability. And make their limited time together as supreme as she was able.

  “Oh God…oh God in heaven,” Ritchie snarled, arching just as she did, and rolling his head on his shoulders. “You feel too good…too wonderful…I’m too close…” He hauled in a great breath. “Stay still a moment, dearest…very still. I don’t want to spend too soon and not grant you pleasure first.”

  I don’t care! I don’t care!

  Her pleasure would come any instant whether or not Ritchie spent. She was balanced on the finest of hair triggers. His care for her pushed her closer and closer.

  But she stayed still. Because he wanted her to.

  “Yes, dear, yes,” he breathed. One hand on her waist held her steady, while the other, with a deft twist of the wrist, slid down between their bodies to find her clitoris.

  How good to her he was. How giving.

  Beatrice gasped and whimpered as he found the very focus of her pleasure, flicking and stroking her bud with breathtaking accuracy. How focused and clever he was, considering that he too was probably only a heartbeat from his crisis.

  Holding on to his shoulders, she tossed her head, her hair flying around both of them as the intense, gathering sensations pooled in her belly and circled and spiraled ever inward toward the juncture of his fingertip and her aching clitoris.

  It was too much, too sublime, she could hold back no longer. Her body moved of its own volition and with a groan like a wild animal, she bore down, pressing on him, and on his strong, igniting finger.

  Great, contracting pulsations beat through her. Her body grabbed at him, rippled around him, drew his own pleasure from him while her mind went white and blank, finding peace in the ferment.

  As she spent and spent, barely conscious, she was still aware of every tiny physical thing passing between them.

  The upwards buck of his hips, the harsh cry of his completion, the scent of his sweat. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Ritchie’s eyes were closed. His face was almost serene, even though his teeth were clenched. His blond hair was tousled and his skin gleamed with a film of perspiration and an inner glow as if he were a saint in an icon.

  He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen…and from the corner of his eye she could swear a single teardrop trickled.

  “Oh my dearest Bea,” he gasped again, then his head pitched forward and he collapsed against her, hugging her almo
st awkwardly against him, just as she slumped nerveless against his shoulder.

  * * *

  LATER, they fucked again, refreshed by a little more supper and champagne. This time, Beatrice flung herself on her back and Ritchie raised his sandy brows at her, clearly more than happy to indulge her choice of position. With a laugh, he plunged forward, between her legs.

  Beatrice laughed back at him and clung to him furiously, pounding her hips at his with every bit as much vigor as he thrust into her, newly energized by deep erotic hunger.

  We’re a match.

  The thought came again as they bounced and rocked against each other, pleasure gathering around their joined vitals.

  We’re a balanced pair. One completing the other. Better together than as separate individuals.

  If only they could stay that way. Regret wound its way through the bright raiment of their pleasure, but Beatrice kept it safely to herself.

  It surfaced again though, keen and quiet, when she and Ritchie were lying together, naked, warm and finally sated. Would he sleep here with her? He’d said he never did that, not with any woman. But he seemed so relaxed… Perhaps he’d make an exception?

  No sooner had the fancy materialized than it was shattered. In a quick, light movement, Ritchie sat up, lifted the sheet and slid from the bed to cast about the room, finding and donning his clothing.

  “Can’t we stay and sleep awhile?”

  She hadn’t meant to ask. To seem like a clinging nuisance was the last thing she wanted. What he wanted was a convenient mistress for a month, good value for his outlay, not some miss with designs on snaring more of him.

  Ritchie gave her a strange look. Perplexed, a little sad, as if he regretted his own strictures yet wasn’t prepared to bend them.

  “No, Beatrice, we can’t,” he said in a flattish voice. “Well, at least I can’t.” Already putting studs in his shirt, he came and sat beside her on the bed. Was it worth flinging her naked form against him and drawing him back to her? Surely he’d not be able to resist? But the fact that he might was an unpleasant prospect.

  “Why don’t you stay, Bea,” he said more gently. “I’ll send a note around for Polly to come and assist you in the morning. I’m sure you’ll sleep well. The bed is comfortable.”

  There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes were wistful, almost melancholy.

  What is it, Ritchie? What’s hurt you so much that you just can’t allow yourself more? That you can’t…can’t trust me?

  But she didn’t voice the question.

  “No, it’s all right. I’m used to Cook’s breakfasts, average as they are, and I’ll probably sleep better in my own bed.” Sliding from beneath the sheets, she followed Ritchie out of their shell of intimacy and began gathering her own scattered clothing.

  But all the time, her heart mourned for what was lost. As usual, she’d hoped for far too much.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Home Truths

  BUT IN THE DAYS that followed, it was difficult not to want too much. Especially as Beatrice didn’t see Ritchie as frequently as she would have liked, which made their shared trysts ever more precious.

  Ritchie was addictive to her. Like opium, or some other exotic drug. The more he touched her, the more she wanted to be touched. The more they came to know each other’s bodies, the more Beatrice craved to know his mind. When they weren’t in bed, she pounced on any stray morsel of his background she could discover.

  Over dinners and lunches at Belanger’s and other discreet establishments, they discussed politics, economics and books, sometimes agreeing and sometimes quite at odds. At private art exhibits, they found a shared love of the paintings of Lord Leighton and Mr. Alma-Tadema. Lying in bed, between sweaty acts of lovemaking, they discussed the country, riding and horses, and walking. Ritchie promised her a bicycle when she expressed an interest in mastering the art of cycling.

  Nevertheless, in many aspects, he still eluded her. She could sense that behind his confident, urbane, unashamedly pleasure loving mask, there lurked some plangent, almost agonizing sorrow. He let slip hints of it when she revealed some of the sadder aspects of her own past: the death of her parents, and the loss of Westerlynne where they’d been so happy as a family.

  Toward the end of an afternoon of delicious perversity, wherein games with silk scarves were played, a few playful spanks were levied across her buttocks and a good deal of rocking and writhing and gasping against each other was enjoyed, Beatrice found herself dozing, while Ritchie “kept watch,” as she liked to call it. He simply would not allow himself to sleep after their pleasure, but seemed to find contentment in watching her nod off and snooze.

  Drifting at the edge of consciousness, she heard Ritchie’s words as if they came from across a great chasm, even though he was within touching distance, his back propped up against the pillows.

  “Why have you never married, Beatrice? Have you never loved?” Her eyes snapped open, sleep fast fleeing. “Surely a woman as exquisite as you must have had offers?” She turned to him, looking up. His expression was more guarded than she’d ever seen it.

  Why did he ask these questions? He surely knew almost as much as it were possible to know about her. In the days and weeks of their liaison, she’d become increasingly suspicious that much of her life was an open book to him, due to talk that passed between Polly and Jamie Brownlow, and perhaps even through the conduit of Charlie, too. Those three were most definitely up to something. Something she could scarcely not condone, given her own sybaritic behavior with Ritchie.

  “I was engaged once, but the young man died in a sailing accident,” she admitted, almost sure that he already knew all about Tommy. “I was very fond of him.”

  But if he knew about Tommy, how much was he aware of her dealings with Eustace?

  Had Polly or Charlie said anything? She’d never even told those two, her closest, the entire story and she’d requested they never speak of him to others. It was preferable that people believed she’d made headstrong choices rather than admit to them she’d been duped like a fool.

  But, facing facts, Charlie was notoriously indiscreet, and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Polly was fiercely loyal, but she hated Eustace with a passion. She might disclose his identity in the name of retribution.

  There was always Sofia, too. Beatrice had never told her daring friend who the photographer was, but it was common knowledge Eustace had briefly courted her, so the pieces could easily be put together.

  Yes, it was more than likely that Ritchie suspected Eustace as the man who’d ruined her reputation, but, unlikely as it seemed, he’d never pressed her on the origins of the cabinet cards. Was he simply biding his time? Coolly planning some kind of retribution? She feared as much. Her sincerest wish was that he’d never pursue the matter, but he was strong willed and she feared some drastic response. Eustace had drugged and tricked her, then ended their relationship almost immediately. He was a low cad, but she still couldn’t bring herself to wish real harm to him. Especially as Eustace’s selfish ways had indirectly brought Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie into her life.

  But she doubted that her lover would see it that way.

  “I’m sorry, do you prefer not to speak of him? Perhaps it’s better not to stir up unhappy memories.”

  Confused, Beatrice frowned, then suddenly realized she must have been silent for several moments, brooding on Eustace and what Ritchie may or may not know of him.

  “No, please, there’s no need to worry. It doesn’t hurt to think of Tommy now. I loved him, and I missed him for a long time after his death, but he would have been the last person to want me to live my life in melancholy, pining for him. He was good and kind that way, a sweet and generous man.”

  “He sounds worthy of you.” The words were oddly neutral, almost studiously
so, and his handsome face was unreadable.

  “I’m not quite sure how worthy I was of him though.” A pang of guilt shot through her. If she’d agreed to marriage sooner, instead of preferring to wait, she and Tommy might have wed, and he might not have gone out on the boat that day. “I was a bit flighty. I behaved like a silly girl and asked if we could wait a while before marrying. Life might have been quite different if we’d gone to the altar sooner.”

  Beatrice shuddered. Deep solemnity had settled over them, and yet it seemed crass to try and break the mood with an amusing remark. Her guilt deepened.

  If Tommy was alive, I would never have met you, Ritchie. Well, not in the way we are now.

  Those dark blue eyes sharpened, as if he’d read the thought, but he said nothing.

  “And what about you?” she said on an impulse, setting her hand on his arm and letting out the query she’d been battling to suppress. “I know you’ve been married, even though you never speak of it. You must have loved, and loved deeply…more than once.”

  Shutters came down again. Ritchie’s mobile, beautiful face became a mask, his eyes almost blank. Beatrice cringed at the mistake she’d made, even though it was a question she had as much right to ask as he did. Or maybe the money, which she quite forgot these days, denied her those particular rights over him?

  The muscles in his arm were rigid, hard as cured wood, but Beatrice didn’t retreat from him. If only he’d let her ease his pain.

  Then, after an aching silence, he seemed to relax, and in a soft voice said, “Yes, Bea, I loved.” He dragged in a breath. “I loved someone good and kind too…and I’m damn sure I certainly wasn’t worthy.”

  “But—” she began, yearning to tell him he was good and kind himself and more than worthy of the love of any woman. Most of all her.