Simply Wicked (26 page)

He raised his head, saw that she was watching him and returned to kiss her mouth. Her tight nipples grazed the hair on his chest as she moved in rhythm with him. He pushed his knee between her thighs, pressed it to the intimate flesh he intended to arouse to the point of ecstasy. Soon her sex softened and creamed for him, the damp fabric of her nightdress riding up on his knee.

“Can I take this off you?”

In answer she sat forward, allowed him to pull the volumi-nous garment over her head and toss it to the floor. Even in the dim candlelight, her body looked magnificent, her breasts high, her waist small enough to encompass with his hands, her sex . . .

His throat dried as he contemplated that neat triangle of hair.

Such delights she concealed, such softness and strength, such feminine weapons to make a man scream and beg for release.

He kissed her flat stomach, nuzzled her belly button and 220 /
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moved lower, using the tip of his tongue to lick at her already exposed clit. She didn’t stop him when he crawled between her legs and spread them wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. He kissed her sex again, his lips meeting hers, his tongue spreading them to sample the delights of her wet and welcoming channel.

He drew back to look at her, saw her fierce concentration on what he was doing, the way her hands clutched at the bedclothes, the shallowness of her breathing. Perhaps it was time to push her a little, to discover the extent of her sexual curiosity, to allow her the freedom to express what she needed from him—things he suddenly realized he’d never been allowed to do, his sexual tastes dictated and forced by the demands of others.

“You enjoyed sucking my cock, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” Her voice was so soft, her smile so intimate, that his cock jerked and filled out even more.

“You enjoyed seeing me bound as well, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She licked her lips as his fingers traced a lazy path around her clit, stroking and petting it, making it swell even more.

“It’s a shame you don’t have a cock. I think I’d enjoy tying it up.” He slid one finger inside her and withdrew it, repeated the slow penetration as he talked. “Watching you come against your bindings, watching you beg me to give you release.”

She shuddered as his thumb covered her clit, joined the slow rhythm of his lone finger.

“I’ve seen something you might enjoy though.” He flicked her swollen clit, pinching it between his finger and thumb until she moaned. “Perhaps you’ve already tried it at the pleasure house.”

“Tried what?” She gasped as he added another finger, her body stretching to accommodate him, to draw him deeper.

“A clamp here.” He touched her pussy lips. “Or here.” He SIMPLY WICKED / 221

circled the fingers already working her clit. “I understand that it has a similar effect to the leather straps. It keeps you stimu-lated and aroused. Perhaps we should try that when we next visit the pleasure house. I like the thought of you decorated like that.”

She came hard against his two embedded fingers, grabbed at his arm, dug her nails deep as she cried out. He didn’t stop working her, added a third finger and lengthened the stroke of his movements until the palm of his hand met her pussy with every stroke.

“I’d like to see you come for me like that. Even better, I’d like you to wear the clamps for me all evening so that I could touch them whenever I wanted and drive you wild. I’d make you wait until I had my mouth and fingers on you, make you beg before I’d take them off and fuck you.”

He glanced up at her, saw her eyes were closed, her mouth a tight line as a second climax approached. He drew his fingers out until they were barely inside her, bent his head to suck her clit into his mouth and heard her scream as she came again, her thighs clamping around his head while she bucked against him.

He struggled free and stroked his cock, brought it close to her wet sex and rubbed the crown against her clit.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Her terse response aroused him almost as much as the cream pouring from her sex. He placed his aching cock at the entrance to her channel, pushed in a half inch and held still.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

He smiled down at her. “Touch your breasts for me, make your nipples hard.” Her hands cupped her breasts, her thumbs settling over her rosy nipples. She sighed as she touched herself, making Anthony’s cock twitch and jerk, to demand completion 222 /
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inside her. He wanted to flood her sex with his seed, make her his, show her that no other man would love her the way he did.

Despite his possessive thoughts, or perhaps because of them, a drop of common sense forced its way to the surface of his fevered mind.

“Do I need to pull out?”

“
Non
.” She opened her eyes to stare at him, her hands stilling on her breasts. “Are you making love to me or not?”

Some perverse demon made him continue. “You came prepared to seduce me, then.” He held still, his cock barely inside her. “Did you think it was the only way to persuade me to help you?”

He flinched as she shoved at his chest and rolled away from him in a flurry of bedclothes.

“Yes, of course, that’s exactly what I did. How could you doubt it?” She grabbed the sheet, clutched it to her breasts. “Do you really think that’s all I came for? Do you
really believe
that’s all you are to me?” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, tugged at the sheet until it followed her and wrapped it around her body.

Anthony sighed and stood up too, spreading his hands wide.

“Marguerite, don’t do this, don’t . . .”

“Don’t what? Leave?” She looked magnificent in her rage, hair tumbling down her back, blue eyes flashing, cheeks flushed with arousal. “As I’m only interested in fucking you to get what I want, and I’ve done that, why shouldn’t I leave?”

His temper stirred and rose to meet hers. He blocked her exit, put his hands on her shoulders and made her face him. She made him angrier than any woman he’d ever met, but she wasn’t afraid of him. What the hell could he say to stop her walking out? He took a deep shuddering breath.

“I’m not used to trusting anyone.”

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“So?”

“I’m used to being fucked and forgotten.”

Marguerite continued to stare at Anthony, one hand wedged between them, gripping the sheet, her knuckles jammed against his chest. He took another breath, lowered his head until his forehead rested on the top of her head.

“I’m not used to someone . . . to anyone, wanting to be with me without expecting something in return.”

Now she felt guilty, because in a way, he was right. She’d come into his room quite prepared to do anything to make him help her again, not thinking that he might view her panicked response in a more cynical, yet so vulnerable, light.

“You’re right. I did want something from you.” He stiffened and made as if to step back. She brought her hand around the back of his neck to keep him close. “But it wasn’t just about the sex. I simply wanted to be with you.”

He sighed. “God, I’m sorry. I’m woefully inadequate at this.

I’m used to dealing with men who simply want to fuck me and walk away.”

Marguerite closed her eyes at the bleakness of his tone. How horrible to see making love in terms of being forced, not considered or cared about. It sounded as if he was talking about little more than prostitution.

She pushed at his chest until his head came up, and then stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I don’t really want to leave. Perhaps you can persuade me to stay?”

His arms locked around her, and he deepened the kiss, picked her up until her sex was crushed against the hardness of his shaft and held her there. She squirmed against him, her recently doused passion quickly reignited as his kisses became rougher, his thick cock slippery and wet with pre-cum.

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She wrenched her mouth away from his. “Please, don’t fuck me; make love to me.”

In answer, he backed her up against the wall and slid his cock inside her, began moving hard and fast. She grabbed onto his shoulders, anchored her feet on his hips and held on, allowing him to dictate the pace, the urgency, the frantic drive for completion.

As she climaxed, she hoped he knew that this was nothing to do with commerce and everything to do with emotion. She hoped he knew that she wanted him too so badly . . .

19

For Marguerite, the next morning passed in a daze of polite conversation punctuated by intervals when she forced herself to eat whatever was put in front of her and pretended to listen to the whispered gossip swirling around her. The afternoon progressed so slowly she wanted to scream, and as the conversation centered on Amelia’s pregnancy, Marguerite had nothing to say, nothing to add that might not be misinterpreted as jealousy, sarcasm or both.

To her secret relief, the men had gone out shooting, or some such manly sport. So she didn’t have to contend with Anthony’s concern or the barbed comments of Lord Minshom. She could only hope Anthony had the sense to keep out of Minshom’s way.

“Marguerite?”

She smiled vaguely into Amelia’s irritated face. “I’m sorry, Amelia, did you say something?”

One of the other women sitting in the circle of chairs around the cozy fire in the cluttered drawing room tittered. Marguerite recognized her old tormentor, Amelia’s cousin Drusilla, who 226 /
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was still unmarried and had somehow convinced herself that Marguerite had stolen Justin from under her nose. She was famous for her cutting set-downs and complete lack of humor.

“Mayhap Lady Justin is wondering how to placate Lord Anthony Sokorvsky when he gets back from his shooting ex-pedition.” Drusilla looked down her long nose at Marguerite.

“In my experience, gentlemen do not like it
at all
when a lady shows them up in company.”

Marguerite put down her tea cup and faced Drusilla. “You’re quite right, Drusilla. Men don’t like to be questioned do they?”

She glanced around the avid circle of listeners. “But surely it is our feminine duty to ruffle their self-importance occasionally?”

Two of the married women chuckled. Drusilla’s cheeks reddened, and she glared at Marguerite. “Perhaps
some of us
prefer to behave in a more ladylike fashion, particularly
those of us
who should know better.”

“You are too hard on yourself, Drusilla.” Marguerite smiled sweetly. “Just because you pride yourself on your honesty doesn’t make you a pariah to all men.”

“Indeed! Perhaps I was talking about you, Lady Justin. A woman whose husband is scarcely cold in his grave racketing around with another man.”

Marguerite refused to allow Drusilla’s aggressive tone to in-timidate her. Perhaps it was time to bring her simmering dislike out into the open, to dispel a few rumors once and for all.

“My husband died two years ago. I’m sure he’d want me to be happy again, and I’m hardly ‘racketing around.’ I’m visiting my brother-in-law and his wife for a restful weekend in the countryside.”

“In the company of another man.”

“Who is another invited guest in this house.”

“Not that I wanted either of you here,” Amelia muttered.

“Then why invite us?” Marguerite looked inquiringly at SIMPLY WICKED / 227

Amelia. Would Amelia admit she’d asked Marguerite both on Lord Minshom’s behalf and to expose her affair with Anthony in an unfavorable light to Charles? Marguerite didn’t think Amelia would do either. She hated not to be liked and approved of.

“Amelia invited you because her husband gave her no choice,” Drusilla said. “Although, perhaps having seen the way you treat Lord Anthony, Cousin Charles will speedily revise his good opinion of you.”

“Perhaps he will. But I suspect his good sense will prevail, and he will simply be happy for me.”

Drusilla laughed. “You’re expecting Lord Anthony to pro-pose to you?”

Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”

It was strange: she’d never thought of marrying Anthony, never wanted to be married to anyone ever again. The idea seemed ludicrous. Anthony deserved someone young and innocent and . . .

Marguerite realized Drusilla was speaking again.

“
Why not?
Because, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, Lady Justin, a man doesn’t need to buy the cow when he has already tasted the cream.”

A collective gasp rippled through the other women. Marguerite realized she wanted to laugh. Was Drusilla really so naïve about what men wanted? Perhaps she was. Perhaps Marguerite was the one who was out of step with society. But what was new about that? Her mother had hardly brought her up in a conventional manner.

“What an incredibly coarse comparison. I confess I’m quite shocked.” Marguerite got up and curtsied to the assembled women. “I think I’ll go and lie down and try to pretend you didn’t embarrass yourself by saying that out loud, Drusilla.”

Drusilla opened her mouth, but Marguerite was already mov-228 /
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ing toward the door, head held high. Her mother had taught her never to be ashamed of herself or to explain or defend her actions.

She reached her bedroom and lay back on the cream satin counterpane, stared up at the elaborately decorated ceiling.

Peace surrounded her for the first time that day.

Could she really imagine Anthony married to one of the fresh-faced innocents who made their debut every Season? His sexual tastes were far too complex to be satisfied by a young virgin. Restlessly she kicked her slippers off. But was that quite true? She’d been an innocent when she married Justin, and yet she’d quickly acquiesced to his unusual sexual requests.

But she suspected Anthony’s needs were more complicated than she, or perhaps even he, knew. That didn’t scare her though—

it just made her more determined to find them out. Marguerite’s slight smile died. Anthony had never suggested marriage to her.

He was obviously content with their original bargain to support each other through the Season and to be friends.