by Lavinia Kent
Again, no words came. She forced her lips into the slightest of smiles but knew he could tell that it was fake.
“Honesty,” he said.
She opened her mouth. “I don’t know. I know that is not a true answer, but it is as honest as I can be. My understanding of what happened is sorely lacking.”
“Well—” he began.
She cut him off. “I do understand what happened physically—at least to some extent. I am not completely ignorant. I know that what just happened could cause a child if it happened in my body. And I know that men enjoy it, although I must confess it did not look entirely enjoyable. But I don’t understand the feelings of it. I don’t understand what I saw on your face. And I don’t quite understand how that is supposed to happen in my body—although from listening to the married women, I gather that part is not difficult, if sometimes painful.”
“It should never be painful, except perhaps the first time. I must admit I have avoided virgins and therefore have no true knowledge, but I know that the breaking of the maidenhead is not always easy, although I do believe that proper preparation can minimize the pain.”
Proper preparation? She was not sure she wanted to know what that meant. Or maybe she did? She had to admit she was as curious as a cat. “I have heard differently. Many women speak of pain.”
“And do they also speak of pleasure?”
“Some do,” she admitted.
“And which do you believe? I cannot believe you would be here if you thought there would be only pain.”
She bowed her head, unsure. “My best friend is recently married, and it is clear that she enjoys the act—more than enjoys it—but she doesn’t reveal much. She says I must wait until marriage—although I know that she did not. I do not understand why the moment a woman becomes married she believes that all others must wait. I know that she was curious and pursued things before she wed. Would it not be much simpler if she would just explain it all to me?” She leaned back, in a gesture of exasperation.
Colton laughed, and then he suddenly focused on her chest.
Her breasts were still bare. How had she forgotten such a thing? How could she be sitting here having a conversation while her breasts stared out at the world?
His nostrils flared as he stared, and that other part of him, his penis, jerked. Did the thing move on its own? And was it growing? She had not paid enough attention to it after the event, other than to notice that it seemed smaller, but now it was rapidly returning to its previous size.
His eyes still did not move from her breasts, from her nipples. His lips parted. His tongue came out to wet them.
She became aware of the heaviness of her breasts. How could she have ignored them? They ached and begged. It seemed an odd way to describe the sensation, but she did not know any better. Her breasts wanted something, needed something. Even without his direction, she moved her hands back to them, lightly stroking the underside, feeling their heat.
She looked down at herself. The tips were hard and straining, harder than she could remember them ever being. She brushed her fingers over the tips and gasped at the sensation. So sensitive. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to pull her dress up over them. She brushed again.
Pleasure and pain.
Was this what Colton had felt when it happened? She remembered the look on his face and brushed herself again, letting her nail abrade the silken tip. It was definitely not comfortable; if she had to put it to words, “pain” would definitely be one—and yet she wanted more, so much more. She brushed again, harder, firmer. It did feel good, but not quite good. And the more she played, the more she felt the need to play more. It was like eating chocolate, where each bite only made you want the next—until you were sick.
Was what he had felt some type of sickness? Perhaps what led up to it was so good that one did not mind the hurt at the end. That might make sense of the different ways that women reacted.
She looked back at Colton. He was still focused on her breasts, intent on the movement of her hands. He panted slightly, and he had begun to stroke himself again. His penis strained, fully enlarged now, the tip beginning to shine.
And he was engrossed by her, by what she was doing. There could be no mistaking that.
His pupils were huge, his breathing hot and heavy. And all because of her.
Her own sense of excitement grew.
God, she wanted. She wanted. She wanted.
Her thighs pressed tight—and then released. And then again.
She squirmed upon the bed, trying to find comfort.
She pulled at her nipples, still watching Colton.
It felt so good. And yet it was unbearable. She felt as if she were reaching for something just out of sight. If only she could see it, see her goal, perhaps she could grasp it. She wet her fingers with her mouth and then brought the moisture to her nipples. Ahh, the cool felt good, soothing—and yet it was not enough.
She wet them again, making them slick and shiny.
“Fuck,” Colton moaned, gripping himself tighter.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, although she was not sure she could. Her whole body was burning now with need. She was filled with excitement, with anticipation. More. More. More.
“No.” Was that a growl? “No.” Now, that was a command.
Her body only tightened more. She spread her legs apart, seeking ease, and then brought them back close, rubbing her thighs together. There was something happening. Or at least almost happening.
She was nothing but anticipation. She was so close to some great discovery, and yet she could not reach it. She ached. She pulled harder at her nipples, the sharp spike of pain stabbing straight down to her groin. That was it. That was it. Only, no, it wasn’t.
The ache grew. The need grew.
She could feel the sheen of perspiration upon her forehead, feel the growing dampness between her thighs.
She dug her nails into her tender flesh. Again she felt it coming, felt it happening.
But, no, it was not enough. Something was missing.
She concentrated harder on Colton, tried to blend his desire with her own. He was almost there again. She could see it on his face.
She rubbed her nipples hard between finger and thumb, the intensity shooting through her. Now. Now. Now.
“Help me,” she moaned. “I need this. I need it now. Help.”
“Lie back upon the bed. Bring your legs up, your knees up. Yes, just like that.”
The change in position gave her ease, but only for the barest of seconds. “That doesn’t help.”
“Pull up your skirts.”
What? How could she? And then, unable to control herself, she did, yanking them up to her waist, revealing those parts to him that nobody had ever seen. The cool air felt wonderful. She let her legs fall wide, unmindful of what he could see, uncaring of the embarrassing moisture spread upon her thighs. All that mattered was the coolness of the air. But then that was not enough. The heat still grew. The ache still twisted.
“More,” she begged, her fingers moving back to her breasts.
“You are so beautiful, so pink and puffy. So ready. And so, so wet. I long to bury myself in you.”
“Will that help?”
A harsh laugh. “Perhaps, but not now.”
“Please.” She was begging now.
“I wish you could see yourself.” His voice was harsh, and she knew that he was stroking himself hard, again approaching that moment. She heard him rise and stand. He moved toward the bed. “So beautiful, so full of need.”
“Yes. Yes. Now help me.”
“I will, but not in that way. You must make that decision when you are cooler of mind. Now, release one of your breasts.”
She didn’t see that that would do anything. There was relief in not touching, but it didn’t stop the ache—if anything, it increased it.
“Move that hand down between your legs. Touch your curls; pull on them. Gently. Gently. Now harder. Do you feel that? Ahh, yes,
you do. God. Fuck. Give me a second. I don’t want to come yet. I want to do this together.”
She didn’t quite understand that, but what did it matter? All that mattered was the need.
“Is there a spot where the feelings are strongest? When you pull hard upon your thatch, is there one spot that longs to be touched, that needs to be touched? Move your hand and touch yourself there, right between your legs, right at the center of it all.”
A thousand bolts of lightning. The sensation was so extreme that she jerked her hand away. “Too much,” she moaned.
“It is the only way. Touch it more gently.”
“I can’t.”
“Do it for me. You promised to please me. This pleases me. Do it. I command you.”
She brought her finger down, held it for a moment, let the sensation calm—at least partly. She could do this. She could. She wished she could see him, see the fire in his eyes, but her position did not allow it. As her finger began to move, the sensations grew again.
“Yes, stroke yourself. Harder. Harder. Faster. Do you feel it coming?”
“Yes,” she gasped. She didn’t quite know what “it” was, but it was definitely coming. Tighter. Needier. Needier.
Her hips rose from the bed, her thighs straining.
“God. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t wait. Pinch yourself now. Now. Do it.”
And she did.
And it came. Her legs pressed up; her thighs pressed in, pushing tight upon her hand.
And it came, fast and heavy.
Her whole body convulsed and soared.
Blackness and light.
The thousand bolts of lightning all hit at once, overwhelming her.
She heard herself cry—and then again. Or was that him?
Another wave struck.
And another.
One more, softer.
Her body sank back upon the bed.
Chapter 9
“Fuck,” he said it again. This time softer.
He’d never come so hard—and so soon after the first.
She was amazing, astonishing. Fuck.
He drew air into his chest, trying to calm his still-speeding heart. He’d never seen anything like her, and he had seen everything.
“Fuck,” he said it aloud once more. He stepped back from the bed. His composure was shattered, and he could not let her see that.
What was it about this girl? And in so many ways she was still a girl, so sweet, so innocent—and yet there had been nothing innocent in what she’d just done, in how she’d given herself over to the passion. Given herself over to his commands.
His cock twitched.
Unbelievable. He was completely wrung out and yet stirring again. He walked across the room and opened a drawer to reveal a pile of soft white linen towels. Ruby always had everything prepared. He took one out and wet it in the pitcher of cool water. He wished there were ice. Maybe with ice he could have cooled his heated body—although he doubted anything could cool the fires that lay banked and ready in his mind.
He wiped himself clean and refastened his trousers. Maybe if he put it away, his cock would get the message that this interlude was over.
He grabbed another towel and wet it. Then, holding it tight in his hand to warm, he turned and moved back to the bed.
She laid there, quiet, legs spread and face turned away. Her dark-blond hair was fanned out across the white linen of the pillows, her face relaxed, her eyes closed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her more beautiful. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out with the now-warm cloth. She started at his stroke but did not pull away, even when his touch became most intimate.
Her eyes opened slowly and she stared up at him, not searching for secrets but gazing softly and contentedly.
“You liked that?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.
“It would be hard for me to deny and you do insist on truth, so, yes, I enjoyed it, although ‘enjoy’ seems like a very mild word for that.”
“For an orgasm. The French call it ‘the little death.’ ”
“Le petit mort. That is fitting. I do feel rather like I have died and been reborn.”
He took the two used cloths and walked across the room to place them in the washbowl. He stood for a moment facing away from her, delaying whatever would come next. He did not know what to do. This was the point where either he left or his partner did. The encounter was concluded. There was no need for further small talk or…
“You have grown quiet,” she said, shifting upon the bed.
He turned to find she had pulled up her bodice and rearranged her skirts. Only her hair and the flush upon her pale cheeks hinted at what she had been up to.
“I am merely thinking. This evening did not go as I expected.”
“You mean I did not leave as I was supposed to?”
“Yes. I did not think things would go this far between us.”
“You do know that I ask nothing more of you,” she replied.
“Nothing more?”
“Well, I admit that I would like for us to meet again. I would like to do that again, to experience it again—and more. I now understand why people risk all for it.”
And she had not even experienced the full of it, did not know the difference between an orgasm one gave oneself and that experienced with another. “I do not know if that is wise.”
“Are we back to this argument?”
“I will agree to meet here again—tomorrow. We will talk then.”
“Talk?” Her disbelief was clear.
“Yes. There is much to be decided if we are to pursue this further.”
“Then why not meet in the park?”
“We may do that later, but for now we will meet here, where I am sure we will not be overheard. The discussion I wish to have is not fitting for a morning stroll.”
“Fine.” She did not sound happy—and still clearly did not believe him.
“Good; we will discuss our future then.” He turned from her. He was so tempted to partake again, her tousled appearance calling to him. “I will leave first. And I would suggest you then follow in a few minutes. If I am seen by myself, it will not seem odd, but with a mysterious companion, questions may be asked.”
“Do you not come here with other ladies who must keep their identities secret?”
“Now, that would be telling.” He walked to the mirror and fixed his neckcloth and smoothed his hair. It was remarkable how little damage had been done to his appearance.
She had not been as lucky. “Do you need me to send a maid to you to fix your hair?” he asked.
She slid from the bed and came to stand beside him. “No, I will be fine. My cloak will cover all, and I will slip into the house when I return home.”
“And how do you plan to proceed home?” For a man who tried to consider everything, he had not thought about that. Did he need to escort her?
“I have a groom and carriage waiting a street over. Ruby has promised to find a footman to walk me there.”
“Is that proper?”
She laughed, the sound delicate and delighted. “Do you really think this is the time to be asking about such things?”
No, he supposed it was not. “Fine,” he said, more curtly than he meant. But it was good to remind her that emotions were not involved.
And then, without another word, he walked to the door and slipped out.
—
Strangely deflated, Angela stared about the chamber. A few moments ago she had thought life could not be more wonderful, and now she only felt empty. It was like opening a present to discover a box filled with dust and cobwebs.
She walked across the room, reached into the pitcher of water, and splashed her face, then stared into the mirror. Her cheeks were so red, her lips slightly swollen from where she had bitten down on them. She could not decide if it was an attractive look or not. If she had run a mile race she would look about the same, she imagined. She splashed her face again.
It did not help.
Well, it did not really matter. The cloak would hide her from all prying eyes, and if her maid was still waiting up for her to return, which was unlikely, she knew better than to comment. And in truth it was not so different a look than she might have after dancing the night away. A few good twirls were remarkable for putting a flush upon the cheeks.
Her hair had seen better times, but even that could be explained by a vigorous dance and a loose pin or two. And she would just pretend that her lips looked as always.
Gathering her cloak, she slipped it about her shoulders and pulled the deep hood out over her face.
With the slightest of shrugs, she opened the door and stepped into the hall. Just around the corner, Simms stood waiting. “Excuse me, my lady.”
“Did Madame Rouge ask you to find me an escort to my carriage?”
“I will do so, my lady. But first Madame Rouge wishes to know if she may speak to you for a few moments.”
“That would be acceptable.”
“Then let me settle you in another room and she will join you shortly.”
He led her to another door and gestured her through.
This room was smaller and sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a single chair, and a washstand with a bowl and pitcher. She supposed that frequent washing was necessary at such a place.
She took a seat on the chair and watched the door.
A minute later there was the lightest tap on the door and then Ruby entered without waiting for an answer. “You are well?” she asked.
Angela rose, feeling her cheeks heat. “Yes.”
“Stay seated, child.” Ruby moved to take her own seat on the bed. “I was somewhat concerned when I realized what Colton had planned for the evening. I must be honest, that it is something only slightly unusual for him, but I had certainly not expected that he would introduce you to Granderson.”
“I admit that I found the situation most—most surprising.” It was hard to find a word that adequately described how she had felt when Granderson entered the room.
“I can believe that. And did it make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
“I noted that Granderson left soon afterward and entertained himself with one of my other girls, so I imagine that Colton noted your dislike and took it into consideration.”
