Fascinated

by Bertrice Small

  She looked up, hard put to even think of receiving anyone else on the heels of this news.

  "Mr. Raulton, if you please."

  I don't please. Blast blast and blast. With Ancilla right in the front row, lapping up every word.

  She slanted a look at Ancilla, whose pale eyes were avid with curiosity; she blew out a hard breath and bowed to the inevitable. "Have Nellie bring more tea, and send in Mr. Raulton."

  And there he was, tricked out for a morning visit, doing the Proper with the requisite bowing and scraping and every attempt to curb his natural cynicism as she introduced him to Ancilla and he seated himself in the wing chair opposite the tea table.

  "I hope our sojourn at the card table last night was agreeable to you," he murmured.

  "Indeed." She motioned to Nellie to set down the teapot and tray, after which she poured him a cup and handed it over. "I'm very fond of cards, and a whole night at it would barely tire me."

  "Ah… a woman with stamina-good to know." He sipped as she stared at him, appalled.

  Even that innocent comment, he turned into something salacious?

  She slanted a look at Ancilla, feeling as if she were drowning. She wasn't half awake even, and she must deal with him? Ancilla shook her head, so no help there. All Ancilla wanted to do was observe him like an insect under a magnifying glass. How comfortable it must be to remain so detached from everything. She could resent it if she did not care for Ancilla so much.

  "Does not any woman need a certain amount of stamina just to cope with the rigors of the Season?" she asked lightly, seeking to put a less sexual connotation on his words.

  "But you're a woman of experience," he came back instantly, "and familiar with all the ins and outs. Are you not?"

  What was this conversation about? Her head was spinning. She was not used to speaking in double entendres. And for some reason, he assumed she was.

  "Am I not which? A woman of experience, or familiar? In both cases, Mr. Raulton, I am not."

  "But you are very clever with words, Miss Olney." He rose then and took her hand. "I look forward to seeing more of you." He bowed to Ancilla and withdrew.

  What?

  Ancilla was fanning herself. "My dear Regina-he is quick off the mark. Complete to a shade. And not too bracket-faced for one of his experience."

  Regina bridled. "Do you think so? Well, put yourself on the line for his experience, Ancilla, because he will in no way ever see more of me."

  Chapter Six

  And that was not the end of it. Ancilla left just as her father came home fresh from his rounds of the clubs, fresh with the news, and a fresh rage over her lack of propriety.

  "Everyone is talking about the Book," he fumed, "and the worst of it is, all but one of you were booked at Heeton's this past week as well. The wagering is astronomical, but to hear my daughter talked about like a piece of prime flesh is beyond anything a father should have to bear. And it is too late now to dump the broth, my girl. Why could you not be as restrained and proper as Ancilla? There is someone who keeps her counsel, speaks not an ill-advised word to anyone, and is universally loved by everyone."

  "Except a man," Regina muttered, and immediately hated herself for even voicing such an ill-mannered self-serving comment. "Then, by all means, I shall certainly try to emulate our saintly Ancilla."

  "You may mock me, but there is something to be said for a woman of taste and restraint, Regina. And you have proved you have neither…"

  Oh, if only he knew…

  "And that you cannot be trusted to know your own mind."

  That stopped her. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Your thoughtlessness, your cavalier dismissal of my wishes and my concerns-well, I had thought that all the product of a high-spirited, but at bottom, properly raised daughter. And here instead is the bottom line: she is the talk of the Town, named on the line in two of the most notorious betting Books in London, and is pursued right into her home by the most debauched man in England, a man she professed she wanted to marry, and who now apparently may not be averse to marrying her, especially if he can line his pockets in the process. Heaven help me, does everything you wish for come true? And yet you denied the whole straight up and down last night. So what is a father to make of that? I ought to lock you in the cellars at Sherburne until this stink blows over."

  Was there anything more humiliating than this? Her father's anger, his assumption she had been carrying on secretly somehow with Raulton to cause all this furor with the betting Books… what would he do if he knew she was living a secret life as Jeremy's mistress?

  He would die. He would just die. He looked about ready to pop right now, and on the cusp of meting out some kind of punishment that would surely involve her banishment from London.

  She didn't know how to make him believe that she had never had a moment's interest in Raulton. It was past doing: the betting line said it all.

  And her father would believe that, sooner than her.

  And it was all her fault to begin with. Blast it.

  She was so tired. "Just don't send me back to Hertfordshire," she murmured.

  "It is exactly where I wish you would go, my girl. You understand all the ramifications of this, do you not? Your name associated with Raulton? Bets being placed on our good name as to whether he will offer for you. Who in conscience after his decision is made would even want to marry you after this debacle? This is your third go-round with no reliable offers. After this Season, you will rusticate until you die, an unwed spinster. There is no other redemption for actions as careless as yours. And perhaps that is the best punishment of all."

  Jeremy came later, and Reginald met him at the door. "So you've heard the news?" "The news?" "The Book." White's had it then, and Reginald was aware of the whole, damn it. He hadn't been in time to shield him from the worst. "I just heard."

  "So our little scheme didn't work," Reginald said snappishly.

  "My dear Reginald-we barely had any time. It's been three weeks or so since she declared. A week and a half since we made the decision, and this week did I begin to implement it. Events were out of our control. The card party last night. Everyone was talking about the repartee between them."

  "You should have come," Reginald said sourly. "You could have taken her away and prevented this."

  He could have prevented nothing, least of all his own wanton secret life with Regina. "No. This was booked at Heeton's last week. There was no way to avoid it after that, Reginald."

  "Well, let me tell you-Mr. Jack Smart came to her here in her own home. What do you make of that?"

  "The bastard was here? She let him in?" Damn and blast to hell. If he even breathed the same air, he would kill him. He would.

  "Ancilla was here; she had no choice in good manners. But still and all-talk to her, Jeremy. I am at wit's end."

  You are not the only one, Reginald.

  Reginald stalked out, and Jeremy settled himself in the wing chair to wait for her. He rose restlessly when the thought occurred to him that Raulton might have been in this room, sat in this very chair. Damn damn damn. Why hadn't Ancilla stopped her? But what did Ancilla know? Plenty, probably, knowing Ancilla. Damn and hell.

  And where was Regina anyway?

  "Ah, and here is my lord to ring another peal over me." And suddenly she was there, standing defiantly on the threshold gowned in virtue and bile. "Father wasn't content to beat me to snuff; he had to summon his great good friend to put me further down-pin. Well, go ahead, Jeremy. I'm all to pieces already anyway."

  "He was here."

  That brought her up short. "He?"

  "Raulton-here, in this room…"

  "So was Ancilla. It was all perfectly proper."

  "He was in this room. With you. Which chair?"

  "Jeremy…"

  He wasn't angry. Well, yes, he was. He was furious, fairly simmering under all that impassivity, and she couldn't tell him anything about Raulton's visit that he wanted to hear.

  "Where was
he seated?"

  Time to divert and distract. "Why does it matter?"

  "It matters."

  He was too cool, too collected. She ought to run scared. She ought to just run and hide, and lock herself in the cellars at Sherburne House.

  But she was already shackled-to his desire-and his fury was nothing to her hunger for that.

  "Ancilla and I were on the sofa; he sat in the wing chair."

  "In the wing chair. In this room. In your home. I see. And what was so urgent that he must fly to your side the moment the betting line at White's is announced? Do you guess?"

  "I-" She hadn't thought for a moment about what he inferred. That Raulton's appearance was not just a social call, and that perhaps he wanted to be seen coming and going from their town house in order to increase speculation as to where his interest lay, and thus manipulate the odds.

  So much for vanity. But these were the things men always knew and women did not.

  "He has all the tricks," she said finally, "and all the experience to influence everything to his design. I should never have let him in. There is no excuse, because now Father believes nothing I tell him and is ready to send me to Coventry for my deceits."

  "Not all your deceits," Jeremy murmured, feeling his anger ebb at this uncharacteristic show of humility. He bore some of the blame as well; he had done next to nothing to carry out the original scheme that Reginald had proposed, which, had he done so, might have prevented this Raulton imbroglio.

  "Not the most important one," she whispered, her words like flame to tinder. Instantly she wanted him, and she knew he wanted her. In the morning, in the library, together, alone. At the instant, and tonight be damned. Tonight would be another story.

  "I need to know you wore my chain."

  "I wore it. I felt it every minute in that other presence."

  "I need to see."

  Yes, yes, yes… "Now? Here…?" Yes. Yes. To be naked for you now. Dangerous. Thrilling. On the edge… yes…

  "Lock the door."

  She threw the latch.

  "Pull up your dress."

  She lifted the hem up and up until she was bare to the waist, dressed only in the thin, glimmering chain that defined what she was for him. What she willingly offered for his pleasure.

  Let him take his pleasure…

  His chain, binding her hips, her cunt, her sex to him. He knelt down and buried his mouth in her thick feminine hair, kissing and sucking her essence, and the chain that symbolized his possession.

  He grasped her bottom and pulled her more tightly against his avid mouth. Just this, not even enough of this. She was wet for him already, open to him unquestioningly, wore his chain of possession in willing submission to his desires. And he had been but a morning without her, and he was hungry, ravenous for her.

  Oh, there. There. Inserting his tongue insistently, feeding on her, sucking at her with his lips and tongue. Feeling her grinding and the movement of her ass in his hands. He couldn't take her this way fast enough, hard enough; he found the distended nub between her legs and lapped at it, pulled on it, and pulled her with him into the abyss.

  Down she went, down, on the floor, his mouth still voraciously sucking her, down into the sworls of pleasure never-ending. Down, on her back, where he drove his aching penis into her still spangling body and, in that one shot, poured every ounce of his cream into the hot wet mystery of her.

  Down. Down. Down.

  Breathless. More.

  He pulled her to her feet and then unlocked the door and turned to her.

  Heartless to leave her like this.

  "Tonight. All you can take of my penis-and more."

  She caught her breath. He was warning her. Her body quickened with anticipation, arousal, hunger.

  Already.

  Tonight. More. More.

  And even more.

  Waiting for a lover was the most voluptuous thing in life. In the interim between the time she expected him to come and his actual appearance, her imagination played a dozen scenarios in her mind, each one more carnal and salacious than the last.

  She lay in her bed, dressed only in the slender gold chain, her breasts heavy and taut, her body turgid with lust. The hours chimed by; her fantasies grew hotter, wilder and more lascivious until all she wanted was his penis right then, right there, all she could take-and more.

  But did not this prolonged waiting heighten her desire? Oh, he knew so well what he was doing to her, making her hunger for the fulfillment of his erotic promise. Making her wait until she was ready to explode.

  All you can take. And more.

  Her body squirmed with arousal; she had thought of nothing else all day, all night. Her whole consciousness was fixed on the feeling of that chain encircling her body and her sex. His symbol. His possession. And tonight, all she could take- and more.

  The waiting only increased her desire, made her wet and hot and greedy to have him rut in her, a mistress to her core.

  The door cracked open, and he slipped into the room. He had removed his coat already, and his shirt and trousers were undone. It took but another minute for him to strip himself naked and to pull her from the bed and against his heated, jutting length into his hot, devouring kiss.

  "Tonight," he whispered against her lips. "You are all mine."

  She shivered.

  "This is what I want…" He stepped back and showed her his wrists which were tied with a soft material. "Give me your body to do with what I want." He kissed her again, hard, harsh, full of explosive excitement. "Let me tie your hands." Another kiss, deep and wet and rooting. "Let me have your body." He sucked her lower lip. "Let me give you all you can take-and more."

  She melted under the onslaught; she wanted it. He was talking too much, and his lusciously hard penis was going to waste rubbing against her belly and midriff when he could be fucking her. Anything he wanted, anything, to get him inside her to keep his erotic promise.

  "Anything you want," she whispered, stretching out her arms.

  He unwound the one length of material from around his wrist and lifted her arm to the bedpost and tied her wrist. And then her left arm, so that both arms were splayed and bound just above her head and her body with that soft, giving material that would keep her firmly in place without injury.

  Now she was completely his; now he owned that incredible body that he had bound in chains. He couldn't get enough of just looking at her.

  And she couldn't get enough of him. There was something enthralling about being bound and on display for him. Her body arched toward him, her breasts heavy with lust and excitement. She quivered at the knowledge that he could fondle her, anywhere everywhere, he could fuck her any which way, and she could do nothing to stop him.

  And she knew this, too: that by her willing submission, she owned him; her body was everything to him, willing, submissive, greedy, insatiable for his penis to rut in her.

  All he could give, all the time.

  He was like a caged animal now, ready to pounce. Every inch of her body belonged to him. He wanted to look at her bound and chained this way forever. And he wanted to jam himself deep inside her and never come out.

  Oh, and then, her nipples. With her arms spread, and her body arched toward him, her breasts seemed rounder, heavier, her nipples tighter, harder.

  He needed her nipples now.

  He came to her. He reached out and took them, and immediately she spasmed at his touch. Instantly, he reached around her to unlock the chain with the key he had wound around his wrist. A minute more, and he rammed himself home, deep home, the angle of his penis perfect to penetrate her as she stood, and he rocked himself into her so deep he didn't know where she began and he left off. And then they were body to body, hip to hip, with her nipple tips tight against his hairy chest.

  Don't move don't move don't move… he nipped at her lips… don't… he moved his hands down to her curvy buttocks… don't… move… he jammed himself tighter, maybe a mistake… don't...

  He kis
sed her deeply, and felt her body squirm against him as if she were seeking to take him deeper still… don't… yes… his penis was so strong, so virile, he could rule the world-he ruled her-and maybe that was his world…

  Breathless… don't… can't take much more-all she could take… don't.… just tight sharp little… don't move… have to… have to… have to have to have to have to...

  … have to

  And gone. Pounding her like a piston and discharging himself in one blasting cannon shot.

  Stay.

  More.

  Not yet.

  Soon.

  He was still embedded in her in this erotic upright position. He held her tightly against him, tight, tight, tight. He kissed her long, hard, deep. He felt himself flexing, hardening, elongating in her tight, soaking sheath. He felt his strength and his power rising.

  He wanted more, but she had wrung him out.

  This was the test; this was her power. And the evening was still young.

  He liked this the best: he owned her nipples, and he could feel or feed on them however he liked all this evening long. And he could fuck her anytime he wanted all this evening long. He liked the freedom of penetrating her at his will and fondling her nipples whenever he felt like it.

  He came to her again and again, to fondle and fuck and sometimes both. All she could take. And more.

  She was as greedy as he, ravenous for his penis and his possession, and enticing him to take her nipples with every shimmy of her body.

  He couldn't keep away from them. He couldn't keep his hands off of her. He felt up every inch of her body, everywhere he could reach. He made her come with his fingers in her cunt, and at her nipples; and he took her from behind, all the while she stood, submitting to his every desire.

  "You need to be locked up, fancy-piece. You're dangerous."

  "How so?"

  "Those nipples. The way you flaunt them."

  "Because I want you to make them harder."

  "I'm sucked out, my lady."

  "Really? After all your boasts of having enough for two? You hardly have enough for me."

  "It sounds like my lady is ready to fuck again."

  "You said all I could take. I want more."