“No, I can’t lie with you, you must know that. I might be an old maid by most people’s standards, but I’m still in my childbearing years.”
Wilson reached up and set his free hand across her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Della, you’re not an old maid.” His long lashes flickered. “And congress is not what I meant. My suggestion is to repeat what I just did...but do it better, and how it should be done.”
She wanted to say no, but the area where his mouth had lingered fluttered so hard in anticipation that she gasped. How would a slower, more sensuous examination feel? She had no doubt that Wilson had skills as well developed as those of any of Sofia’s boys. Demanding mistresses like that woman, and whoever he’d courted before her, would expect nothing less than manly excellence.
He seemed to sense Adela’s hesitation, and moved closer, his mouth near her ear now. His breath made wayward strands of her coiffure, which had tumbled when she’d shaken her head, drift and tickle her skin. “Come on, cousin, let me impress you. Show me you’re not afraid to indulge yourself. Make me believe that you’re really a libertine, not just playing at it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sly challenge in his expression. The devil, he knew how to provoke her. She should get up and walk away now, but she was tempted, far too tempted. Why deny herself? Turning toward him, she took a kiss from his lips and enjoyed the surprise in his face as he drew away.
“Very well, then. Make recompense. But this doesn’t mean I permit unlimited liberties. Just this one occasion, then you must keep your word.”
It wasn’t that she trusted him. She was only using him. Wasn’t she?
* * *
WILSON’S HEART LEAPED at her capitulation, conditional as he knew it was. Why was it so necessary to prove himself? What was it to him that she had other lovers, these men whose advanced lovemaking techniques she paid for?
And yet it was important. They might part tonight, never to have anything further to do with each other beyond dreary legal dealings, and he didn’t want her to consign him to the status of just one man who’d brought her to orgasm, among many. It was a matter of pride.
He kissed her again, slowly and more beguilingly this time, teasing, tasting, his tongue flirting with hers while he craftily eased up her skirts. No mean feat with such a volume of fabric. The two halves of her drawers had closed again, and that frustrated him. He wanted to be able to run his hands freely over her sleek thighs and trim buttocks as he kissed her, then pleasured her. Caressing her through the last muslin layer, he glided his hand up her haunch, over her hip and to her waist, finding the fastenings. Thank the Lord, she still wore this more old-fashioned kind of undergarment, rather than the buttoned one-piece some women affected. As deftly as he could with all the obstructions, he undid the fastenings that kept her drawers up, and slowly but determinedly began to tug.
“What on earth are you doing?” she squeaked against his mouth. She was alarmed, but he could feel her excitement. That was the difference between an inexperienced miss and someone like Adela, who now so obviously knew the score. Not that he’d been with any inexperienced misses lately. She’d been the only one, ever.
“Clearing the field of play... Don’t worry, I’ll help you put them back on again afterward.”
That seemed to mollify her, and she even helped him work the voluminous white garment off over her knees, her calves then her feet. As he set them aside, he noticed that despite their forlorn little trim of lace, the drawers had been meticulously mended in places.
This isn’t right. You deserve beautiful things, Della. New things...
Whatever happened, he’d ensure that she received some fancy fripperies, as a gift. Not, perhaps, the black silk he’d mused upon earlier.... No, despite the fact he was currently in the process of debauching her, he fancied something exquisite, white and pure, for his cousin. And he wouldn’t allow her to refuse them if she tried.
“Ah, that’s so much better,” he told her, sinking to his knees and resuming his position between hers.
Framed in the frou-frou of petticoats—also mended, he noticed, on closer inspection—her thighs, her puss and her belly were all adorable. Skin white, curls lush and a lighter brown than the hair on her head, every part divinely formed. The sweet arc of her abdomen was perfecton, and the slender yet curvaceous shape of her hips and thighs was almost heartbreaking. A man might die down there, whether kissing or fucking, and that prospect made Wilson feel wild and uncontrolled again. Wild to plunge in and wring savage pleasure out of her, just as he’d done before.
No! Contain yourself, man! Show some decorum. Take it slowly, give leisurely, measured pleasure. You promised....
Yet why should he? She was a voluptuary. She partook of carnal delight, and paid for it. Confused anger surged again at the thought of Adela pleasured by others. But he took a deep breath and steadied himself. Pushing aside her linen, clearing the decks, so to speak, he bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the flossy hair of her puss.
Even that slight caress made her move, shuffle forward on the bench, rise toward him. Was this her favorite act? Most ladies, after the first shock to their sensibilities, quickly took to it. Surely Adela, the experienced connoisseur, was no exception?
He kissed her belly. He kissed the edge of her motte. He kissed the area where her hip met her thigh, on either side. Each kiss made her move, more and more. Parting her thighs wider, she seemed to invite, and demand, that he get down to business. He could sense her longing to command him, yet remaining silent.
Still resisting in your own way, eh, Della? In that case...
Taking hold of her legs, he manhandled her into position, opening her thighs wider so he could edge right in. Fingers probing, he parted the hair of her puss and bared the moist, sweet area. Then, reaching up, he tugged on the silver chain still dangling down the front of her bodice. With a flick and a jerk, he popped the little cylinder containing his knife out of her cleavage.
The small tool was precision crafted to his own design. The fit of the casing was perfectly machined, and required a secret series of twists, which only he knew, to expose the blade.
It couldn’t possibly hurt her.
* * *
“OH, NO, WILSON, NO!”
He wasn’t going to do it, was he? No, it was too wicked, too obscene.
“Yes, Wilson, yes,” he chanted back at her, and before she could stop him, or summon the breath to protest again, he swung the little cylinder on its chain, then caught it up and pressed it gently against her entrance. “Something to bear down on, my sweet, when you clench your flesh and spend.”
The silver casing slid into her sex, shockingly cool even though it had rested in her cleavage. The small hard shape was alien inside her. Not like a man, or even the erotic toys she’d played with, yet infinitely plaguing in a way that made her moan.
It was as if the very essence and spirit of Wilson’s dazzling intelligence was in her, mercurial and dangerous, a fine, bright thrill.
“There...isn’t that nice,” he murmured, his breath hot against her bare puss and exposed thighs. As she shifted uneasily, the little chain swung where it dangled from her body.
Furling his tongue to a point, Wilson dabbed it against her clit, then delivered one long stroke. A second later the chain swung again as he retreated and rearranged their position. With her legs slung over his shoulders, he dived back in.
This time the assault of his tongue was so, so different.
Before, Wilson had devoured her, attacked her puss almost cruelly and tormented her with pleasure. Now his laps were slow and sweet and tantalizing. Building up delightful layers of pleasure, he teased her with flicks and dabs. Only the way he lifted her, raising her bottom from the bench and opening her completely, was extreme. Like the feel of the knife.
He was feasting on her, yet like a fastidious gourmet, he seemed to savor and analyze ever nuance of her taste and form. His tongue glided over her inner lips, lapping and explori
ng. He teased her clit with slow little forays, then showed mercy with longer, more comprehensive slides.
Dazzling sensations built and built, as if energy was pooling in her belly, swelling in her sex and winding tight around the little silver casing. Wilson was being an agent provocateur again, but not in a cruel way now, only to enhance her experience. Rising to him, she reached behind her to grasp the back of the bench and brace herself, arching toward his hot, loving mouth. As he licked and suckled, her heels kicked and dragged against the back of his coat, the blows harder as his tongue swirled and tickled her flesh.
“You are delicious, Della,” he breathed against her moist membranes. “A feast fit for a king. I’ve never tasted a banquet more sumptuous and savory.” He plunged in again, this time sucking ever so lightly on her clit.
All thoughts of who he might be comparing her with, and how he was probably exaggerating and fibbing, dissolved almost before they could be formed. Her mind went empty, then filled with light as sublime waves assailed her sex and her belly.
She climaxed again, long and intensely, soaring to heaven, her thighs clamping Wilson’s head while her heels bashed his back. Her body bent like a bow, pushing her puss even harder against his mouth. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, holding in a scream.
The pleasure went on and on, then suddenly, the high wave ebbed. She was spent. Completely. Her body went limp, bereft of energy and any remaining scrap of tension, and Adela subsided onto the bench as if wrung out. She almost slid sideways, but Wilson, between her thighs, prevented her collapse.
There was nothing to do but lie there and breathe. Thoughts would not come; awareness of her surroundings was vague, peripheral. A nocturnal bird hooted in a tree somewhere close by, and the odor of night-scented jasmine blended with other fragrances, some vegetal, some human yet also feral.
Adela’s eyes snapped open as a tiny ripple of residual pleasure assailed her: Wilson drawing out the tiny penknife. As she struggled to sit, he pressed it to his lips, coiled up its little chain and tucked it in the pocket of his frock coat. Then, still kneeling before her, he straightened her stockings and helped her struggle back into her drawers, holding up her skirts while she rocked this way and that, negotiating the fastenings.
“There, all decent again,” he said, his tone vaguely cool as he stood and flipped down her skirts and petticoats.
Still winded, Adela didn’t know what to say. She supposed she should thank him, but hadn’t he also got what he wanted from her? Her capitulation to her own desires and an admission that she was a wanton? Just moments ago, she’d been elevated to paradise, a transcendent being forged in ecstasy by his perverse skills. Now she felt again that she was simply a licentious creature of appetites, and low in his eyes. Roughly or with sophistication, it seemed he could render her helpless and a slave to her senses either way.
“I should go. Mama will be worried if I’m out here too long.” This wasn’t strictly true. Mama would be happier the longer they stayed, and by now she must be already hearing wedding bells.
“Of course. She must be concerned that I’ve debauched her pure virgin daughter.” Wilson’s tone seemed to suggest that he, too, comprehended her mother’s thinking on the matter.
Adela stared at her cousin in the moonlight. He was frowning, and his curly hair was awry. His face was still wet from pleasuring her. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he apparently discovered this and reached into an upper pocket for his handkerchief.
When he turned to her, though, he sat down on the bench at her side, and instead of attending to his own face, cradled hers and dabbed at her lip with the square of pristine white linen. Taken aback, Adela allowed him to do so.
“You bit your lip. It was bleeding.”
Sure enough, crimson stained the cloth, and as she saw it, Adela realized that she could taste a coppery tang. She’d dug her teeth so hard into her lip that she’d broken the skin...and not even been aware of it. Running her tongue over the wound, she winced. It was actually quite sore.
Wilson’s expression was complex. He was still watching her mouth as he stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket, and the close scrutiny made her nervously lick her lip again. A tremor of something fierce crossed Wilson’s face as he followed the minute movement.
“Yes, you should go now, cousin,” he said harshly, apropos of her earlier remark.
“I...I will.” She searched around for her reticule and found it, feeling uneasy now. Something seemed wrong. Well, more wrong than the fact that, once again, she’d somehow allowed her cousin to make free with her. Now that he knew her secret, it would be better to have as little to do with him as possible. Yet still she couldn’t make herself go.
And she knew why....
Always a proponent of fair play and reward for effort, she couldn’t leave without ensuring Wilson’s pleasure, too. And it didn’t matter in the slightest that his will had been served by what he’d done to her. She’d feel beholden to him if he didn’t also climax. And as a New Woman, she was entitled to serve her own will, too.
“What are you waiting for, Della? Rush off to Mama now, only slightly sullied.” He paused. “Or should I say, slightly more sullied than you were before.”
Ignoring the jibe, but storing it away for a time when she might remind him that he was the one who’d “sullied” her in the first place, she shuffled toward him. “Not yet, Wilson. There are unfinished matters to attend to.” Taking a deep breath, she reached out and pressed her palm to his groin, savoring his sharp gasp of surprise.
When she squeezed slightly, he tried to push her hand away. “Don’t trouble yourself, cousin. My appetites are not so uncontrolled that I can’t contain them.”
“Implying that mine are,” she said silkily, not allowing him to dislodge her fingertips from the front of his trousers. Regardless of his apparent disdain, his cock was hard like a rock beneath the fine worsted, and seemed to swell even as she cradled him. “I chose to let you pleasure me, Wilson. You know that you would have let me walk away if I’d really wanted to go.”
His eyes flashed. His expression of lust and admiration was delicious. “You have me there, Della,” he said, then glanced down, laughing at the irony when she gave him another warning squeeze. “Will you need my handkerchief?” He tweaked at the white corner of it, still peeking from the pocket of his coat.
So confident. So sure of himself. Adela narrowed her eyes. She’d shock him if it was the last thing she ever did to him, or with him.
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Kicking out her skirts behind her, she sank to her knees this time, and before he could protest, attacked the fly buttons of his trousers.
“What the hell are you doing?” It was less a protest than an expression of excitement.
Still at work, and already rummaging in his linen, Adela looked up briefly. “What do you think I’m doing, Wilson? Surely such an experienced libertine as you has received fellatio before?” Reaching in, she found his cock, huge and hard, and so familiar. Not just from this afternoon, but from seven years of imagining. “The scurrilous gossip says that apparently the great Coraline is an expert in the art...although I’m hoping my modest efforts will be acceptable.”
His whole body stiffened now, not just his masculine part. “Get off, Della. Leave me alone.” Ah, she’d struck an emotional nerve, not just a physical one.
In the midst of her determination, cold gripped Adela’s heart. Ah, yes, the great Coraline, not to be spoken of... That woman, but sacred to him, and not to be mentioned by a lesser mortal, even if that mortal was about to supply carnal pleasure. With a grim resolve, Adela took a firm hold on Wilson’s cock and drew it out of his drawers into the perfumed night air.
“No, I won’t leave you alone,” she said, beginning to slowly and meticulously pump him.
“Oh, God... Della... No...”
Regardless of her cousin’s words, Adela knew she’d got him. He was pushing into her grip, his lean hips thrusting forward, seeking more.
His token show of reluctance became a complete sham when he grabbed her by the shoulder with one hand and cradled her head with the other. Long fingers dived into the silky hanks of her coiled coiffure, and several pins loosened and fell to the ground.
“No?” she inquired, looking up at him. But he was gone now, his eyes blank, gazing into the middle distance. Thinking of Coraline? After all that had taken place today, was he fantasizing about the Parisienne? Had he been dreaming of her all the time?
Damned cur! I’ll show you!
Parting her lips, Adela stuck out her tongue and swirled it around the plump tip of Wilson’s cock. It was slick and wet, in anticipation of pleasure. So much for his reluctance. His flesh disregarded his higher mental functions.
“Yes!” he growled, pushing forward, trying to insert himself. But Adela gripped his shaft, holding him.
Were all men so greedy? Even the experienced lovers? Working at her own pace, she lapped at the head of Wilson’s cock, caressing it and exploring it, but not yet taking it in. Pleasuring with the mouth was something Adela rather enjoyed, but she hadn’t attempted it as often as she would have liked to. Sophia’s establishment was a pleasure house for women, and the boys there were so deliciously skilled at touching, caressing, licking, that it was sinfully easy to just lie back and luxuriate in it all, rather than to get up on one’s haunches and be the active protagonist.
But that didn’t mean that Adela didn’t know what she was doing, and now she was resolved. She’d get the better of him. She’d go all the way with this.
“Oh, Della, Della, please...” burbled Wilson, gripping her head and her shoulder. His fingers were digging in hard now. Thick strands of her hair had come loose from their casual acquaintance with styling, and hung coiled to her shoulders.
After one last daring lunge at his eye of love with her tongue, Adela enveloped the head of Wilson’s cock with her lips. And sucked.
Portia Da Costa Page 15
