like a woman being pressed against wallpaper. The sounds drifted through the closed door, but the searing hand paid them no heed. Slap, piercing sting; I gasped, my fingers knotting then flexing against the coarse cloth. Slap, slap, and then a long slow throb. Two fingers pinched and twisted a bit of plump flesh high on my arse. The shock ran the length of my body, leaving me trembling. My sex pulsed and tightened. I could feel the moisture seeping. His hot palm and hard fingers burned against the flesh of my thighs; again, quick and sharp.
The image of the wooden rod my tutor used to use flashed on the inside of my closed lids. ‘If you’re going to be brazen enough to demand that you be allowed to study Latin, you should at least put forth an effort,’ the bespectacled young man had barked as he wielded the thin length of wood. There was always the swishing sound and then the biting sting across my thighs. My breasts felt heavy and my nipples felt as though they were piercing the fabric of my bodice. I pressed my lips together, trying to suppress the moans. My fingers snagged between a layer of soft wool and coarser upholstery as I tried to bury my face, but sounds still escaped.
‘It would have been a better fight in 1829. Byrne was in better shape two years ago.’ The voice in the hall was light, playful and very female.
‘What bloodlust! An hour and a quarter of raw knuckles and bruised ribs not enough for you?’ the man’s whiskey-smoked voice again.
‘Shh, remember, I was never there.’ Silence, the rustle of fabric pressed and sliding against the wallpaper, a moan. Long fingers slid down the crevice of my bottom and slipped in, through the wetness that seeped from my sex.
A giggle from the other room. ‘Not here.’ The shuffle of dancing shoes, the light click of heels on the wooden floor before the narrow strip of carpet claimed their sound. I trembled, my stomach pressing into the slightly open V of his lap.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ he whispered, his voice cold like the sting that followed as he raised his hand and let it fall hard and tart against the fleshy rise of my arse. Again, and once more, harder, before he shoved me off his lap and I tumbled in a whirl of lace and taffeta to the carpet at his feet.
‘You’re Ethel’s cousin Jen, are you not?’
I nodded.
‘An unmarried girl of barely twenty.’ His eyebrows were arched and high as he spoke. ‘Are you accustomed to spending time alone with men who are not related?’
I shook my head while surreptitiously rubbing cool fingers over a particularly searing spot on my bottom, but I couldn’t think. I was only aware of my stinging backside, the knowing tingle between my legs and the hard press of my nipples against the crisp corded pleats that ran the length of my bodice.
He stood over me. Tall. Long legs in slim trousers. The brocade of his burgundy waistcoat beckoned me. I wanted to touch the thick swirling thread that made up its intricate design. I wanted to run my finger around the tight swirls and trail it down past the last gold button. It had worked its way free of its hole and shone like a brilliant jewel, a garnish at the bottom of his waistcoat that drew the eye to the two pointed tips of lush brocade. They framed and nearly touched the beginning of the long bulge that lay invitingly just beneath his waist, a plump sausage that trailed down to just inside his thigh. I reached out to touch it.
‘No!’ His voice was soft but firm, his eyes dark.
Someone laughed, a man, deep, throaty, followed by a peal of feminine giggles. The sounds wandered off down the hall.
I withdrew my hand.
He unbuttoned the placket, reached in and tugged until the tip and just a little more of his thickly swollen sex peeked out.
‘Do you want to touch it?’
I nodded, unable to speak as the muscles of my sex trembled and my nipples hardened further, straining against the uneven fabric.
‘Only your mouth,’ he said and held the plum out to me.
Kneeling before him now, I leaned in and licked the purplish helmet. It was slightly salty and very warm. There was a faint savoury smell, musky, like the sea in summer. His hand trembled, but he said nothing. I slipped my mouth over the hot little hood and sucked. I liked the way it felt in my mouth, all warm, round and slick. I sucked harder, making sure that my teeth only skirted the tender skin. He held more out to me and soon I had a good portion of him in my mouth. I gripped one of his thighs with one hand and the edge of a tight round cheek with the other while I sucked at him. I tasted as much of him as I could. My mouth slid up and down the heated skin; my tongue lingering over the notch under the hood and the places where the engorged veins made the skin rise and swell tightly.
He groaned and one of his hands fell to my head, his fingers sifting deeply through the tresses until they were snugly tucked into my curls, holding me in place but giving me enough room to continue sucking the ever-hardening length of him. The tugging way his fingers threaded through my hair reminded me of last summer, of the way Henry had held my head as we knelt near the pond.
Henry and I had grown up together as his father’s estate abutted ours. We had spent the day together saying our goodbyes as he was leaving the following day for the requisite Grand Tour. He and I had always played like boys together, rough and tumble, and he didn’t let up when I began wearing long skirts, although the play had become somewhat amorous on his part.
That afternoon, after some tumbling and much laughter, we had ended up sprawled on the grassy bank. I was flat on my back and his head was lost somewhere under my skirts. I whacked him with my fist to dislodge him, but I’m sure that the many layers of cloth stunted the blow because he continued to forage. His head nudged its way beneath my chemise and his teeth began to graze the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. An odd jolt ran the length of my body. I was so stunned and curious that I stilled, waiting for what might come next.
He continued on his way, licking and nibbling, until he reached my sex, which he began to lave with his tongue. It was an odd sensation, wet and raspy, not unlike the kiss of a big dog. I laughed and whacked him again, but he held my hips and continued. I didn’t like the way his fingers dug into my hips or the afflicted way he was breathing. It sounded as though an ancient asthmatic was tangled beneath my skirts. I shoved him with all my might, kicked out at him and rolled away, leaving him panting a few yards off.
To add to my discomfiture, he had unbuttoned his pants and his manly part protruded from the opening, thin but long and obviously aroused.
‘I need you,’ he panted. ‘I’ll come back for you, I promise. Just let me put it into you for a moment,’ he begged holding it in his right hand.
‘I’ve no desire to marry you, Henry Ledbetter,’ I said with a laugh. He was a fool and obviously thought I was one of his pack.
‘Well, you might at least lick it,’ he grimaced. ‘As I did you.’
I rolled my eyes at him and began to stand.
‘Please,’ he begged. Henry was like that, always coaxing me to try something new, and while it might have resulted in a twisted ankle or having to hide under a heap of soiled hay, it was always interesting. So I’d crawled over to him and examined the offering. It looked relatively clean, rather pink really. I’d leaned in to smell it and in his eagerness he jabbed the knobby point at me, grazing a nostril. It was damp and smelled of heat, boy and, oddly enough, grass. It was not unpleasant so I licked it and found its saltiness appealing. I let the knob slip between my lips and Henry groaned. I liked the smooth round head so I sucked it as I would a lemon drop, savouring
