The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  Yet it was so . . . delicious. Even while her mind churned, her body responded with foreign knowledge, welcoming, softening under a sort of spreading lassitude.

  He did not stop, but ran his fingers up over her scalp, tunnelling through the thick weight of hair, then running down to the tips where it curled. Again and again he did it. Melissa felt as if she were in a trance. She wanted to sink back into him and rest in those hands. She remembered Mama brushing her hair when she was a small child. It felt a little like that; enough for instinct to try and soothe her. But she must not forget the danger.

  She sighed.

  His fingers moved on to her neck, feathering gently up and down that slender column.

  He must be very close to me, she thought as she felt his breath on her again. Then there was the lightest brush of skin against skin, laid on her shoulder. Another, and another, till she realised it was his lips that touched her. Towards her neck they came, those lips. She waited for the tension to return, but it was not there.

  Her body was waiting for his touch. It knew something she did not. It wanted something she did not.

  Up her neck wandered that delicate brushstroke, and reached the corner of her jaw. His fingers, wrapped deeply in her hair, began slightly to pull, bringing her head around.

  She had no choice but to lean towards him, and found his broad shoulder there, waiting for her head to rest upon it. She sank against him, and his mouth settled on hers as lightly as a butterfly.

  It was so soft. So incredibly soft. She had not known a man’s mouth could be like that. Like . . . rose petals. Like . . . like nothing else she knew.

  The tension that had held her so tight and trembling was melting, changing into something else; an intense, quivering, bone-melting something else; such a strong sensation. Like a tide, sweeping her away. She tried to examine the feeling, to conquer it with her will, control it.

  But there was too much going on, in her mind, in her body, and outside her body. She couldn’t focus; could not hold it all together.

  Into his mouth she sighed again, and their breaths mingled. His large hand came up to cup her head.

  She was weightless. At sea. All caught up and adrift in the unknown. Her body was so warm, hot almost. No, his body was hot. It felt burning against her side.

  She pressed a little harder against his lips, wanting more of . . . something. He moved his own lips across hers, and back again; a small caress. Then he delicately slid his tongue across her lip.

  The smallest flick, and it was gone, his lips pressing hers more firmly. Again, a second flick, on her damp inner flesh.

  She hummed a little, and discovered her fingers were wrapped in his shirt front; But before she had time to ponder that further, he opened his mouth and took her lower lip between his, sucking gently.

  “Ohhh,” she uttered almost silently.

  His fingers were in her hair, massaging her scalp. She took a deep breath and breathed in the scent of him again, learning it. There was pipe smoke from the tavern, and sandalwood, and under that a clean, fresh smell that was very masculine. She breathed it in again, and realised she could breathe so deeply because her dress had been loosened.

  Before she could react to the thought he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue slickly over hers, a coaxing visitor.

  Her own lifted shyly, hesitantly to meet it, and she forgot completely about the dress. There was so much sensation; so strange and so pleasurable. She wanted to melt into him. Her clothes were harsh and chafing against her skin. Ripples of heat went up and down her spine.

  Then there was a jolt, a spear of pleasure that arced from her chest to deep in her abdomen. She threw back her head and gasped, registering that his hand was on her breast, his fingers squeezing her nipple.

  “Exquisitely sensitive,” he murmured in satisfaction, moving his mouth down her neck, dropping his head down to press his lips against the creamy flesh he had revealed. One hand stayed behind, massaging the back of her neck just under her skull. It left her weak, surrendered in his grasp.

  He flicked her nipple with his tongue tip and then sucked on it gently. She thought she might pass out from the wash of pleasure. Her dress was undone now, sliding from her shoulders, his fingers on the tabs of her petticoats. The petticoats loosened, eased away.

  He switched his attention from one tender nipple to the other and she lay drowning in delight, head tilted far back, eyes closed and body pressed against him. One ribbon at a time he untied her small clothes until at last she was naked to the waist.

  With one arm wrapped firmly round her torso, the other hand supporting her head, he stood, lifting her free of her clothing. He walked over to the bed, his mouth still hungrily lavishing her breast. She felt the weightless whirl of her movement in the greater whirl within her head.

  He laid her down upon the pillows. She sank deep into their softness as he came down against her, his hard body unyielding behind the fine cloth of his clothes. Her hands were resting on his shoulders, palms shaping the great curves of muscle they found there, hot through thin cambric.

  She kept her eyes tightly closed as she arched under his drifting hands.

  This was good. She had thought cold acceptance would be right, but this was better. This was making it impossible to dwell on . . . on all the things . . . what things?

  She burrowed into the sensations, so extraordinarily intense, such a surprise. She didn’t want to think.

  In moments she was utterly lost, her body undulating with his touch. Her hands wrapped themselves deeply in his clothes and tugged, pulling him close to her. He responded as if he knew exactly what she wanted, bringing his weight to rest a little on her.

  Instinctively her legs parted and he settled between them. It was so right to have him there; to have the firm man-weight of him there where she had begun to burn. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she kissed him with untutored passion. He returned the kiss, stroking a hand firmly up and down her flank, then scooping it under her buttocks to tilt her hips to a slightly different angle.

  “Ohhhh,” she cried out in wonder as the friction suddenly heightened. He began to move against her, massaging her with his whole body. She clutched at him. This was . . . this was . . . Ah! She had not known.

  He was unfastening his own clothing now. Much less complex than her clothes, it did not take him long. Piece after piece it was flung aside to lie somewhere on the floor, completely forgotten. She only registered the change it as a new revelation of his skin.

  His bare skin against hers was the most glorious sensation. For long, long minutes they lay together, connected from head to toe on the velvet covers of the wide bed. Their hungry hands roved over each other. Melissa discovered the firm texture of a man, so different from her own softness. Sleek skin laid out over hard muscles, burningly hot.

  His smooth hair was satin under her fingers. She pressed him closer, then closer still. Their mouths never parted.

  Then he withdrew from her gently, an awful lack. Eyes closed she quested for him, found him inches away, pursued him to press up against him, wanting the return of that drugging mouth, those hands. He obeyed her need, hard palms squeezing and relishing her soft flesh, her confusion swept away in an instant, swamped by a bliss that forestalled thought.

  The next time he drew away she followed immediately, instinctively, her eyes still closed tight as if looking at him might break the spell of her own desire. She pressed the puckered tips of her breasts to his chest, crying out at the intensity of the fire that radiated out from those rosy points through her whole body, most particularly that empty place between her legs. A fire intensified by the momentary lack.

  Perhaps that was why he broke the contact: to make reconnection more stimulating.

  She would not have it. He did not have the right to take away what was hers. She clung to him, wrapped her legs tight about his torso, encouraging his weight to lie just there upon that perfect spot, to soothe the emptiness. Pushing him into place and then rubbi
ng against him.

  When he rolled them to their sides, relieving the pressure, she moaned in disappointment at the loss. But an instant later his fingers were there, deftly weaving patterns where she was so very, very sensitive.

  She cried out once, then again as her mind filled with a mass of swirling colours and flashing light, thoughts scattered hopelessly. A shaking overtook her, and a yearning as if she was reaching for something. She sobbed into the curve of his shoulder and then bit him heedlessly. He growled at her, a feral purring. Wave after wave of pleasure washed against her until finally she was swept aside by it, quivering and lost.

  Chapter Five

  He held her close, soothed her with gentle whispers of reassurance as she shook powerfully against him and then clung limp and unresisting. Tenderly he smoothed the soft, fine little curls back from her forehead, placing delicate kisses there against her hairline.

  Again that astonishing protectiveness surged in him, the desire to wrap her up and keep her safe from all harm, the most delicate, deliciously succulent treasure.

  When her arms fell back against the covers and she lay as if drifting to sleep, he eased himself away and then moved to lay with his head between her thighs, inhaling the feminine aroma of her, a sweet musk with undertones of honey that threatened to take all control from him. He wanted to protect her, yes. But also to possess her utterly, every inch of her perfectly formed, the unwrapping of her one delight after another.

  He lowered his head and enclosed her pink folds in the warmth of his mouth, breathing on them to awaken them. She sighed and moved her head on the pillow. With a blunt index finger that looked shockingly coarse against their petal freshness he stroked them gently, their moisture lush and slick. He purred a little in satisfaction at that puffy flower, engorged and wet for him, slipping his single finger inside her.

  She was very tight.

  She moaned, and he bit back his own moan as her internal muscles gripped him in welcome. His mouth still on her, he stroked and sucked her with tongue and lips. With his index finger he found the small, raised area of internal flesh he was seeking, and began to exert a firm, slow-moving pressure.

  At that her eyes flew open, she moaned again loudly and squeezed his head between her thighs. He did not pause in his ministrations, reaching instead with his free hand to roll one of her nipples between his fingertips. She shook and cried out loudly, clenched fists gathering great handfuls of the bedclothes as she tried to squirm away from that overwhelming pleasure.

  He simply followed her up the bed, mouth hungry and unrelenting.

  Then she collapsed, letting out a wail of mingled triumph and despair as she climaxed.

  He felt the warm gush as more liquid seeped over his fingers.

  He smiled with satisfaction, loving the feelings, the sounds, the unfolding of womanhood. He had never had a virgin before, never thought the idea appealing.

  She was a revelation.

  Hesitant at first, so he thought she might say him nay and end their fun; which would be a shame. The princely sum he had paid would be a loss if it came with no profit of pleasure; though he would regret far more the loss of his prize: this fierce, nervous, courageous beauty.

  Then she surprised and delighted him with her eager enthusiasm, a hundred times more desirable when her quiet acceptance became passionate response, setting him ablaze so he struggled to restrain himself, wanting to devour her all at once in a gulp when she was a banquet to be savoured.

  Had he ever felt greater lust than this? He could not think of a time. He was dazed by it, holding himself in check only by force of habit honed by years of considering the arts of love a sport to be mastered like any other.

  His instinct would have him spread her out on the bed and thrust his body into hers before she had the wit to escape. The urge came over him in waves, so he had to deliberately still himself, draw back, go more slowly.

  When she started to pursue him in his withdrawals, seeking out his touch, his body for her pleasure, it challenged his control more than he thought any man could bear and stay sane. She did not know what she asked of him, so unknowing, drowning in her own newborn responses, defenceless and vulnerable before him. It racked him to his very soul.

  An innocent succubus, infinitely tempting.

  He wanted to keep her this fresh, this pure forever.

  He wanted to plunder her, to take everything of her for himself.

  He was certainly crazed by lust, imagining all the things he would do to her, that they would do together. He was painfully, unbearably hard, had been so for so long now the torment of it seemed eternal.

  One night was not enough. Not nearly enough.

  He needed at least a month; maybe more.

  He would make her his mistress, with a little house of her own somewhere nearby. A house he would occupy every night. He would pleasure her in every room, until she was so content there she would never move again.

  Yes.

  Beautiful creature.

  He would cherish her, tutor her kindly in her chosen trade. A tuition they would both enjoy.

  She was limp, boneless as he raised himself over her, face above hers and weight held on one elbow.

  “I am afraid this is going to hurt,” he said gravely.

  Her eyes flew open at that, as he simultaneously began to push himself slowly into her.

  “No, wait!” she cried out in panic, feeling a great burning pressure between her legs.

  He stopped, the pressure undiminished.

  “You choose a most inconvenient time,” he said, his voice husky and strange. “For what do we wait, little flower? You sold, I bought, and this is mine.”

  She gazed up at him helplessly. He looked implacable, this stranger demanding his due: entrance to her body. She could not speak. There were no words.

  After a moment he took one of her hands in his, laid her palm on his wide chest and said: “Feel this. Feel that pounding. My heart is beating out of my chest to be nearer to you. Don’t be scared.”

  He shifted his weight so he could take her other hand, and he pulled it down between their bodies, putting it onto . . . onto something hard, hot, smooth and rigid; a bar that spanned the distance between them.

  She didn’t recognise it, but when she obediently wrapped her fingers round it he jerked and cursed softly under his breath. She snatched her hand away, frightened she’d done something wrong. But he caught her hand and brought it back.

  “Shhh. You are doing splendidly. This is nothing to be afraid of either; just a tool to delight you; and eager to do so.”

  At that moment she realised what she was holding, her eyes widening in horror as she connected that solid shaft with the pressure still burning away between her legs. He let her hand escape a second time, releasing it so he could put his own fingers on her, so intimately she wanted to shriek and scream.

  “See, you are wet here. Very wet. Gloriously wet, which will make it easy for you. Your body likes this. It likes what we are doing. It will be very happy to have me inside it. You’ll see.” He undulated minutely against her, his fingertips brushing back and forth over her there.

  She couldn’t sort out the feelings, her overburdened nerve endings trying to interpret information sent from a part of her she barely knew. Flashes of pleasure merged with heat and that unrelenting pressure. She closed her eyes, shutting him out, shutting herself in. She wanted to . . . wanted to . . .

  Without her mind making a decision, her body moved reflexively, instinctively, pushing back against him. It was only a small movement, but he perceived it.

  “Yes, yes, like that. God, yes.” And he bore down on her. The pressure increased, then increased again into pain. He slid further into her, giving a stifled groan. Suddenly, with a sense of tearing, the pressure was gone, the pain absent. He was deeply, deeply inside her and she felt stretched, full to overflowing; but no longer hurting.

  From behind her closed eyelids a single weak tear leaked out and ran down her cheek.<
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  He was motionless, his breath heavy and fast against her neck. Other than that, and the faint snapping of the fire, there was silence.

  Slowly, imperceptibly, the tension that had filled her body began to dissipate. Her small fingers fluttered against his hard shoulder. He was trembling in fine, light shudders, his skin slippery with sweat as he held his weight off her but their bodies aligned.

  She opened her eyes and narrowed them as she looked up at the ceiling, considering. That was it. She was a maiden no longer. Ruined. Lost to polite society forever.

  Such a small difference, to mean so much.

  And painful, yes. But she had experienced much greater pain than that before. She felt very small, dominated by him, helpless beneath him. But she was not afraid. Not afraid of the man who had brought her such boundless pleasure. Who trembled atop her.

  A very peculiar thing, to have part of a man’s body resting inside her. A thousand men she had passed on the street and never known this could be done with one. Not exactly.

  Was this all, then? All there was to this congress?

  And the other things he had done to her with his mouth and fingers, what of that? Why had he done it? It had pleased her body beyond anything she had ever felt. Is that why he had done it? Was this a kindness done to please her?

  She couldn’t credit it. No man had ever done anything just to please her; except Peter, and he was her brother.

  Could he really have paid a huge sum to get something he wanted from her, and then given her even more? Bizarre. Quite outside her experience. A generosity then.

  She did not want to owe him anything. But he hadn’t asked or demanded more of her. He might still. But she would be gone soon.

  Soon, but not yet.

  And this was the one time in all her life she would lie like this with a man. She had not imagined what a loss that could be until tonight. And her body wanted more of it. She could feel that peculiar . . . hunger; an urge to stretch, to grind against him.

  Experimentally she shifted just a little.

  “Don’t move!” he commanded.