Scoundrel in My Dreams

by Celeste Bradley

  For now. For this time out of time.

  She began to kiss him back once more. He could feel that her body was easing. He thrust carefully at first, for he wanted her to feel pleasure, but she soon became wet and slippery and so damned snug around him and he could not stop.

  Lost in her, lost in the aching, perfect grip of her body, of the grace of her clinging arms and stroking hands upon his back, lost in the perfect sweetness of her kiss, he drove himself to the brink of ejaculation.

  No. Make it last. Take it all.

  He rolled from her and onto his back. Taking her head in his hands, he kissed her long and tenderly, holding his breath and allowing his arousal to bank instead of burn.

  Her mouth was so sweet, so giving, so dizzying in its power to make him forget—

  He wanted that mouth. She would not do it. Only practiced lovers would. Yet his need for her to use her mouth on him overcame his hesitance. He pulled her lips from his and pushed her head gently down.

  She went, so beautifully willing in his hands. Taking his still-swollen erection in one hand and tangling the other fist in the silken cloud of her hair, he put the tip of his cock to her lips.

  She kissed him, her lips moving over his erection curiously. A gentleman would bathe away the remnants of their sex, but he could not wait another moment. He pushed his cock into her parted lips. Startled, she went still, but she did not pull back.

  Using her hair to guide her, he pressed her down, entering her mouth, closing his eyes as the hot wetness of her mouth enveloped him.

  She learned quickly, his bride. It was not long before she caught on to the sucking pressure that he needed. The delicious agony of her mouth drawing on him, just as he had drawn on her perfect, pointed nipples, made him throw his head back on the pillow and moan.

  He pressed her, pushing his erection deeper and deeper into her until he felt the head of his cock in her throat. He wanted her to suck faster and faster, until he spilled down her throat, until she could taste him on her tongue, until he dripped from her lips like cream.

  She obeyed every motion, every suggestion of his hand in her hair. She bent over him, sucking as she withdrew, rolling her tongue around him as she came back down, taking him so deep into her throat she sometimes shuddered in reaction.

  His eyes closed. The world and its pain and its black, horrifying truth receded. Everything shrank around them until there was only this room. This bed. This woman.

  Until there was only her sweet, giving, enthusiastic mouth.

  Never had a woman been so generous with him. There was no bargaining, no demand for gifts or money or even praise. She simply gave him what he needed, as if she wished for nothing more in the world than to ease his pain.

  His body went rigid. He felt his testicles begin to tighten. She would be tasting him now as the drops of precome spilled out onto her tongue.

  The thought excited him beyond measure. He tightened his fist in her hair and pushed her head down for one last deep entry—

  And then he pulled her away from his rigid, quivering cock.

  It was too soon. There was so much more he wanted to share with this amazing creature. The things he wanted to do to her played across his fevered mind, driving out any other images, any other thoughts.

  As he rolled her beneath him and kissed the taste of himself from her lips gone swollen and soft with sucking, he knew that only the rising of the sun would end this night of passion.

  She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back fervently, her body warm and responsive beneath his. He slid his hands down her sides and cupped her shapely buttocks in his large hands.

  Now there was a fine idea. . . .

  In her attic chamber, Laurel moaned huskily in her sleep. The covers were too heavy, pressing down and rubbing her sensitive nipples to points. Awkwardly, she kicked them off her. Her body was hot and damp. Moist tendrils of her dark hair clung to her temples. Lost in her dream, she pressed her thighs together, rubbing restlessly.

  Laurel wrapped her arms about Jack’s neck and kissed him back fervently, her body warm and responsive beneath his. He slid his hands down her sides and cupped her shapely buttocks in his large hands.

  She felt his fingers sliding over her bottom and simply lifted her hips to ease his access. She’d taken him into her body and into her mouth and taken great pleasure from both. The way it had felt to pleasure him, the weight of his heavy hand in her hair, compelling her to swallow more and more of him, the way he’d tightened and moaned for her, only convinced her to give him everything he asked for, no matter how surprising.

  He wrapped his big hands around her thighs, lifting them to enclose his hips. It brought his large erection to lie in the valley of her wet center. As he kissed her, he moved forward and back, the thick length of him pressing and massaging her clitoris. She could feel every rippling vein, every bump. The blunt, swollen head of him rubbed her perfectly with every stroke. As her pleasure grew, so did the wetness that eased his way and he began to move faster against her.

  She dug her hands into his hair and kissed him hard, moaning into his mouth. She was going to come again for him, just as he seemed to wish. She began to buck slightly, matching his thrusting movements to increase her pleasure. On and on, wetter and hotter, more breathless and more restless beneath him, she rode the thick rod of his erection, rocking into him again and again.

  Just as she was about to reach the pinnacle once more, he pulled away abruptly. She whimpered in surprise, but he only wrapped his big hands about her waist and flipped her onto her belly. He tugged her bottom high, but when she tried to go onto her hands as well, he pushed her shoulders gently back down to the bed.

  Her nipples, sore and tender, rubbed against the coverlet. She squirmed, feeling strange lying with her bottom thrust high into the air. Pushing herself up onto her hands once more, she tried to turn to face him and kiss him once more.

  With perfect ease, as if she were no more than a large doll, he flipped her onto her belly again and lifted her bottom. This time he slid his great hands down her arms and wrapped them around her wrists.

  He lifted her hands gently and placed them in the small of her back. Then he wrapped one huge hand around them both, pinning her thus, facedown and powerless.

  Alarm and tingling dark eagerness rushed through her, mingling with her still-high arousal. When he moved between her feet, forcing her knees apart, she gasped into the bed linens, already nearly fully excited.

  When she felt the thick head of his erection pressing into her, she jumped and whimpered in anticipation.

  He meant to take her like a mare! And she was once more pinned and helpless, unable to protest, unable to defy his superior strength.

  How wicked that she liked this feeling! How shameful that she wanted him to take possession, to take control! How incredibly arousing that his dark wildness took this form, that it was her he chose to make his accomplice in this wicked, shameful, arousing game!

  She gave herself over completely. She would do anything for Jack. Anything.

  She would even come repeatedly and loudly, her cries lost in the bed linens, as he thrust his thick erection into her helpless wet, quivering hole again and again, deeper and deeper, using his other hand to reach around her and rub urgent circles around her clitoris, stealing orgasm after orgasm from her pinioned, trapped, entirely willing body!

  At last he drove a single deep thrust into her, growling out his satisfaction, shooting his fluids deep into her, his erection throbbing inside her, driving her to gasp yet another breathless, weary, helpless orgasm into the mattress.

  He released her hands and moved out from between her legs. She fell to the bed, weak and quivering, her breathing broken by the tiny, shimmering aftershocks of ecstasy. She was sore and sweating and could scarcely think, her mind was so dazzled by the wicked dark pleasure he’d given her.

  He rolled down to lie beside her. With one large hand, he pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her
long, until both their hearts eased their frantic pounding.

  She was glad it was so dark, for she was sure a flush of helpless shame covered her entire body. She’d so enjoyed his dominant play. It satisfied something deep and shadowy inside her to be his helpless plaything. She was a wicked, shameless creature.

  However, she was his wicked, shameless creature, and as he pulled her into the curve of his body, her back to his front, and wrapped a large, heavy arm about her, she went willingly, sinking into him as if she might never come up for air. Her trust in him was absolute. Jack was hers now and she was his.

  Forever.

  Just as she drifted off into the seductive sea of sleep, his big hand opened on her belly. The heat of his large palm sank into her, starting small tingles of anticipation to radiate outward from it.

  Protesting, she shifted restlessly. Her buttocks pressed and ground into his lap as she fought to go to sleep.

  Then, when she felt his massive erection rise once more behind her, she could not help the hot, wet rush of excitement that swept her.

  He wanted more.

  A breathless little laugh escaped her lips. Heaven help her, so did she!

  If one observed the fusty old brick building from the street outside, one would never realize that inside Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen, that creaky bastion of elder statesmen and geriatric lords, such risqué tomfoolery graced the sleep and dreams of some of its patrons.

  St. James Street would never be the same.

  Thirteen

  Morning routine at Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen was decidedly unlike that of the surrounding clubs. Oh, the staff rose early, as was quite usual. The members rose late.

  Wilberforce inspected. The servants served. All was quite as it should be in a gentleman’s establishment.

  It was when one counted the children that the routine departed from the norm.

  Melody rose revoltingly early, usually to amble cheerfully up and down the halls until someone cobbled together food. This process usually attracted Evan, for he was never one to miss a meal. Or a snack. Or a crumb.

  After the children breakfasted, Evan went to his lessons, and Melody?

  Melody made the ritual daily round of all her dearest grampapas.

  “I say, old man, do you hear something?” Lord Bartles paused as he adjusted his cravat in the mirror over his dressing table.

  Sir James looked around the room as he smoothed the front of his waistcoat and tucked his watch fob into place. “Not a thing, no, not a single thing.”

  Melody giggled as Lord Bartles continued to pretend to see his reflection in the mirror, only inches from her face. She sat tailor fashion on the top of the dressing table, playing with the silver combs and snuffboxes arranged there.

  Lord Bartles straightened. “I could have sworn I heard something high and squeaky.”

  Sir James rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “High and squeaky, you say?”

  Lord Bartles casually rested his elbow on the top of Melody’s head while he thought it over. “Yes, it was quite high and it was indisputably squeaky.”

  “Did it sound like a creature, do you think?”

  Melody chortled as Sir James came over to the mirror. When he lifted her hand to use as a comb through the sparse silver strands on his head, all the while intently gazing into her face with a self-absorbed expression on his wrinkled face, she bubbled over with glee, bouncing on her bottom on the dressing table.

  Lord Bartles considered the question seriously. “Yes, it did sound a bit like a creature. In fact, it sounded quite a bit like a . . .”

  Sir James paused in his Melody-assisted arrangement of his hair. “Like a . . . ?”

  Lord Bartles narrowed his rheumy eyes and peered closer at his dressing table. “I think, it’s possible—” He straightened as abruptly as his arthritis would allow and pointed indignantly at Melody. “It is! Look!”

  Sir James squinted at Melody. “Oh, heavens! It’s a—”

  Lord Bartles huffed indignantly. “I’m going to have a word with Wilberforce. There’s a Mousie in our rooms!”

  Sir James gave a girlish if somewhat creaky “eek” and stepped back. “A Mousie!” He wiggled his fingers in alarm. “Quick, fetch the cat!”

  Lord Bartles hobbled forward once more, this time with his hands full of downy gray and white fur. “Go on, mighty hunter! Catch that Mousie!”

  When the tiny kitten plopped into Melody’s skirted little lap, she gasped and pressed pudgy little hands to her cheeks. “Kitty!”

  Lord Bartles and Sir James stood back to enjoy the fruits of their labors. It hadn’t been easy keeping the tabby kitten a secret for three days. However, it had been worth the questionable toiletry habits and faint lingering odor of sour milk to see Melody’s rapturous little face as she clutched the big-eyed, bat-eared, rat-tailed little monster to her little chest.

  “Go on, then,” Lord Bartles said gruffly. “Take the flea-bitten beastie and show it to young Evan.”

  Sir James lifted Melody down from the dressing table and set her free to run from the room clutching the kitten.

  Lord Bartles sniffed. Sir James looked at him sharply. “Sentimental old fool.”

  Lord Bartles: “Blasted dander. Can’t bear cats.”

  Sir James looked wistfully after the vanished kitten. “Nor I. Hideous creatures.”

  “Too right. Fur everywhere.” Lord Bartles brushed disconsolately at his sleeves.

  Sir James gazed at him for a long moment. Then Sir James patted Lord Bartles gently on the shoulder. “Poor old dear. This time we’ll get a black one, shall we?”

  It was a credit to Jack’s reputation—and perhaps his title had a bit to do with it—that the esteemed dressmaker Lementeur made himself available to His Lordship at such an ungodly early hour of the morning.

  Jack sat with the man he knew as Button, drinking coffee and chatting. Well, it almost resembled social chat. Button would ask a casual question about some of his favorite inhabitants of Brown’s and Jack would answer willingly, if monosyllabically. Button offered his condolences on Jack’s uncle’s demise. News traveled fast, which was to be expected. Jack nodded shortly, grateful that the man didn’t congratulate him on his subsequent advancement.

  It was very nearly a conversation. Jack felt oddly comfortable with Lementeur. Comfortable enough that he eventually allowed himself to reveal his reason for banging down the door of the House of Lementeur just before dawn.

  “I don’t sleep,” he offered, all by himself without prompting.

  “Really?” Button’s response was casual. “Some of us find it refreshing.”

  Jack tried again. “I need a dress.”

  Lementeur nodded. “One assumed, me being, after all, me.”

  Jack reached into the potato sack he’d scrounged from the dark kitchens of Brown’s in the middle of the night and pulled out a handful of black gabardine. He thrust it at Button, who took it gingerly, delicately shaking away the threads of burlap until he could unfold the gown.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Very svelte. And such an elegant height. Perhaps a bit . . . somber.”

  “Mourning.” Jack took a sip of coffee. “But that’s done.”

  “Hmm.” Lementeur tapped a fingernail on his china saucer. It rang bell-like through the quiet establishment. “So the lady in question is done with her mourning. Perhaps a subtle lavender, for the half mourning?”

  “Color.” Jack handed Lementeur the other gown. “Mourning is finished. Never should have been in the first place.”

  Button kept the pile of fabric in his lap with difficulty. “Goodness. Did you leave the lady entirely without?” It was a gentle jest, said with a twinkle, until Jack gazed at him with arrested horror in his expression.

  “Ah.” Button deftly changed the subject. “Perhaps a hint of the lady’s coloration? Is she fair-haired?”

  Jack grunted. “Dark.”

  “Darker than, say, Lady Madeleine?”

  At Jack�
��s nod, Button contemplated the extremely modest neckline of one of the gowns. “Is the lady perhaps interested in a somewhat bolder décolletage?”

  Jack went still, thinking of Laurel’s breasts, high and full, and how they would look bursting from a fashionably low neckline. . . .

  “My lord?”

  Jack snapped back to attention and swallowed hard. Button allowed himself a tiny smile. “I shall take that as an affirmative, shall I?” He poked at an unexciting satin bow and made a disapproving moue. “Will the lady be visiting us for a fitting?”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s a surprise.”

  Button’s eyes flashed amusement. “A generous one, my lord. I am filled with impish delight at the very notion! You say you wish four gowns?”

  Jack nodded. “Three for day. And one . . .” He waved a hand at a fitting mannequin that stood nearby. It was draped in cloth of gold and shimmering scarlet silk, in preparation for a new work of art worthy of a queen. “One of those.”

  Lementeur’s brows rose. “More coffee, my lord?” He sat back with his own cup, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Three gowns for day and one for evening. Does Your Lordship have any particular color in mind? Something to match the lady’s eyes, perhaps?”

  “Blue.”

  Button stirred his coffee with a finely wrought silver spoon, though he’d added no cream or sugar. The spoon rang sweetly against the fine china, making Jack think of tiny distant bells.

  “So many shades of blue to choose from,” Button mused. “There is the gray-blue that simply begs for a silver gown. There is that particular shade of blue-violet, though that is quite rare. There is the blue of the sky—”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “The sky.”

  “Dark hair. Eyes of sky. Goodness, that sounds just like little Lady Melody, doesn’t it?”

  Jack shot Button a sharp glance, but Button only stirred his coffee contemplatively, a pleasantly blank expression upon his puckish features. “A bit, I suppose.”