by Anne Stuart
“I don’t want to bed you,” he said, but her momentary relief didn’t last long. “I want to fuck you. Hard and long and deep.”
She crossed her arms, her face set in stone. “Of course you do,” she purred. “How silly of me not to recognize your problem. But you’re forgetting one thing. I’m a professional, and my services come at a high cost.”
“How much?” he said abruptly.
This was getting out of control. What had been pain and confusion at his sudden coldness had sharpened into simple rage. She curved her mouth in a mocking smile—it felt strange, unfamiliar—and looked up at him.
“Five . . . thousand . . . pounds.”
It was an absurd amount. Obscene. A decent dowry for an aristocratic bride, the price of a small country home with tenant farms. No man in his right mind would even contemplate such a sum.
But Brandon merely smiled. “I believe the highest sum ever spent for a night of pleasure was registered at a thousand pounds. Are you that good?”
“Make it seven.” Her voice was like steel.
“Done.”
That small, shocking word took her breath away, and when he caught her up in his arms she was too startled to resist as he carried her into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. A moment later she was tossed onto the bed, and stunned, she simply lay there,
The fire was the only light in the warm, cavernous room, and he looked huge, menacing in the shadows. Finally her wits returned. “No,” she said.
“You named a price, I agreed, the bargain is done. Surely you wouldn’t renege on a business deal?” he said silkily.
She stared up at him, and the sudden knowledge hit her with the force of a boulder. He had broken her heart once more. Just when she thought it inviolate, if not extinct, he had managed to get beneath her cool defenses and break her, just like that. She’d been so sure she’d never feel that searing pain again, was incapable of it, and now she lay in his bed feeling shattered. She had no idea whether he was simply ruled by lust or had some inexplicable need to punish her, but she didn’t care.
She could bring an end to all this in a matter of moments. He could climb on top of her, rut and sweat and grunt like all the others, and it would be over. She lifted her eyes to his face. She couldn’t see him well in the darkened room, but she knew there would be no mercy, no tenderness, no emotion whatsoever, and she was ready for the coup de grace. Her face was set like stone. “I await your pleasure, my lord.” She braced herself.
She’d expected he’d rush her. He didn’t move, still lost in the shadows. “Take off your clothes.” His voice was muffled.
She didn’t hesitate. She was paying the price to destroy any last bit of feeling she had for the man, and she sat up in the wide bed, tossing her shawl on the floor. Her nightdress was a thing of beauty, with tucks and lace and tiny pearl buttons, made by the aspiring seamstresses at the Dovecote, and she didn’t want his hands on it. She might never be able to wear it again, but she treasured it, so she slowly lifted her hand and began to unfasten the neckline.
She had learned her lessons well, so long ago. Delay, tease, linger, and by the time she was ready her customer would be so overwrought that it would take but a minute or so of frantic effort and he would spill. She moved her fingers down, taking her time, exposing more and more of her flesh, prepared for him to rush her at any moment.
He didn’t. He didn’t move from his spot in the darkness, though she thought she might have heard a hitch in his breathing. The buttons stopped at her waist, and she paused, hoping she wouldn’t have to go further.
He stayed where he was.
There were buttons on the long sleeves, and she took her time unfastening them, then she paused, waited. Pulling the gown down to her waist, exposing her shoulders and breasts was marginally less humiliating, but she wanted and expected the worst from this encounter. She reached down and caught the hem of her nightdress, yanked it up, lifted her bum to free it and pulled it over her head so that she sat there, completely nude.
And then she remembered that wasn’t how it was done. Gentlemen, for want of a better word, preferred their whores to wear little naughty bits of clothing—useless underwear that did nothing to impede access, bits of fluffy scarves. In fact, she’d usually worn a great deal more than that for the men who wanted the fantasy of debasing their wives, and she couldn’t remember if she’d ever been completely naked.
She could feel the heat suffuse her body. Surely now he would launch himself at her, finish this mockery.
“You’re blushing,” he said softly, and she cursed his night vision, his sudden gentleness. He broke it a moment later, thank God. “I didn’t know whores blushed.”
She could feel the color drain away, until she was cold and hard. “As you can see, you don’t know much.” She sank back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Have at it.”
He laughed, he actually laughed, making no effort to approach her, and she was filled with sudden horror. Had he been playing a game? Was this simply one more way to humiliate her?
She waited, her heart hammering, the silent prayer repeating, over and over again, in her mind. Please go away, please go away, please go away. Tell me you didn’t mean to do this, tell me you aren’t this man.
She didn’t expect her prayers to be answered, and they weren’t. She felt him approach the bed. “All right,” he said, his voice taut and emotionless, and the mattress dipped as he stretched out beside her, his clothed body pressing up against her side. She closed her eyes, wanting to weep. For a moment there was silence, only broken by the sound of their breathing, his heavy, tense, hers shallow. “Do you have any specialties? Are you particularly good with your mouth? Perhaps you like to take it up the. . .”
“Shut up,” she said fiercely, rolling to her side to face him. She needed this done, and quickly. “Unfasten your pants and finish this.”
She was trembling, practically vibrating, but she doubted he’d notice. She reached for his clothes, realizing too late that he’d stripped off his shirt and there was only warm flesh beneath her fingers, the feel of the scars that she had once tended a rough reminder of what was lost forever.
He caught her hands in his larger one, holding her still. “I’m thinking this might be a mistake,” he said evenly.
She wanted to wail, to beat at him. She couldn’t bear it if he suddenly became decent once more. “Surely you wouldn’t renege on a business deal?” she quoted back to him. “Or do you perhaps have performance issues? I suppose there are things that I could do. . .”
A moment later he had rolled her onto her back, and he lay on top of her, between her thighs, the fabric of his breeches rough against her soft skin, his erection pressing against her. He was too damned big. She’d bathed him in the hospital, unperturbed by sick men’s bodies, and he’d seemed no more endowed than the men she’d serviced. That assumption had clearly been wrong.
He cupped her face with his strong hands, and his warm breath touched her face. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“I’m cold.”
“The room is warm, and your nipples are soft. You aren’t cold and you aren’t aroused.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she cried in desperation. “Just get this over with.”
He did the very last thing she expected. He kissed her.
Chapter 21
The woman lying beneath him was terrified. He had no idea how that was possible—there was no doubt at all that she’d spent a number of years running a brothel after spending time working in one. He’d heard the stories of the youngest Madame in England, never guessing they were talking about his beloved Harpy.
And she had been his beloved. Even when’d she abandoned him and disappeared, he’d still loved her, longed for her, until the opium and the brandy had scoured her from his memory. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her when he’d been in Scotland, determined not to waste a moment’s thought on anything that might deter him from his goal, and he hadn�
�t even recognized her when he first met her, apart from that odd sense of familiarity.
He tried to summon his fury, his sense of betrayal that had fired him for the last day, but it had vanished. All that existed was this naked, trembling woman lying beneath him, and he knew what he had to do. Remove himself, cover her, and go back downstairs, leave her to put on her nightgown and retreat to her bedchamber. They could pretend this had never happened, and tomorrow would be the very last time he would see her.
But he was only human. He’d wanted her when his body had barely been clinging to life, he’d wanted her as they’d danced and played around his brother’s moldering old country house. He wanted her now, and there was no way he could do what he ought to do and walk away.
Her mouth was cold beneath his, her lips quivering as she tried to hide her fear. She obviously hadn’t expected to be kissed—most men didn’t bother with it unless they had to, and in a brothel the patron ruled. He wasn’t most men, and he suddenly wanted to taste her, to feel her lips soften beneath his. He wanted what he had before, the hot, roiling heat of desire pulsing between them. He wanted to explore her, seduce her with his kisses, he wanted her shivering to stop and her body to melt against him, and damn, he wanted her pale nipples hard against his bare chest. He brushed his lips softly against hers, feathering them, then touched the tip of his tongue to them, dampening them. She was holding her breath, he realized with belated amusement, and if he didn’t get her to breathe she would pass out and he’d have no choice but to be a decent human being. He was going to hell for this night, and he intended to see it through.
He moved his thumbs against her jaw, pressing lightly, and her mouth opened like the blossom of a snapdragon, and he heard her raw, sudden intake of air. He gave her a moment before he set his mouth against hers again, and he deepened the kiss, using his tongue to gently stroke hers.
She quivered, a different reaction from her panicked shaking. Her head tilted back on the mattress to give him more access.
She tasted like spring flowers and innocence, she tasted like darkness and sin, and he moved against her, needing her, kissing her with slow, deliberate intent. He could tell that she was forgetting her doubts, forgetting her fears and her anger, forgetting that she probably hated this. He moved his mouth away for a moment, nuzzling her neck, giving her time to catch her breath before kissing her again.
He was still holding her hands against the mattress, but he released them, needing to touch her. He slid his fingers down the silky skin between them to cup her breast. When he felt the tip harden in his hand, his cock twitched in reaction. He pressed against her, getting her used to the feel of him, even though he was so hard, so damned packed into his breeches he wondered if he could do himself an injury. He longed to strip down as well, but he knew what would happen. The moment his pants were off he’d be inside her, and she needed to be handled carefully. He’d told her he would make her scream in pleasure, and he was going to do just that if it killed him.
He kissed her again, deeper, and she kissed him back with an absurd lack of expertise. She really didn’t know what she was doing. Kissing had definitely not been part of the services offered, as he expected, but for some reason her tentative clumsiness was more arousing than all the practice in the world. He wanted to keep kissing her, but even more he wanted to taste her skin, and reluctantly he released her, sliding his mouth down, kissing, licking his way down until he came to the small, soft, perfect mound of her breast. He ran his tongue over the pebbled nipple, and her entire body jerked. He licked it again, swirling his tongue around the tip like it was some delicious bit of candy, and then he sank his whole mouth over it, sucking it in, pulling on it, so aroused he thought he might come in his binding breeches.
But damn, he could stay here forever, just sucking at her perfect tit. Her hands had come up to his shoulders, her grip slowly tightening as he sucked at her. Much as he hated to leave the first one her second breast needed attention, and he moved over, putting his hand on the first one to pull and tease at it while he took the other one in.
Oh, his girl liked that, she did. Her fingers were digging in now, and she was making soft, anxious sounds of pleasure that he wanted to drink from her mouth, if only her breasts didn’t taste so wonderful. He wanted to put his mouth between her legs, lick her there, see what reaction he could get when he sucked her clit into his mouth, but he’d never make it through that in one piece. He’d do that the next time, he thought dimly, ignoring the fact that there’d be no next time.
She had strong hands, a surgeon’s hands, ones that could cut through flesh and bone, and he found he liked those strong hands on his body, wanted them on his cock. She slid them down his side, brushing across the scarring that marred him, almost seeming to stroke that rough flesh with especial tenderness before reaching the edge of his breeches, and she was pushing at them, trying to slide them off his hips, clearly in a hurry to get this done.
He was always agreeable to a lady’s wants, and he pulled up, unfastening the buttons, letting his cock spring out with a groan and a sigh. He was finally free, and he wanted nothing more than to bury it again, inside her tight cunt, and pump into her for hours, goddamned hours, until she exploded around him.
That wasn’t going to happen. He was going to go off like a schoolboy unless he concentrated on something else. He tried to think of farming practices and the Scottish parliament, but then she touched his cock, and he was lost, ready to come in her hand.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached between her legs, and she jerked in surprise. He should have gotten her used to his touch again, like dealing with a nervous filly, but he was past the point of rational decision. She was wet, slippery, thank God, for all her fears, and he had to feel inside her. He slid one finger into her, and she squirmed, startled, and then he withdrew and thrust two in, rubbing against her clit as he went, and her sound of need was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard. No latent decency could stop him now—hell, the building could collapse and he’d take her anyway. His need was that bad.
He caught her thighs in his hands and spread them, just enough. He hadn’t said a word to her, and he wasn’t going to—anything would be a lie or a reproach, and he’d been cruel enough already. He needed bliss, he needed forgetfulness, he needed her, and always had.
He caught his randy cock in his hand and brought it to her, rubbing the sensitive head against her dampness, against the folds and creases of her, and she made that soft, strangled noise again that he wanted to echo. This was too much, too good, too important. He looked down at her, and she still seemed faintly terrified, her eyes wide and beseeching, wanting something and not knowing what it was. But he knew. He levered forward and pushed, feeling the tight, clinging warmth surround his cock, closing his eyes at the exquisite pleasure that was better than anything he had ever felt.
He sank into her, slowly, so slowly that it was going to drive him mad, filling her inch by inch. He was bigger than usual and he knew it, she was much tighter than he would have imagined. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t stop, not until he was deep inside her, his bollocks resting against her, his body covering hers. He kissed her again, afraid to move and set off an imminent reaction. He needed her to relax against this invasion, and he put all of his attention to her mouth and his need to lure her into this game, this dance. He wanted participation, not endurance, and the shiver that ran across her body had nothing to do with fear but more with undeniable desire.
He’d wanted to throw himself at her, pump furiously until he was spent, but this was enough to slow him down. He rested his weight on his elbows, cupped her face with his hands and kept kissing her, nipping at her, his mouth dancing across her skin as he began to thrust into her, slowly, with exquisite care, and his own body started to shake with the power of his need.
And she was responding, raising her hips to meet him, growing wetter still, a thin sheen of sweat on her beautiful skin, unexpected desire warring with her resistan
ce. She hadn’t meant to respond like this, probably hadn’t thought she could, but there was no denying that her arms were around him, clinging tightly, and the soft, reluctant moans were urging him onward.
Words began spilling from his mouth then, when he’d been so determined to be silent. “Yes,” and “fuck” and “more” and “yes” as he moved faster, his own body beginning to shake with the power of his overwhelming lust. He couldn’t, wouldn’t say the word “love” but he could push into her, with dirty words whispered in her ear that made her tighten around him. He was fighting a losing battle with self-control, and he wanted to lose it, but she wasn’t quite ready, though he knew from her breathing, from a thousand other physical signs that she was near. “Don’t,” he said, his mind blank, “give it,” he muttered, and the battle was lost. “Now,” he groaned, feeling his seed boil up from his balls and spurt into her, and the last word he spoke, as he pulled free and collapsed beside her, was even worse.
“Harpy,” he said, and fell into an exhausted sleep.
Emma lay still, unmoving beside him in the bed. Her body felt raw, invaded, oddly incomplete, her mind and emotions were a merciful blank. She wouldn’t think about it. She refused to. She would just lie there for another few minutes and let the numbness settle around her.
She had no idea how long she lay like that. It was only when he stirred, muttering something, and reached for her that she made herself move. She scuttled out of his way so fast she ended on the floor, but she fell lightly, and he slept on, oblivious.
She had to haul herself to her feet—her legs felt weak, her heart was pounding, and when she leaned down to pick up her discarded nightgown she almost blacked out. She wasn’t going to think about it. She was going to go up to her room and bathe, that’s what she would do. There was no reason to think.