Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

“Pick up your feet, would you,” I ordered cranky as can be. “Those plates on your soles are distracting.”

  His reply was laughter.

  In my frustration with stubborn buttons, and undoable hooks and eyes, and other general female idiocy, I looked around at him while he unabashedly stood back and gawked, but did nothing to alleviate my struggles.

  I apprised him: “Before, in the anteroom, you cut me out of my clothing with a pocket knife. Drawn from your waistcoat, I believe it was. I know you are at home, and have dressed-down accordingly, but have you no knife at all in this scullery to use?”

  A reach, a grasp, a glinting blade dancing in the air, and he was attacking my new finery, my first time ever wearing the rose gown.

  “You might have used more delicacy, sir. I shall never wear this ensemble again.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too fucking much?”

  Oh, the irony of his statement!

  “Never,” I staunchly replied, twisting about so he could get at my corset lacings in back.

  He drew over a chair – the scratching of wooden legs on the slate floor set my teeth on edge while causing my nipples to peak. I was thinking – yearning, really – for a frontal attack on the elongated tips. Possibly some biting. Most probably a great deal of pinching. An extremely grating torture he had performed on me before and which I found surprisingly agreeable. His harsh form of physicality appealed to me. The whys of this I could not rightly say. I only knew this much: my response went beyond a pale tolerance to a wild craving. And for what?

  For hurt.

  The ragged strips of my gown now littered the floor, encircling my fashionable, albeit low-heeled ankle boots.

  My French seamstress would approve.

  The linen corset cover and the corset itself were next to go. The chemise he left in place. Why?

  He now worked on my lovely new petticoats, all three in various hues of rose, to match my gown. No more virtuous white unmentionables for me! I had insisted on colorful underthings, a harlot’s underthings. And I, a spinster lady of independent income, got them immediately because I could afford a special rush order.

  Upon occasion, having money came in handy.

  I smiled.

  After cutting the ribbon in front, the sharp blade perilously close to my belly, within nicking range of my flesh, he yanked my drawers downward, saying “Back up.”

  Not able to see him in my present positioning, I could only assume he was now ensconced on the chair he had dragged over when he initially started cutting. At any rate, I knew I was between his knees; his legs on either side, his powerful limbs hobbling me, fettering my every movement. Yet I persevered to do as told. Once accomplished, I made to turn round and face him.

  He thwarted me, a slap sharp delivered to my left buttock, chiding my mild attempt at carnal decision making.

  “Did I tell you to swivel, Miss Malone?”

  “Well, no, sir, but I just thought…”

  “You think too much. Do you want this or not?” Taking my hand in his, he brought me ungently back against him, stretching my arm behind me until my spine arched and my knees bent.

  Discomfort. He had outdone himself there.

  Greedy as can be, I touched his heat, my fingers hungrily clenching around the hard shaft, my appetite for his man’s flesh as eager as it was unladylike.

  “My cock.”

  “Yes, I know. We are reasonably well acquainted.”

  “It goes in you this way or not at all.”

  So this was how it would be, eh? From the rear again.

  “Do you have something against viewing my face during physical congress?” I asked acerbically.

  “No.”

  I gathered any explanation beyond a gruff caveman grunt was beyond him. I gathered he was of the opinion that our spiritual bond was so deep, I could read his mind. I gathered he thought, I thought he –

  “You are doing it again. Stop! No thinking. No analyzing.”

  I nodded.

  At least, this time, the light was bright. Not that I could see anything save dirty dishes piled by the sink. Not the kind of ambience I dreamed of, this our second carnal occasion.

  He handled my uncovered hips, his grasp tight. Almost frantic. Nothing romantic about his touch…unless he was a shepherd and I his beloved ewe.

  Was that even possible?

  His need however was romantic. To me. Perhaps not to most ladies, but I found his urgency incredibly compelling.

  Until I realized that even with the single light hanging high from the scullery ceiling, from the rear, I might have been anyone…who happened to have fair hair.

  Not even. My blond hair, my single distinguishing characteristic, was completely covered by my new boater hat. Regardless of the female haberdashery, I still might have been anyone to him.

  “You want no babies of mine?”

  I gather this was a rhetorical question as he gave me no opportunity, time-wise, to answer before saying, “Then my cock goes in from the rear.”

  I panted at his description, my bared breasts heaving, then swinging.

  A slight exaggeration. There was only a mild shifting involved. Hardly noticeable.

  Of late, due to a fit of self-love, I had come to terms with the dimensions of my chest. I no longer cringed in self-depreciation over the subject of bosoms. Still, there was no hiding from the truth…my tits – Good grief! – were pathetically small. Not much to heave there, for all of my reaction to his wildly arousing obscene talk. His frankness burned me up. All over. Even my flat chest was on fire.

  I was just so incredibly excited. This was the moment I had fantasized about in bed at night, the man I remembered from the anteroom at the soiree.

  “Rubbers?” I helpfully suggested. I tried for a worldly-wise attitude, but feared my attempt came off as something else. Bossy, perhaps?

  “You expect me to leave off here, stumble awkwardly up the stairs to my second floor suite of rooms, my erection leading the way, and search them out now?” He took a raspy breath. “Miss Maguire, you have more confidence in my self-regulation than do I. I fear losing my load before ever reaching the front hallway.”

  And though I failed to decipher much of his meaning, his physical discomfort came through loud and clear.

  He hurt. Over me. He might lose his load – whatever that was, but it did sound obscene – over me.

  My carnal delight pressed down on my chest and belly, almost smothering me. My consternation at the unattractiveness of the pose – arse-over was not my best profile – be damned!

  I rounded.

  And he was there, butting between my legs, while my drawers entangled my ankles, an inconvenience I soon discovered upon attempting to loosen myself. Not from him. From my drawers. He was stepping on them! They might very well trip me up at an inopportune moment…when I needed to move my hips, for instance. I remembered it well, that point in the proceedings when I jerked and shuddered and rocked, matching my rhythm to his. Breathtaking.

  Or smothering, dependent on how one saw the throes of death by asphyxiation.

  I would never tell him, but it was so sublime, that maniacal rhythm of ours. We moved like one person, instinctively, as if we had been practicing the dance for years. And I doubted he gave one thought over to the awkwardness of my hips waving in the air – save that the pose best accomplished our mutual goals:

  Contraception and pleasure.

  He was inside me now, deep within my passage, as if he owned the location, and I was but a tenant of the land he plowed.

  “Fucking tight,” he bellowed. “Same as before. Not my imagination after all.”

  “The fit,” I said on shiver of agreement. “Perfect.”

  And that was my last truly lucid statement. There on out, I was a senseless female animal shivering on the pinnacle of mating, my every feeling magnified, my brain utterly turned off.

  * * * *

  Afterwards, my surroundings made themselves known to me in the
tiniest dribs and drabs.

  First, him.

  He was babbling something, something that might have been, “The best. The very fucking best. Ever. Your cries of release still reverberate in my ears,” he said as he rubbed along my spine. “I swear, half my hearing is gone.”

  Drops of perspiration dotted my back. Unconcerned with my breach in etiquette or my unladylike sweat, he straightened me up to a semi-upright stance.

  Before – I floated in a carnal haze, unaware of anything but corporeal sensation. Concern returned with cognizance.

  Ladies never shouted out ungrammatical phraseology, some of which was off-color in nature, as they spiral into nothingness.

  But I just had.

  I thought I had, at any rate.

  Oh, bosh! Who cared? Men never listened to women anyway…

  Reaching upwards, I removed the hatpins jammed into my skull to hold my new hat in place. Now askew, the boater received a toss from me.

  Swish. The hat went sailing across the scullery, landing softly by the broom and dustpan, as my hair loosened from its mooring and toppled in a tangled mess to my hips.

  “Tell me – was it good for you, Miss Malone?”

  Was being out of step with those of the male persuasion forever to my lot in life?

  Now, he was going all sensitive on me? Now when all I wanted was a beast with a cock to pillage and plunder me he thought to make conversation?

  I was having none of it. “Shut up and fuck me.”

  “How about we go upstairs?” he suggested. “My bed is soft and narrow. You get support under your back and I get to keep you snuggled close to me.” He took my hand and applied a gentle urging.

  I was not putting up with his gentlemanly claptrap or his nonsense about snuggling. If I wanted a Teddy Bear, I would buy one. For God’s sake, the man was a criminal.

  “Please?” he added, looking soulfully into my eyes.

  What went on here?

  Conmen do not plead. They do not make cow-eyes. Both were completely inappropriate behavior. I had cast him in a certain role, and he was to follow it.

  Beds were for wedded couples. Or minimally couples with a romantic history. Neither described us. The same as our first time together, we were only an accidental occurrence.

  He practically purred, a kitten, not a lion, “Get some rest in between, you know?”

  No. I did not know. Who needed rest?

  “Very well, sir,” I said with a heavy sigh. “Lead the way.”

  He laughed. “And risk having you escape? If I had eyes at the back of my head, I suppose.”

  “You could always climb the treads backwards…”

  “I think not,” he said jocularly. “And besides, following you, I get a view of your arse. Your buttocks are unspeakably high. And round. Christ. A man could get lost in the lusciousness of their shape.”

  “Is that your way of saying my posterior is abundant?”

  “Yes, thank Christ. Bony arses will turn even a well-intentioned man limp.”

  In that case…

  “I should get my things,” I said, taking a step to gather up my clothing.

  His large hand at my waist, he hauled me back. “Not so fucking fast, Miss Malone. You will have no need for a bustle tonight, not that you do at any time.

  The lion had returned. The purring kitty was not to my liking. I would take the compliment though.

  Much mollified, I went along quietly under his escort, his palm staking the lower regions of my geography, guiding me in the correct direction as his thick fingers roamed.

  He was certainly drawn to my buttocks. Especially their interior depths. While I proceeded up the stairs, his touch never strayed from there.

  “Say you agree to an affair. Say we will see where this takes us, Miss Malone.”

  As his thumb probed me, his fingering directly over the rear inlet, I paused. Not out of squeamishness. Nor out of any strict objection.

  Out of practicality.

  I needed to know what he expected of me, where this affair would take me. I understood, he could be domineering, and I liked that trait in him. And he enjoyed playing bedroom games.

  What else?

  Because it did seem to me that he expected something far removed from the usual, as I knew the usual to be, which was, of course, limited to the conventional, and not even that until just recently. I could not even properly phrase my questions. As he fingered my back inlet, however, I did manage to squeak, “Sir? Whatever happened to the bed, soft and yielding, under my back?”

  “Sodomy,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “No chance of conception that way.”

  Would I never look into his eyes during moments of carnality? Would he never look into my face, kiss my lips, as he penetrated me?

  Sodomy conjured up biblical and legal wrath. Agreeing to sodomy would condemn me in all areas.

  A good way for him to push me away…

  During our time together would he always pull me close even as he forced me from him, as orphans were wont to do, especially when someone crept under their defensive armor and came too close for comfort?

  He moved in on me, naked going up the stairs while he was fully dressed. His cock hard and demanding, and newly released from his trousers, evidently, lanced into my bare buttocks. “Well?”

  Deal making protected him from true intimacy. But what of me? What protected me?

  Sensing my hesitancy, he moved away. “Your choice. We can stop this now.”

  “And Will?” I wheedled.

  “Never doubt my keeping to my end of the agreement. I shall still have that talk with him regardless of what transpires between us. Everything else? Your choice.”

  Oh, God. What a choice.

  Through my charitable work with children, I knew orphans carried the stigma of being unwanted, some even into adulthood. As a consequence of their early privation, some orphans were never able to either receive or give love.

  Of course, that inability need not concern me here. He and I were only temporary.

  For the first time, words failed me with him, and so I merely nodded my head in agreement. Just as well speech failed me. My uncertainty would have given my inexperience away.

  Not his fault. All of this was my fault. He thought me a licentious woman – a wealthy flirt – who had participated in multiple affairs. I had not corrected his thinking.

  He gave me a little push. “Go on. Up you go. To that bed I promised. But first…I need to know something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jailed for a charge of sodomy, I would be no further threat to society.”

  Where on earth had that come from? And what was he getting at?

  I looked over my shoulder at him. “But you told me, you had turned over a new leaf. I believe in giving a man a second chance, sir.”

  “So you say. I ain’t so sure.”

  “You actually think I would go to the police with a charge of sodomy against you, just to get you off the streets?”

  “No. I thought you might be in cahoots with the police. You know, beforehand. That I would plead out of the charge and leave town, to avoid a jail sentence. This place would be rid of me then.”

  At the landing, I turned brazenly to face him. I would at least look into his eyes here. “I am not so unselfish as to sacrifice myself to a cause, sir. I work with orphans out of boredom, not out of any sort of zealous niceness,” I spat. “And you need to work on trust.”

  He took my chin in his big hand, confiscated so I could not refuse him, and settled his mouth on mine, forcing my lips to part as he forced another part of my body, a wet part of my body, to open for him. His tongue slipped inside my mouth as his cock slipped into my natural passage.

  Right there at the top of the staircase, he picked my feet off the floor, my thighs separating around his hips, my bottom shelved atop his arms. As he buried himself in me below, he methodically buried himself in me above, his cock and tongue, delving me simultaneously.

 
The kiss ended, and he was panting, thrusting, as silent tears dropped off my lowered chin onto my naked breasts, the nipples of which were painfully erect.

  “Christ,” he raged, his tempo picking up speed. “All your past lovers were lucky men.”

  He carried me into his room like so, then threw me down on the bed, my limbs going all akimbo until I righted myself and rose to me knees at the edge of the coverlet. “Sodomy is on the table, sir. As in anything else you require of me during my stay here with you. And I am not affiliated with the police or anyone else. The very idea is absurd.”

  He pulled me closer. “Sure about the arse fucking? Because I shall eventually insist. On that and what others consider perversions.”

  “Very sure, sir.” He would keep pushing me away, and I would go – when it was in my own best interests to do so. I was not about to try and save him. I was not that nice.

  His treatment – his demands – did not offend my sensibilities. Neither was I very religious, so, in the end, the sin aspect of those activities he alluded to failed to distress me unduly. As to the illegality of any of the acts…perhaps if I were a public figure, I might worry over the possible threat of arrest. As that was not the case, I doubted the police would waste their time on my carnal exploits. Plus – I had wealth, and so the wherewithal to hire the best lawyers in the land.

  Money talked.

  And so did I. Again. This wild cat had not got my tongue. He had returned speech to me.

  I backed up to the pillow. “I believe we have covered the finer points of our arrangement. Come to bed now, sir.”

  After reclining naked atop the covers, I stretched out my arms to him. “My niceness will not rub off on you from a distance, sir.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The conman retreated. “You need your rest.”

  My arms never wavered. “Come to bed, sir.”

  “I might hurt you.”

  “I might like the hurt. Come to bed, sir.”

  He was still dressed, his expertly-knotted silk cravat straight and unwrinkled. “I am demanding.”

  “Reneging on our deal so soon, sir?” Tsking, I shook my head. “Best try something else. Your present methodology is doomed to fail. I am nothing if not persistent. Some might even call me unreasonably obstinate. Stubborn as a mule has been referenced when speaking of me behind my back. Come to bed.”