Wicked Desires (Wicked Affairs, Book One) (12 page)

A shiver ripped through him. He wanted more.

“On all fours. Now.” She turned away from him, her ass toward his face. He slid from the chair to his knees behind her.

His cock, useless with his wife, sprang to life again. Leaning over her, he cupped her breasts, kneading and squeezing. His penis lay in the sweet crevice that hid all her secrets and commanded his desires.

He placed his large hand between her shoulder blades and urged her downward, giving him better access and better viewing.

His cock pointed the direction. He nudged into her, as she was already prepared and open. When the sensitive head of his cock plowed past the tight sphincter, he surged into her. The tightness was nearly unbearable. He groaned, breath convulsing from his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and weak.

Little ripples of sexual current shot through his cock as her body started contracting around him. This time there was no warning as the intense orgasm swept over him, hot and hard and unforgiving. Still more cum shot into her, even as he believed he had been wrung dry already.

He rolled to the floor gasping, spent, existing in some muted, soft place where only he and this whore and pleasure lived.

When the whore stood and walked to the washbasin, he remembered the real world. The world where he was an adulterer. Where he might have impregnated an unfamiliar woman. Where he was a hypocrite to both his wife and son.

* * * * *

Clarissa knew her husband. One moment he basked in the after pleasure of sex. The next she saw a wave of guilt wash over his expression. He turned his face away from her.

At the basin she washed, splashing water over her body and cleansing the inside of her thighs and between her legs. She carried the basin and a clean towel to him, knelt and washed his groin and cock. He didn’t look at her.

His trousers hung low across his hips, a testament to the quick mating and wild intemperance of their temporary but obsessive liaison.

When they’d been intimate at home, they’d always undressed the other. Slowly. Reverently. Her heart would be racing as his hands stroked every inch of her body and built those fires of passion with love and care and adoration.

Her mistake was so clear now. She had bored him with her soft need and simpering cries. He needed passion, rough and hard. Exciting and different. How had he handled the boredom as long as he had?

She was no different than a tired old pair of boots. Comfortable and cherished, but nothing one bragged about and only used when the weather was bad or there was work to do.

“You can go now,” he said, before rolling away and standing to his feet. “Go,” he said in French, more harshly then he’d spoken to her in the three days they’d been playing their game.

“The night is still young,
monsieur
.” Still on her knees from the washing, she unbound the strips of leather until she was naked except for the armbands and mask. He’d stared, mesmerized and irritated, but did nothing to stop her.

Her fingertips grazed his and then slid up his lithe, muscular arm. Michael had grown more handsome over the years.

“I think I could fuck you again.
Madame
will not mind. Nor, I think, will you.”

He lifted her to her feet. Clarissa helped him discard his trousers and led him to the bed. With a slight shove to his chest, she forced him to sit down on the bed. His cautious gaze remained firmly fixed on her and her breasts.

“Lie down,
monsieur
. You look tired, no?”

When’d he stretched out, Clarissa climbed on top of him, settling her wet cunt over the erection that had started to bloom, albeit with a little less vigor. Rocking against him, she felt the sudden rise of his cock and went at her task with more enthusiasm. His hands gripped her hips.

“
Chérie
, you should be canonized. You’ve brought life to the dead.”

Clarissa smiled while lowering herself on his fully erect shaft. She squirmed, fitting him deep inside.

“And now, you must return the favor with
le petite mort, s’il vous plait
?”

She braced her hands against his solid chest, squeezed the muscles of her vagina and lifted, drawing an open-mouthed groan from her husband.

“
Merde! Oh, merde!
”

She’d learned the trick early in their marriage. He’d said it was exquisite and she got an identical reaction every time she used the technique. It was exhausting work, her thighs burned after several minutes. But it was well worth the tortured expression and tense muscles of the man beneath her. And invariably, she would have intense climaxes as a result.

She rode him hard, until she gasped for breath and Michael nearly came out of his skin. He dug his fingers into her ass. His jaw clenched and a fine sheen of sweet covered his chest.

Strong waves of pleasure built. She stuffed herself full of his cock and clamped down in one long squeeze that sent her soaring. Michael bucked underneath her, trying to get deeper inside her. His groan corresponded to the hot rush of semen that brushed against her womb.

Clarissa collapsed against his chest, gasping for air. Had she been able to open her eyes, she doubted she could have seen. And at the moment, she didn’t think even one muscle in her body would help her get off her husband’s chest.

She could sleep until morning. But when she heard the long-familiar sound of his slumber, she forced herself from his body and departed the room. She would be waiting at home, compliant and submissive until she could find a way to bring him home for good.

The idea of dutiful wife wasn’t nearly as much fun as that of illicit lover.

Yet somehow, she’d find a way to make the two into one.

* * * * *

Clarissa found him in the study late the next morning, combing through the newspaper as was his habit. Several ledgers were stacked to the side, one open with a long list of numbers running down a column, all in his neat script.

She busied herself pretending to look for something to read.

“Anne told me the strangest thing yesterday.”

“Hmm. What was that?”

“You would hardly believe it if I told you.”

He grunted, his way of saying he’d heard without really hearing her. He did that a lot when she had some frivolous nonsense to tell him. And a week later, he’d repeat the same gossip with an
I don’t know where I heard it but…

She smiled anyway. At least he was here. She walked behind him and plucked a book from the library shelf, feigning interest as she flipped through the pages.

“Hard to fathom, but she says some men like to tie their women up when they have intercourse.”

His shoulders tensed and she heard the paper rustle.

“Hmm.”

“I know. I could hardly believe it. Do you think it’s true?”

She could see the tips of his ears. They were bright red. He was listening. She dropped a hand to his shoulder and caressed his neck with one finger.

“You know Anne. Always something to shock the unsuspecting listener,” he said.

“Oh, she swears it’s true. Evidently, Randall has been around women who—”

His glance over his shoulder interrupted her. The furrow on his brow would have quelled less important conversations. “Clarissa, I really think it would be wise if you disassociate yourself from Anne VanLandingham and her husband. They’re not the sort of company a countess should keep.”

“Yes, I suppose I should cut her now, just before she becomes a duchess.”

“That’s not the point. She’s common. Who would discuss such things with a lady? And since their marriage, Foxley has all but ignored his familial duties. She’s bad for him.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. She’s a least willing to talk about it. Where else could one learn about such things? A whorehouse?”

She had to hand it to Michael, he didn’t even flinch at her words. A bad sign, she thought. Maybe he accepted that visiting a prostitute was his only option for sexual happiness.

“What exactly did William tell you?” he asked.

“William? What does he have to do with this conversation?” She closed the book and sat on the edge of his desk, her skirts brushing his thigh.

“You spoke to him, I presume?”

“Yes, but—”

“Yesterday, he asked me to take him to a whorehouse.”

That disturbed her. She bit back a frosted reply. “What? He told me no such thing. And what did you tell him?”

“I told him no, of course.” He’d clasped her fingers and was playing with them.

“Will he listen?”

“Clarissa, he’s sixteen now.”

“He’s a boy.”

“To us. We can’t keep him from the siren call of manhood. It will happen, though he assures me nothing has yet. He’s a good boy. He’ll make the right decisions.”

She was usually the one defending the boys while Michael claimed they were immature and would never grow up.

“But a whorehouse? It seems so sordid. All those naked women and who knows what kind of diseases, when if men would just ask their wives for what they want—”

“Wives do not provide those kinds of services.”

“I wonder if Anne has ever been to such a place?”

“Clarissa!”

“Oh, Michael, don’t be such a prude. All I’m saying is that perhaps a woman could learn something by going to one.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open. “A whorehouse is no place for a lady.”

“As you say.”

He kissed the palm of her hand. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

“All right. I’ll leave you in peace.” She swept toward the door. “Anne invited me to go shopping. She says Randall wants her to buy something in leather. A new pair of boots, I should imagine. Oh, and then we’re going to a shop that sells toys.” She stopped and faced him. He stared back with a frown marring his face and his brow wrinkled in consternation. “Though I don’t know why. Her niece is full grown and Randall’s nephews are all in Italy until fall. Oh, and I need some new nightclothes. I’m thinking something in red. I’ve been wearing white so long. It’s not like I’m a virgin any longer. What do you think?”

Michael’s head lowered and he pretended to be busy at his ledger. His ears were flaming red again. “Whatever you wish.”

“I’ll wear it for you tonight after we get home from the Hornings’ ball.”

“Clarissa? Would you reconsider returning to York? We can travel with William. As a family.”

“Can you give me some time to think about it?”

He nodded and returned to his laborious task. Clarissa wasn’t leaving London until she had her husband desperately interested in his wife and firmly lodged in her bed.

Chapter Seven

Michael took the stairs to Madame DuPuis’ second-floor room two at a time, anxious for a night of uninhibited passion.

They’d spent a late evening at the Hornings’ ball. He’d left Clarissa at her bedroom door and gone to the library for a drink before he left again, allowing her enough time to settle into slumber.

He’d instructed Madame DuPuis to have his whore tied to the bed and waiting.

He’d asked for red.

As he’d danced with his wife tonight, he’d had several thoughts of Clarissa in red, her bottom poised for penetration and her hands bound while he brought her to a screaming climax. He’d been uncomfortable in his breeches all day, but controlled the sensation in anticipation of tonight’s pleasures. Still, to see his sweet Clarissa in the throes of that kind of passion.

With him plumbing her depths from behind.

Inside the room, he heard a scuffle. When he opened the door, he heard the frantic French words of his whore. “No,
monsieur
, you have the wrong room.”

Standing, braced with ties between the bedposts, she struggled against her bonds. Another man stood behind her, groping at her tits. She heard the door open and pleaded. “Please,
monsieur
, he will hurt me.”

The lecher turned to look at Michael. “She’s my whore. Get your own.” Ambrose Jenison. Michael knew him by name, knew him for the drunken sot he was.

“Jenison, get your hands off her.” The stench of alcohol reached Michael’s nostrils.

“Eh, Dunnaway. You’ve your own bitch at home. Whatta you need two of them for?” He buried his face into the girl’s neck.

Burning desire—not passion, but murderous intent—slashed through Michael. In three long strides, he’d reached the interloper and grabbed his jacket. Spinning him around, he threw one hard punch and knocked him to his knees.

“Get out, you filthy swine.” Michael grabbed at Jenison’s collar again, hoisted him up and threw him forward. He slammed into the wall with a grunt. Michael opened the door and shoved him into the hallway.

Madame DuPuis had heard the commotion and brushed past Michael. He hoisted Jenison to his feet and shoved him on his way to the stairwell. He watched as the intruder stumbled drunkenly down the stairs.

When he returned to the room, he saw Madame DuPuis whisper to the girl. He noticed the whore’s affirmative nod before the madam left the room.