Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (17 page)

"Penelope would pitch a fit." "I'm sure she would, but she'd learn a valuable lesson, too."

"That being?"

"She's quite out of control. We could teach her who's in charge."

"Yes, darling," she cooed, "let's do it. When would you like to proceed?"

"How about Saturday night?"

Saturday! Three nights away! She had to take action— and fast!

Could she have Jordan married to Penelope in three days? She didn't know, but if there was any way in hell it could be accomplished that quickly, she was the person who could organize it.

"Saturday should work," she coolly replied.

"I'll want to start early and go at it till dawn."

"What fun it will be."

"Thank you, my dearest Lavinia."

As he used an endearment for the first time, as he kissed her tenderly, passionately, Lavinia soared with elation.

"You're welcome, Charles."

"You're the woman for me."

"I am, Charles. I am."

"You know just what I want. You know just how to please me. I'm very grateful."

"I'm ecstatic to hear it." Lavinia swelled with pride. Finally—finally!—she was making progress.

"I'm so excited by our plan," he said, "that I can't wait. I have to have you again."

Before she could revel in her triumph, or steer the discussion to their pending union, he was rolling her onto her stomach.

"I'm going to sodomize you," he explained, his finger already in her ass, the tip of his cock not far behind. "I need a really tight hole, so I can shut my eyes and pretend it's Penelope's virginal puss."

He entered her, giving her an inch, then another, and she buried her face in the pillow to hide her agony. She'd never previously allowed such a hideous thing to

be done to her, though Horatio had occasionally tried and been soundly rebuffed, so she hadn't understood how much it would hurt.

After he was fully impaled, he gripped her hips and thrust—slowly but deeply—and she prayed that he would end more swiftly than he did when he was fucking her in the mouth.

Penelope would pay for this! She would pay for every bloody humiliation, and if it took the rest of Lavinia's life, she would extract a suitable compensation.

Chapter Thirteen

I just received a letter from your housekeeper in Chelsea," Jordan announced. "Why would she write to you?" Charles inquired. "She thought I could apprise her of your whereabouts." "Why would she be looking for me?" Jordan glared at his father. "The liquidation of the property is finished. The house is sold, and the new owner is coming next week. The staff is packing to leave. She's asking what to do with the boys." "What boys?"

"Your ten-year-old sons, Johnny and Tim! You recall Johnny and Tim, don't you?"

"Well, of course I do. Don't be smart." "What should I tell her?"

Charles walked to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy, which he made a great show of drinking. 'Tell her whatever you'd like."

"Shall I have her send them here?"

"For God's sake, no!"

"What should I say, then?"

"You're an expert at handling delicate situations. You figure it out, then let me know the details."

Lavinia chose that moment to saunter in, and she proceeded directly to Charles and snuggled herself into his arms—unconcerned that Jordan was observing. They cooed like a pair of lovebirds, and Jordan wanted to gag.

He wouldn't discuss the fiasco in front of Lavinia, so he stormed out and raced to his room, where he tarried, steadying his breathing and trying to concentrate. His fury was so potent that he could taste it. He was desperate to be left alone, and he detested being burdened with Charles's problems.

Johnny and Tim didn't deserve the adversity that had landed on them simply because they were Charles's sons. They needed attention and security and a safe haven where they could laugh and play.

Why did he have to be the one to give it to them?

He yearned to lash out at somebody, but who? The person to blame was Charles, but as Jordan had learned after many years of trying, it was impossible to make his father feel guilty about anything.

He went to the window and gazed out at the night sky, contemplating the hoard of Charles's forgotten and discarded children. Jordan scarcely knew Johnny and Tim, but he sagged under the weight of his anxiety for their future. He wondered if they were afraid, if they were hungry or being mistreated.

Were they hoping Charles was worried about them? Were they staring down the lane at each passing horseback rider and carriage, expecting a message to arrive, that Charles had finally made arrangements, that he'd remembered they needed him?

He could see stars, and he shut his eyes and uttered a foolish wish—for happiness. That's all he'd ever really wanted, but it had always been so bloody difficult to attain. With his plans to marry Penelope, he had to face the fact that not only would he never be happy; he'd never even achieve the smallest amount of contentment.

From now on, there would only be duty and responsibility and a good deal of misery besides.

Charles was about to make a move for Penelope, so Jordan had to forge ahead and propose. He couldn't continue to dawdle, putting off a decision, as he flirted with Margaret Gray. No matter how he might pine for a different ending, he couldn't marry her.

Disaster loomed, and he had to inform Lavinia that he was ready; then he had to wed Penelope as fast as he could. Yet instead, he was fumbling around like a blind man and praying for a miracle.

He whirled away from the window, poured himself a brandy, and gulped it down. He poured another and gulped that, too. The quiet closed in on him, till he felt as if he were the last man on earth and about to fall off the edge. He couldn't bear it, so he tiptoed to the hall and sneaked out, his feet carrying him in the precise direction he shouldn't go.

A wild, reckless energy was gushing through him, one that was so powerful and so pervasive that it scared him. With how crazed he was, he might do anything, without regret or limit, and for once, he didn't care.

He approached Margaret's door and entered without knocking. It was nearing midnight, but she wasn't in her bed, and he frowned until he heard her in the adjacent chamber, in what had been their shared dressing room. He could smell warm water and realized that she was washing, perhaps even taking a bath, and at the notion that he might have stumbled on her all naked and slippery, his cock stirred.

He walked over, and as he appeared in the threshold, she was lounging in the hip bath and sipping on a glass of wine. She cast him a glance that was shrewd and wise, and he was swamped by the uncanny perception that she'd known he was coming—when he hadn't known himself.

"Hello, Jordan."

"Hello."

"I didn't think you'd ever arrive."

"I wasn't going to."

"What made you change your mind?"

He shrugged. He wasn't about to confide how wretched he was, or that he intended to reach out and grab for what he craved, before circumstances guaranteed that he never could again.

"I want to have you," he said, "in a sexual way. As a man does with his wife."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

"You constantly say that, but you never mean it."

"This time, I do."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What about Penelope?" "What about her?" he crudely shot back. "Will you marry her when we're through?" "Yes, Margaret. There can't be any other ending." She nodded. "I just need to be sure we're both very clear."

"I have been from the start."

"Yes, you have." She assessed him as if she could see inside to the tempest that raged. "You're upset. What happened?"

"Nothing happened," he claimed. "I'm simply tired of never getting what I want." "And you want me?" "For now. For tonight."

"Then I am yours. For now. For tonight. I make no promises for the morrow." "Neither do I."

She stood, unashamed of her nudity, the water sluicing down her torso as she stepped out of the tub and onto the floor. His torrid gaze wandered down, taking in her perfect breasts, the tuck of her waist, the curve of her hips, and he suffered such a wave of desire that his knees nearly buckled.

He strode to her and swept her into his arms, her damp body pressed to his all the way down.

"Have you any idea," he told her, "how badly I want you, how badly I've always wanted you?"

'Tell me," she replied, her mouth finding his for a sizzling kiss. "Tell me how much."

Her hands were on his trousers, fussing with the buttons, and within seconds, her fist was wrapped around his cock. As she stroked him, he hissed with a frustration created by weeks of restraint.

Gripping her thighs, he lifted her, forcing her back to the wall, her legs circling his waist. His phallus throbbed with need, his discipline shattered. Being much too rough, he dipped down and bit her nipple, not caring if he hurt her, or if she was afraid. He was beyond the point where he could trifle and tease.

"I'm going to fuck you," he coarsely said. "I'm going to fuck you so hard."

"What does that mean? That word? I don't know what it means."

"Yes, you do. You know!"

He slipped his fingers between their bodies, and he pushed them into her. She squirmed and strove to escape the brutal treatment, but he wasn't about to release her. Not until he'd sated the rampaging beast that was demanding to be let loose.

Still holding her, he spun away from the wall, and he took her to her bedchamber, to her bed, and he laid her down, then came down on top of her. He stretched out, crushing her with his weight, and he started in on her breasts again, sucking and playing, until her hips began to thrust in a rhythm with his own.

He blazed a trail down her stomach, to her center, and he pried her thighs apart and delved inside. The tang of her sex was an aphrodisiac that lured him to his doom. He had to be naked, had to have his bare skin gliding across hers, and he rose up on his knees and yanked at his shirt, desperate to tug it off, but lust had him so disordered that he couldn't remove it.

She rose, too, and she struggled with the buttons, but she was even more impatient than he, and when she couldn't free them fast enough, she seized the fabric and ripped the garment in half.

She jerked at his pants, his shoes and stockings, both of them fighting to have them off as swiftly as possible. Finally, she drew him down to her, sparks cracking as flesh connected with flesh.

"If you stop now," she warned, "I'll have to kill you."

"I won't stop. Not even if you beg."

"Don't toy with me, Jordan."

"I'm not."

"If you don't follow through to the end, you're a dead man."

From her virulent expression, he was fairly certain she wasn't joking. They'd reached this spot, or one very close to it, several times, but he'd refused to proceed. An odd chivalry kept making him cautious, but he was worn down by his vacillation. He couldn't bear to harm her, yet he could no longer delay or demur. He could only carry on.

The passion had continued to simmer and was easily heated to a full boil. He plundered her mouth, as he caressed her everywhere. She was moaning, writhing in agony, and as his fingers slithered down, as he slid them into her, she came in an instant.

She arched up and cried out, and he kissed her again, swallowing the sound of her joy. As it concluded, he was over her, his phallus positioned exactly where it needed to be.

"Finish it, Jordan," she demanded.

"I intend to."

"Don't leave me like this."

"I won't." He smiled, his heart swelling with indescribable emotion. "I'm so glad I'm to be your first." "Yes ... yes ... now get on with it!" "I want you to always remember that it was me." "I will."

"Swear it! Swear to me that you'll never forget." "I never could."

He had a vision of another man making love to her someday in the future. He would be the man she needed, the man who could love her, and Jordan shoved away the disturbing image.

"No regrets," he murmured.

"None."

"I couldn't stand it if you were sorry after we're through." "I won't be."

He pulled her thighs even wider; then he took his cock and inserted the blunt crown.

"You're so tight," he muttered through clenched teeth. "This doesn't feel right." "It will."

He pressed forward, easing in, and she wriggled with the initial stirrings of virginal alarm.

"You're too big," she insisted. "You'll never fit."

He'd planned to go slow, to prepare her for the awkwardness of joining, but an animalistic urge was sweeping him away, and he couldn't desist. Quaking with restraint, he clutched her flanks and forged on, coming up against her maidenhead, her female anatomy blocking his way.

She struggled in earnest. "Jordan, wait!"

"No."

"You're scaring me."