Improper Arrangements (The Improper Series)

by Juliana Ross

  “It really is effective?”

  “In my experience, yes. But this is your decision, Alice. And I will not be angry or disappointed if you say no.”

  “Why this? Why now?”

  “There is something between us. Every time we touch, every time I look you in the eyes—it’s there. And I’m sick of fighting it.” He reached across the table and encircled my wrist with his hand. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to sleep tonight. And lying on the floor, thinking of all the different ways I’d like to make love to you, is a terrible recipe for a decent night’s sleep.”

  “You were worried, before, that we’d develop an attachment to one another. You can’t have changed your mind about that.”

  “I haven’t. But I know you better now. Can see how levelheaded you are. So it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “I don’t know what to say. This really is most unexpected—”

  “Yes or no, Alice. Just yes or no.”

  Chapter Eight

  Yes or no?

  He wanted to share my bed, no more. He wasn’t asking for my heart. He didn’t covet my fortune. All he wanted was my body, and only as long as our journey together lasted.

  “Yes,” I said, and I was amazed at how calm and steady my voice sounded.

  Pushing back his chair, he stood and held out his hand. We crossed the room, taking half a dozen awkward, shuffling steps, until my skirts were brushing against the bed frame. He swung us round and sat, his legs spread wide so I might stand between them.

  Before I could protest, his hands were in my hair, gently teasing out and removing pin after pin, letting them fall heedlessly to the floor. It felt terribly illicit, allowing a man to see my hair unbound in such a fashion. I’d never thought much of it—though abundant and very long, it was bone-straight and an uninspiring shade of light brown. Yet he seemed to like it well enough, combing through the strands with his fingers, smoothing each wayward lock until the mass of it fell heavily to the small of my back.

  I didn’t even try to stifle the sound I made as he ran his hands through my hair, a low, thrumming moan that resembled a purr more than anything else. No wonder, for I’d seen cats respond to their owner’s caress just as I was responding to Eli now.

  “Has no one ever brushed your hair before?”

  “My maid. But it never felt like this.”

  “Shall I tell you why?” he whispered against my ear. “Anticipation. You know what’s coming next. You know what we’re going to do. And you know it’s going to feel even better than this.”

  His mouth closed over my earlobe, tasting it thoroughly, his teeth scraping in the most provocative fashion against my flesh, and I shivered at the sudden, enthralling rush of his exhaled breaths against my fevered skin.

  His hands moved to trace the neckline of my gown, the tips of his callused fingers gentle on the pale shivering skin of my bosom. One by one, he unfastened the hooks and eyes that held shut the bodice. As they came free, he spread wide the gaping edges of fabric, baring my shoulders and arms. Closing my eyes, I felt his hands at my waist, loosening the ties of my petticoat and pantalettes, pushing them and my gown into a puddle of cambric, flannel and wool at my feet. And then he was opening my corset busk, his fingers brushing against the swell of my bosom as he released me from the garment’s embrace.

  “Much better,” he muttered hoarsely. “Your turn now.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Did he expect me to remove my chemise and drawers while he watched?

  “Help me undress, Alice.”

  “But I’ve no idea how—”

  “Then you’ll learn. Wait while I take off my boots.”

  I waited impatiently as he unlaced his boots and let them and his heavy wool socks fall to the floor. “Where shall I start?” I asked.

  “With my coat and waistcoat.”

  That was straightforward enough. I slid his coat off his shoulders, unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed it as well.

  “Go on.”

  It seemed logical to continue with his necktie. I pulled at the knot, loosening it with slow, jerky movements. It didn’t help that my hands were shaking—whether from nerves or excitement, I couldn’t tell.

  I glanced up, hoping he wasn’t becoming impatient with me. He was smiling again, and for the first time I noticed the fine lines that fanned out from the corners of his remarkable eyes. I reached up, let my fingers trace the ridge of his brow, then brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. Here and there it was shot through with gray, as was his two-day-old beard.

  “How old are you, Elijah?”

  “Thirty-four. Rather younger than I look, I expect.”

  “No, not at all. I like the silver in your hair. It matches your eyes.”

  “How poetic. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six. And you’re a cad for asking. No lady cares to speak of her age. Particularly an aged spinster such as myself.”

  “Rubbish. You’re beautiful—far more so now, I’d wager, than when you were a girl.”

  He was wrong. I hadn’t been beautiful then, nor was I now. Before I could correct him, he undid the ribbon at the top of my chemise and I quite forgot what I’d been going to say. He drew its gathers wide and pulled it down over my shoulders, baring the swell of my bosom, then my nipples, then the entirety of my breasts.

  I’d expected him to make some sort of comment at that point, some glowing ode to their whiteness or plumpness or their pleasing size, for my sister Eleanor had once told me that her husband was forever rhapsodizing about her bosom. But Elijah, being a man of comparatively few words, instead bent his head and took my left nipple into his mouth, sucking on it lavishly before turning to nuzzle at my other breast.

  “When we met for tea, I felt like dragging you out of the conservatory and doing this to you. That damned dress you were wearing.”

  “I could have sworn you were furious with me.”

  “I was, at first. But I still wanted to fuck you.”

  He fell back onto the bed, carrying me with him so I lay sprawled atop his body. He abandoned my bosom, his hands descending to the span of my waist, the flare of my hips, and then the fullness of my bottom.

  Pulling me close, he molded my curves to the unyielding muscles of his thighs, his mouth pressing hot kisses against my temple. I clutched at him, heedless of the way my fingers bit into his arms, and pressed my bare breasts against his chest, which was still, maddeningly, hidden by his shirt.

  “Take it off. Your shirt. I want to see more of you,” I demanded.

  He said nothing, and I thought for a moment he was going to ignore me. But then he held me tight and rolled me on my back before rising to his knees. He shrugged free of his shirt and tossed it carelessly on the floor.

  I ran my hands over the lean, corded planes of his arms and chest. “All this muscle...it’s from climbing?”

  “I suppose. Though I’m not especially fit at the moment. Too much time spent at my desk.”

  I touched a finger to the dark blue band encircling his right forearm. The markings weren’t solid, as I’d thought, but rather a closely inscribed design of thin, fine lines, no more than a quarter of an inch long, running in parallel formation around his arm, each band interspersed with precise dotted lines. The overall effect was quite stunning.

  “Are these tattoos?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you get them?”

  “Years ago. I was in Itanagar, in northern India. Got drunk with my friends one night and decided I wanted tattoos like our Singpho porter. He had them up and down his arms. His legs, too.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Good God, yes. Stayed drunk for nearly a week, until my head hurt worse than my arms.”

  “I like them. The tattoos. Can you feel them when I touch you there?”

  “No. They feel the same as the rest of me.”

  I let my fingertips linger on the bands, tracing the designs, thrilling at the hard muscle ju
st beneath his exotically decorated skin. Then I moved my hands to the triangle of dark hair on his chest. It was finer than I would have supposed and surprisingly soft.

  I touched his nipples, one then the other, drawing the hair away so I might see them better. Like my own, they had pulled up on themselves, tight with excitement, and so I rose up on my elbows and took his right nipple into my mouth, my teeth grazing it gently.

  “Holy fuck,” he gasped.

  A heartbeat later I was flat on my back and the full weight and length of his body was again pressed against mine, though the only point of contact I noticed was the heat of his erection at the juncture of my thighs, a searing brand as alarming as it was seductive.

  It was but an echo of all I could feel, imprisoned as I was in my chemise and drawers. “Help me with the rest,” I murmured against his ear. He needed little encouragement, making quick work of my remaining garments, though he left my stockings in place.

  No one, apart from my maids, had ever seen me so unclothed. It was terrifying, certainly, but also freeing. I had chosen to be with this man, had chosen to show myself to him. And I could see that he did, indeed, find me beautiful.

  “Now?” I asked, spreading my legs wide, hoping to please him with my show of willingness.

  “Soon.”

  He pulled away from me and walked across the room, stopping at the table where we’d eaten our supper. He returned a moment later, pausing only to shed his trousers and drawers. This he accomplished with one hand, as his other held the sponge, now doused in oil, that he’d shown me earlier.

  As he stretched out next to me, an exotic, almost peppery smell filled my nostrils.

  “What is that scent?”

  “The olive oil. Do you want to taste it?” Before I could answer, his fingers were at my lips, brushing them with the oil, daring me to lick them clean. It tasted just like it smelled—of sunshine and summer and warm, southern seas.

  “Kiss me,” I asked, and he obliged, his mouth sweeping across mine in slow, drugging caresses, his teeth nibbling at my lower lip, his tongue tasting mine, licking away every trace of oil.

  “Spread your legs wide,” he commanded. His fingers delved deep inside me, pushing the sponge high, and as they withdrew, I realized, rather to my surprise, that I couldn’t feel it at all.

  What I could feel, most wonderfully, was the weight of his retreating fingers on my woman’s mound, followed by the sublime pressure of his thumb on the hidden pearl between my legs. I waited, not daring to breathe, for the moment when he would rub and rub and propel me into a whirlwind of pleasure, but he did nothing. Simply rested his thumb where it was, letting me grow used to the sensation, and then become ever more restless as I waited for him to proceed.

  When he did move, it was so subtle I doubt I’d have noticed had he touched me anywhere else. Softly, so softly, he stroked me, lingering on the tender flesh, teasing it into swollen, eager readiness.

  If it had been my hand between my legs, I would already have come. But Elijah was intent on torturing me, for each time I tumbled close to the edge he retreated, his touch relenting, slowing.

  “It will be better this way,” he promised.

  “It’s too much—I can’t bear it,” I pleaded.

  “You can.”

  I wanted to believe him, I did, but the bliss of his touch was pulling at me, drawing me down, and I hadn’t the will to resist. I clutched at his shoulders, my fingernails scoring his skin, and held my breath as the first swell of delight crashed over me. How could anything feel this delicious, this satisfying? If only I could capture it in my memories, hold it close, and feast upon it in hindsight.

  As the waves of pleasure receded, I opened my eyes and regarded Elijah with no small degree of apprehension. I had been so wanton just now, writhing against his hand and begging him to make me come. Had I disgusted him with my lack of control?

  Quite the contrary, for he looked inordinately pleased with himself. “The look on your face just now...”

  “Yes?”

  “...was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you. May I? I mean, would you like me to...?”

  “This.” He placed my hand on his cock. “This is what I want.”

  I wriggled down the bed, determined to get a closer look. His cock looked like nothing I had ever imagined. The skin so much darker than the paler hue of his abdomen and thighs. The coursing, pulsing veins that entwined its length. The engorged tip, as big and ripe as a Victoria plum. It really was rather fearsome in appearance, and had I been a trembling virgin bride I likely would have fainted dead away.

  Fortunately I had never been one for fainting.

  I wrapped my hand around it, marveling at the smoothness of the heated skin beneath my fingers, and squeezed as tight as I dared.

  “Is this correct? I’m not certain what I should—”

  “That. And this.” His hand covered mine, dwarfing it, and he showed me what to do. “Up and down, like this. As fast or slow as you like.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You can lick or kiss me, or even suck on it—but only if you wish.”

  At that I smiled, ducked my head and took the end of his cock in my mouth. It was too big for me to do much more than kiss the end, but I kept up the back-and-forth movements with my hand as I sucked and soon found a workable rhythm.

  He watched me as I labored, his eyes half-shut, the weight of his upper body resting on his elbows. It was bewitching, knowing he was watching me, knowing the pleasure I was bringing him, and soon every swipe of my tongue against the head of his cock make the place between my legs, sated with passion only minutes before, tighten and throb most persistently.

  “Enough,” he burst out. “I’ll come all over your hand if you keep that up.”

  Though I had been enjoying myself, I was more than ready for what came next. He rolled me onto my back and pushed my knees up, pressing my legs open so he might cradle his body between them. Again I felt the beguiling pressure of his body against my sex, only this time nothing separated us.

  Without his asking I reached between us and grasped his cock, eager to have it inside me at last, and guided him to my opening. He pushed in slowly, only an inch or two, then hesitated, his entire body trembling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Trying to hold back. Don’t want to hurt you.”

  The effort to restrain himself must have been considerable, for sweat had gathered on his forehead and the muscles in his arms and shoulders felt like granite under my hands.

  “More,” I begged. “I want more. I want all of you.”

  He drew back his head so he might look me in the eye, fixing me with his mesmerizing silver stare. Then he pushed forward, surely and inexorably, until his stones were snug against my bottom and the weight and heat and smell of him was inside me, atop me, surrounding me entirely.

  He held himself perfectly still for long seconds, not moving, his gaze riveted to mine.

  “Christ, Alice,” he whispered. “What is this?”

  It seemed he expected no answer, for he closed his eyes and began to drive in and out of me. I thought of how he had climbed the wall of granite on the road to Argentière, and how he was conquering my body in precisely the same way—relentless, unflagging, utterly controlled.

  Resting his weight entirely on one arm, he reached under my bottom with the other, aligning our bodies at a slightly different angle. Immediately I felt the unmistakable pressure, the friction as he drove against that one elusive spot deep inside me. I pushed my hands under my bottom, eager to help him, and was rewarded when the delicious abrasion intensified and blossomed into the release I sought so avidly.

  Waves of pleasure rippled through me, tearing the breath from my lungs, the sight from my eyes. I floated free in currents of bone-deep satisfaction, my only anchor the scent and heat of Elijah’s skin against mine.

  Suddenly he pulled away and I opened my eyes to see him kneel above me,
grasp his cock and rub it as I had done, only much rougher and faster. He came with a hoarse groan, his seed falling thick and white onto my belly.

  After climaxing, he knelt between my legs for a long time, and it seemed to me he was fighting to regain control of his senses. Though undoubtedly very fit, he was breathing quite heavily and seemed almost dizzy from the effect of his exertions.

  “Elijah? Are you quite all right?”

  He smiled ruefully. “I’m fine. Let me get a cloth.”

  I had to ask. “Why did you withdraw?”

  “Better safe than sorry. The less seed I leave inside you, the less likely you are to fall pregnant.”

  “That does make sense. Thank you.”

  No answer, only another inscrutable smile as he gently removed the sponge from inside my body and wiped my belly clean with one of the napkins from our supper.

  “Do you need anything before we go to sleep?”

  “Only the necessary.”

  “If I turn my back is that enough? Or would you rather I left the room?”

  “Would you mind? It seems so silly—”

  “I don’t mind. But hurry up. You’ve tired me out.”

  Chapter Nine

  When I woke the next morning I was alone in the bed. But Elijah was nearby; somehow I could sense his presence without being able to see or hear him. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, clutched the sheet to my chin and peered across the room.

  He sat, already dressed for the day, with his back to me. As my eyes grew accustomed to the weak half-light of dawn I saw that he was writing in his notebook. Hearing me stir, he turned to look at me.

  “Good morning. I thought I would wait until you woke before seeking out breakfast. Shall I fetch it now?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you so much.”

  I was safely dressed in a fresh set of garments long before he returned, and had even gone so far as to make the bed, although never having made a bed in my life I’d done rather a poor job of it. While a part of me knew we had to be on our way soon, another part of me, the wanton that beckoned me to recklessness in unguarded moments, desired nothing more than to wait for him, naked, in the bed we’d shared the night before.