twice, and then he cried out as he erupted inside my mouth. Stunned, I had fallen back on my bum, as had he.
But this was different. Although his fingers were threaded through my hair, he didn’t hold me stiffly as Henry had. He let me move, suck and taste him freely, only increasing the pressure when he especially liked the way my tongue or lips felt. Only then did he thrust into my mouth, and then it felt right, then I could suck him in earnest. I liked the way its smooth skin rode the roof of my mouth and the way he trembled against my lips. I liked the sounds that he made, husky moans of appreciation.
‘You’ve done this before?’ His voice was deep, throaty, almost hoarse.
I nodded and then shook my head, but did not relinquish the firm morsel between my lips. It hadn’t been like this with Henry so I wasn’t sure whether it counted. I wondered: if I sucked him hard enough, would he erupt as Henry had? Would it taste the same, hot, creamy and somewhat sticky?
His laugh was short and a bit strangled.
‘Have you ever had a man’s cock between your legs?’ he asked, as his fingers slipped through my hair to my scalp, cupping my head as though to hold me more firmly.
That stopped me, the tip of the plum poised just between my lips. It was time to pull back, time to smooth my skirts down and scurry away. Had I been born male, I’d have had all manner of amorous adventures by now, but having been born female I knew and respected my limitations. Well, the most important ones. Although I had admittedly pressed the bar, I knew when to release it. As it stood, I didn’t really know this man or his limits and he didn’t know me. Based on my behaviour thus far, he had every right to believe that I was both experienced and loose – when in fact I’d vowed to save the finale for my marriage bed. Just how far would he press his advances? I couldn’t very well risk crying out and being caught in flagrante delicto. So I sucked at the rounded tip once more, my tongue tracing the moist dimple at its centre before relinquishing it. I could still feel its shape in my mouth as I pressed my forehead into the warm wool of his hard thigh. His hand still in my curls was gentle for a moment and then it fisted around a clump of hair.
‘A tease,’ he said, tugging me up by my head and hair, his palm gradually opening to firmly cup my scalp, directing me until I was on my feet and standing before him. ‘I should show you just what …’ His words were a harsh whisper, but he was buttoning his pants. When he was done, he took me by the arm and yanked me towards a plushly upholstered armchair, where he summarily pushed me head first over its thickly padded arm. Briefly, I flailed about with my arms outstretched and my hands grabbing clumsily at the cushions, struggling to regain my balance, frightened but more than a little curious. Layers of cloth fell heavily over my head as he plucked my skirts from where they had moulded to my bottom and then tossed them out of the way. A brief waft of cool air assailed my bare nether cheeks just as the sting of his hot palm began its assault again. Stunned, my sex twitched, but I squirmed, trying to burrow through the layers of skirt, eager to find light. My bottom burned from the barrage of angry smacks.
‘Un-mar-ried-girls-should-not-play-grown-up-games-with-men.’ A pointed slap accompanied each syllable.
His fingers slid lower, slipping into the wetness that seemed to spill from between my legs and coat my sex. I could feel the heat suffusing my face. Discomfited, I struggled harder to free myself from my skirts, but a hand pressed, then neatly splayed against my waist to hold me in place. Another sting and then his fingers slowed, dipping low, sliding down along the swollen lips of my sex, lingering and exploring its slippery crevices. A finger and then a thumb found a particularly sensitive bit of flesh and began to strum it. Even as I tried to scoot away, he kept coming, finding and teasing the deep wet place until a series of waves like a sustained shiver began to rise from the place where his fingers tarried. I shivered as … tremors and icy tingles rose, just there, and there, wherever he touched, moments of incoherence, tiny knots of delirium … and then a tremulous pulse swooshed, rushing upwards and through my centre. I closed my eyes and tightened my thighs, almost involuntarily, around his fingers as I tried to brace myself. Unable to hold it at bay, I buried my face in the silk upholstery and gripped the chair’s edge, my body twisted and tight as it crashed over and through me, leaving me tingling and without air to breathe.
Still trembling in its aftermath, I managed to struggle up, my head finally emerging from its blanket of skirts. Suddenly, I was tumbling sideways and landing in a sprawl of lace and pink taffeta at his feet again. He took a step away, dodging the delicate fabric as I ended on my backside, my fluff of a dress modestly covering all but a long line of sheer silk-covered legs and daisy-sprigged garters. A smile crossed his lips as he glimpsed the garters; the tips of his fingers met his nose and he inhaled deeply. The familiar bulge at his thigh seemed to lengthen. Just as suddenly, the smile faded and he glared down at me.
He watched me for another moment, and then he took a step backwards, pursed his lips and turned towards the door.
‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ he huffed. He did not look back as he stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed.
* * *
How had I come to be in such a predicament? I told myself that I had come merely to apologise for causing the last bottle of his favourite port to shatter. He’d been so crestfallen when it had crashed to the floor, and he’d been so terribly handsome when his full lips had made that astonished O, a dark lock of hair falling forwards as he glared down at the pool of ruby liquid. He’d looked up from the pieces of broken glass and frowned at me, a scowl that said I had deprived him of his final joy, but he quickly recovered his manners and turned away.
‘That was the last bottle! It cost more than a month of your wages,’ he had shouted rudely at the poor servant, who had immediately fallen to his knees and with a hastily retrieved napkin had begun to dab at the spreading stain on the carpet. ‘I shall take it out of your wages. Better yet, you are dismissed. I’m sure we can find someone who can get a bottle of wine from the cellar to the table without incident.’ The red-faced servant was still on his knees dabbing and carefully placing shards of green glass on a silver tray when his master had stormed out of the room.
I hadn’t wanted him to punish the servant, as the incident had been my fault. Seeking refuge from one of my more ardent suitors, I had stumbled upon the bridegroom as he sought a moment of privacy in a comfortable corner of the library. He was quite striking standing there before the fire, his arm resting on the mantel, his head lowered as though he sought a moment to revive his wits after the rigours of introductions to his prospective in-laws, of dancing with matrons and charming the family patriarch. I had witnessed his charm, his easy laughter, and how it drew others to him. In my haste to flee my wayward thoughts of the brooding gentleman, I had blindly collided with the tray-bearing footman. In order to avoid trampling me, the servant had sacrificed the port.
After assuring the shaken footman that I would placate his master, I’d gone in search of the angry bridegroom. I found the sombre gentleman sipping what appeared to be a whiskey, neat, in the solitude of an unused sitting room.
‘It was my fault, the wine,’ I stammered. ‘You mustn’t punish the footman.’
He took his time assessing me and then he smiled and nodded. ‘Would you care to take his licks?’
My damp hands grappled with the fabric of my skirts. I remembered the first time I’d seen him in Lady Latham’s garden. He’d had the young widow over his lap, her skirts rucked up around her waist, her bright pink bum in the air as his hand rose high and landed hard. I’d come bearing lemon scones, a particular favorite of Grace Latham’s. I wouldn’t say that she and I are friends, but we are neighbours and her conversation can be diverting. She and the bride are contemporaries and it was at one of Grace’s gatherings that the bride and groom were introduced. As I
