by Alyson Chase
“I’ve been known to enjoy a game or two,” she said slowly. “What did you have in mind?”
He circled behind her, enjoying the tension in her shoulders. He liked putting this woman’s barricades up. Would make it that much more satisfying to knock them down. She seemed so sure-footed, and he wanted nothing more than to knock her off balance. She would be most diverting to toy with, but the knot of tension in his chest told him he did have some standards. “Netta, have you ever lain with a man?”
She pressed a hand to her bosom and looked over her shoulder. “What a shocking suggestion,” she said, enunciating each vowel and consonant. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”
She was the kind of woman he wanted to take, period. But he had to know. He wouldn’t be the man to lead an innocent astray. There was a tease in her voice which made him believe she was anything but innocent, but he’d read this woman wrong before.
He prowled in front of her and trailed the knuckle of his finger down her neck. Down until it rested in the hollow between her full breasts. His cock thickened. Fuck, he wanted those dugs. To suck them, bite them, slide his Thomas between their silky depths.
But not if she was untouched. Virgins were a pain in the arse he swore he’d never bother with again.
“You don’t strike me as an innocent miss, but you’ve been known to overplay your hand.” Her skin was so damn soft. He wanted more of it exposed to his fingers, his tongue. “If ever there was a time to be truthful, this is it. Do you wish to go on with our business arrangement as before and forget this conversation? Or do you want to play?”
His heart beat faster. It was silly to be so on edge over a woman’s response. If she turned him down, there were other women to distract himself with. Other games.
But her reply mattered.
She walked her fingers up his chest, the tips tangling in the elaborate knot of his cravat. “What are the rules to this game, pray tell? And what is the reward for winning?”
John all but rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Oh, how he enjoyed this part. Devising an amusement to thrill and titillate a partner was almost as satisfying as sliding inside the woman when the game had ended. Almost.
Usually he liked time to plan, but he was willing to make do. His mind spun. What predicament could he put little Netta Pickle in? He couldn’t do anything with a hint of danger. Those games did require time to plot, and he wouldn’t subject Netta to even the slightest threat of harm. But something that would frustrate her. Make her press her lips together and give him that squinty-eyed look of annoyance he was becoming so fond of.
He’d set it up so she’d fail, of course. He did like to win. But her punishment for losing would be satisfying to both parties.
He picked up the book she’d grumbled so about. “I think this should do it. I want you to make an entire circle about the room without this falling from your head. And no hands,” he added sternly. Netta would be the type of woman who would use any loophole in the rules to her advantage.
She plucked the book from him and plopped it on her head. “Child’s play.”
“I haven’t finished.” He stroked his chin. “At each corner of the room, you will have to remove one article of clothing. If you can do that, without touching the book or letting it fall, you will have your reward.”
“Which is?” The book wavered, and she steadied it with a frown. “The game hasn’t started yet,” she reminded him.
He smothered his grin. Her confidence was endearing. And cock-hardening. Which was a novel combination of reactions for John. “Your reward…” He paused, thinking. He could offer her money; he knew she needed it. But he didn’t want their game to be sullied by commerce. His mind whirred with all that he’d learned of her since her stay. Her sweet tooth had no equal that he’d yet met. “Your reward shall be one of Pierre’s plum cakes delivered here for you every morning.” He bent his head and nudged her cheek with his nose. “Hot from the oven,” he whispered.
“And if I fail?” Her breath tickled his neck.
“If you fail, I get a kiss.”
She pulled back. “That’s it?”
Was that disappointment in her eyes? John hoped so.
“Just a kiss. Your virtue will remain intact.” For now. It pained him to wait. Certain parts of him ached more so than others. But the anticipation always increased the pleasure.
She nodded, and blew out her cheeks as she righted the book. “Starting now?”
He waited until she removed her hands and held them out to her sides. One side of his mouth curled up. There was no chance in hell she’d win. “Starting now.”
She eased her way to the first corner of the room, deftly avoiding an arm chair. John couldn’t help but be impressed. Her step had definite notes of a glide now. She paused and slid her fichu from around her neck. She let it float to the floor.
John found a chair with a good view and settled in. This was damnably good entertainment. If he did lose his ore mines, he could probably recover his fortune by charging men to watch women slowly remove their clothes. He should suggest it to Sutton as a special room in The Black Rose. “The fichu was easy,” he called out. “But what will you choose next?”
The book wobbled, and Netta drew up short, holding her breath.
If there was a next corner.
The book stayed in place, and John didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved that the show would go on.
At the next corner, she toed off one of her slippers, kicking it in his direction, and continued on her way.
John harrumphed. He’d forgotten about her slippers. Those were easy.
“You don’t have to look so disappointed.” She reached the next corner and turned with a military precision. She wiggled her slipper to the end of her toes and took aim. The slipper flew straight at him, and John snagged it from the air before it could clock his head. “When I decide to do something, I do it to win.”
Damn it, she only had one more corner to turn. He twisted on his seat to watch as she sauntered behind him. “Has anyone told you before that you’re too cock-sure? You’ve divested yourself of the easy gets. This next one will be the true test.”
She stood in the final corner and considered. Sinking into a low curtsy, she raised her gown, revealing inch after inch of tantalizing calf.
His breath stalled when her skirts raised over her knee. Her thighs were plump and shapely.
She raised her dress another inch, and his mouth went dry. Her skin looked like the softest silk, and the urge to flip her to her back, press open those creamy thighs, and slide his hands over every inch was almost overwhelming.
She tried unlacing the knot that held her stocking up. The book wobbled and she stilled. Biting down on her lower lip, she next attempted to tug the stocking down underneath the garter. The book slipped, and she tilted her head to keep it centered. Carefully, she straightened.
“Not so easy now, is it.”
She glared at him from the corner of her eye. Reaching around her neck, she worked off the top buttons to her gown.
John leaned forwards, pressing his elbows into his knees. She wouldn’t take off her entire gown, would she?
She lowered her hands to her mid-back, and the shoulders of her gown sagged, the bodice slipping low over her bosom.
She would. John raised his eyebrows. She did have a competitive streak a mile wide. Well, so did he. Her tease could be turned back upon her.
“Do you have someone at home to help you dress, Netta?”
She opened her mouth, swiveling her gaze to him. And froze.
John stroked the toe of her slipper along the ridge of his hard length.
“Uh…” She licked her bottom lip, her eyes following the slipper’s path. “What was the question again?”
He straightened his leg and thanked his tight pantaloons. They gave Netta a nearly unimpeded view of just what she did to him. Of how much was in store for her. “Do you
have someone who takes care of you at home? Someone to peel you from your gown at night? To soap your back, get you clean in all the places you don’t touch.” He exchanged the slipper for his hand, squeezing his aching cock. The image of Netta being attended to by a lady’s maid, in every way a woman should be, just about had him spending in his pants.
Her chest rose and fell, her breath quick. “I have no one to assist me. You know I can’t afford the expense.”
“The row of buttons along your back can’t be easy to undo on your own.” He widened his legs. “Living without a lady’s maid must have made you…flexible.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “You have no idea.” And with a little shimmy, her gown dropped to her hips. She pulled one arm free from its sleeve, and the dress lowered another inch.
He muffled a groan. He was going to lose. Lose to this minx. And although a part of him wanted to see how far she could disrobe in his sitting room with that blasted book on her head, a stronger part of him needed to put his mouth on those breasts that heaved with every breath she took.
He needed to fight fire with fire.
He flicked open one of the buttons of his falls.
Netta froze, her eyes swiveling to track his hands.
Lazily, as though he weren’t dying with need, he thumbed another button free from its hole. His smallclothes, and the pulsing cock beneath, tented the remaining fabric.
She yanked at her other sleeve, pushing the gown down her thighs. The book slid again, but she tilted her head further and stopped its descent.
John reached under the front placket and gripped his Thomas. The chemise she wore ended mid-thigh. Her curvy legs were on full display, the dimples above her knees just begging for his tongue to trace them.
Netta swallowed. The skin above her stays was flushed pink. The tips of her nipples pressed against the cotton. Even with her head cocked at an unnatural angle, she looked provocative. Sensuous. Ripe to be ravished.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. She lifted one foot out of her gown and stepped clear. She raised her other foot, but the gown caught on her toes. She shook it, swirled her ankle in a circle, to no avail.
John was moments away from losing, but he couldn’t help but appreciate how her body jiggled delightfully with each movement.
She brought her knee to her abdomen and reached down, trying to unknot the gown from her foot.
The book slid. Netta corrected, tilting her whole body to try to keep it on her head, and with a shriek, she crashed to the floor.
“Hell!” John leapt to his feet and rushed to her side.
She rolled over onto one elbow and shoved her hair from her face. A very dirty word left her pretty mouth.
John’s shoulders sagged. No one could be truly hurt and look that angry.
He grinned. And, her spill meant he won.
“I’ll take that kiss now.”
She kicked out, but the gown was wrapped around her ankle like a snake and didn’t budge. “Right this moment? With me laying on the ground trussed up like a Christmas goose?” She flailed her leg with no success.
She was half-dressed, breathing heavily, and her eyes glittered with irritation.
His mouth watered. He loved when she was irritated. “Right now.” He pressed on her shoulder, rolling her to her back and rested on his hip beside her.
She shifted her thighs, her chemise settling in the cradle of her quim. A pulse fluttered in her throat. And her breasts…
He trailed the pad of his finger over the lush mounds. Her breasts threatened to spill over the top of her chemise and stays with every breath she took.
She wasn’t a sore loser; he’d give her that. She eagerly accepted the consequences to her loss. Netta parted her mouth and tilted her chin up, ready for her kiss.
John lowered his head. He paused, his mouth hovering inches from hers.
Her eyebrows drew together. “Your kiss?”
He nudged her nose with his own. “Don’t worry. I’ll take my kiss. But I didn’t specify where.” He loosened the strings of her stays with one hand, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. He loved the way she tracked his every movement, looking like she couldn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Loved the way she sucked her lower lip into her mouth when he pushed her stays aside. Adored the slight catch in her breath when he filled his hand with her breast.
He slid down her body, and encircled one stiff nipple with his lips.
He drew on the bud. The chemise between them was a crime. He could only imagine the softness of her skin against his lips, her taste, her heat. But it was necessary. If he was going to stop at just a kiss, he needed every barrier available.
She arched, pressing closer, and he couldn’t restrain his groan. A man could blissfully suffocate between this woman’s breasts. If the last thing he had to touch, to taste, to smell, was Netta, he would die a happy man.
She threaded her fingers in his hair. “Oh, John.” Her whisper was the sweetest music.
He spent more time than he’d intended, but less than he needed at her breast, laving the skin through the wet fabric, learning every contour and curve. He stayed until he knew her reaction to every caress. Found the pressure she liked. Discovered how she couldn’t keep but moan when he scraped his teeth across her hard nipple. He stayed until his weeping cock demanded he either take it further, or let her go.
With a sigh of regret, he pulled back and refastened his pantaloons.
“Wait.” She pressed her palm to her chest. “You’re stopping?”
“Indeed.” Delayed gratification was another game he liked to play at, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. He rolled to his feet and reached for her. “That was the terms of our wager.”
She grabbed his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “But I won’t mind if we extend the terms to something more…agreeable to both parties.”
His cock twitched. Yes, it liked that idea very much. But then the game would be truly over. He and Netta would have satisfied their urges. Maybe fall into bed a couple more times and then tire of each other.
He wanted to drag out his anticipation for as long as possible. Enjoy every drawn-out moment before the inevitable boredom set in. John straightened the knot of his cravat. “I won. I set the terms.”
She shrugged, but he didn’t buy her act. There was no way a woman could be desperate for it one moment and indifferent the next, but he appreciated her efforts. Bending, she swept up her gown and tossed it over her shoulder. The move was decidedly unfeminine yet absolutely beguiling.
“You think I lost?” She sauntered to the door, her hips swaying with each step. She glanced over her shoulder and dropped her gaze to his groin.
His wayward cock strained for her, not listening when he told it to stand down.
“From where I’m standing, I won that round.” She floated from the room, with nary a concern that she wore only a chemise and one stocking. John waited to hear a scandalized shriek from a servant but none came. After all, who would dare shout at a queen.
John staggered to a chair and dropped onto it. Buggering hell, she was right. If this was what winning felt like, he didn’t want to imagine losing to the woman.
It took him several minutes to clear his head. He didn’t want to admit it, but the suspicion wouldn’t go away.
He just might have met his match in Netta Pickle.
Chapter Eleven
John leaned closer to his floor-to-ceiling mirror and frowned. He ripped out the Ballroom knot in his cravat. “Wil!” He glared at the open door to his dressing room. “Wil! Bloody hell, where did he go?”
“I’m right here.” Wilberforce strolled into the bedroom, holding a turquoise-colored waistcoat. “If you hadn’t released yet another valet from service, we wouldn’t be running late.” He draped the waistcoat over one arm and brushed John’s hands aside. “Let me.”
John raised his chin, his shoulder muscles easing. If Wilber
force wouldn’t have quit on the spot, John would have made him his valet long ago. No one tied cravats quite like the man.
“I’d like to arrive at Sudworth’s before he leaves for his evening’s entertainment.” Which was a lie. He’d rather he didn’t go to the man’s home at all, but it needed to be done.
John hadn’t seen Netta yet that day, and he missed her devious smile. She’d stayed in her room for breakfast, no doubt for the sole purpose of provoking him, thinking that her absence would only further stoke his lust.
He sniffed. It wouldn’t work. He was the one who toyed and teased, and he wouldn’t relinquish that role easily. “Has Netta left with Lady Mary yet?”
“Not five minutes ago.” Wilberforce’s jaw hardened, and the next tug at the cravat was a shade firmer than usual.
“Something on your mind?” John asked.
“Just wondering what your intentions are to the girl.” Wilberforce gave one last adjustment to the elaborate knot and stepped back. “She’s not your usual bored widow or experienced mistress. She could get hurt.”
“Netta?” John’s voice dripped with disbelief. “Hurt? If ever there was a woman who knew how to take care of herself, Netta is she.” He hadn’t even tupped the woman yet, and still he received the censure for it. Wasn’t that just the way of life?
Wilberforce held up the waistcoat. “She’s not like the others,” he said quietly.
John slid his arms into the garment and considered. No, she kept him on his toes more than any other woman had. And the more he knew her the less he believed her street urchin act, but he’d let her maintain that deception for a while longer. But he didn’t lie when he said she could take care of herself. She wasn’t a woman to trifle with, and whatever pleasure John was able to take with her was only what she allowed. “You don’t take her measure well.”
Wilberforce button him up and reached for the jacket lying on the bed. “I know she’s had a rough beginning to life. I know she’s vulnerable. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
