Her Husband's Harlot (4 page)

Lucy's
words seemed to stir Brookeston into a frenzy. His hips slapped against her
thighs with greater urgency. His words emerged in gasps. "God, St. John, the wench is so hot, I am going to ..."

"Control
yourself, man." With an idle shove, St. John unbalanced Brookeston. The
latter landed on his rear with a grunt of surprise. His sex vibrated like a
flagpole in the air.

"What
did you do that for?" Brookeston demanded angrily.

"My
turn," St. John replied blithely as he took his friend's place between the
woman's legs. "You never could hold your liquor or your stamina."

At
Brookeston's indignant sputter, Lucy intervened with a saucy smile. "Gentlemen,
may I suggest that there is room enough for all? Lord Brookeston, if you would be
so kind as to come to the head of the table?" So saying, she rolled over languidly
so that she was on her hands and knees. She cast a come-hither look over the
shoulder.

Brookeston
complied with ungainly haste. He groaned aloud as Lucy took his erection between
her lips. At the same time, St. John began to pump into her from behind. With
each grunt of pleasure, he drove Lucy forward, impaling her mouth further upon
his friend's cock. Lucy's eyes rolled back in her head, her face wild as she
moved to the erotic rhythm of two lovers.

Moonlight
shifted behind the curtain. Nicholas looked at his masked conspirator, whose
face now played with shadows. She was, he noticed, of similar build to Helena. Curvy, with a nipped-in middle and a sinfully rounded backside. The firm, rounded
tops of her breasts seemed to quiver, and in his mind he saw those tits bobbing
rhythmically with each ferocious thrust of his cock. He felt his control slipping
as he imagined the fiery nymph under him, pleading for his rod with words as
hot as the ones that echoed through the room. Inflamed beyond bearing, Nicholas
closed his hands around the woman's waist and turned her to face him.

The nymph's
eyes widened and, for a brief moment, Nicholas had the humiliating thought that
she, too, would reject his advances. But, no, with a silent sigh her eyes
closed, and her lips parted in acquiescence. Slowly, carefully so as to not
disturb the curtain, Nicholas pulled her closer. With a feeling of elation, he
tested the lushness of that bottom lip with his finger, caressing that soft, plump
ledge. He traced the outline of her mouth, his cock throbbing at the thought of
tasting those lips, of plundering her sweetness with his tongue.

But
he would not. He had vowed this to himself, to keep that one act sacred to his
marriage. He would pour his love, the light of his soul, into his chaste kisses
with Helena and pray that she might keep them in safety. Even as guilt and
self-loathing burned in his gut, he knew this night there was no turning back. His
demons had been roused; they clamored for satisfaction, for the satiation of their
voracious appetites.

Ah,
my love. Forgive me.

Nicholas
stroked the woman's lower lip, requesting entrance. His nostrils flared as the
tip of her tongue appeared and flicked against the pad of his finger. Licking
him slowly, delicately, as if he was a sweet. He pushed his finger in deeper.
Again, her eyes widened. Lord, but that act of innocence inflamed him. He
thrust the full length of his finger into her mouth, stifling a groan as her
cheeks hollowed on instinct, sucking him into her moist depths. Nicholas gave
an inward groan, his erection straining painfully against the placket of his
trousers. Would the damned threesome never stop fucking?

As if
in answer, guttural male groans spilled into the room, followed by high keening
female cries. Moments later, he heard a few giggles, the clink of guineas
exchanging hands, and then—about bloody time—the opening and closing of the
door. Nicholas' eyes roamed over the masked vixen in his arms. She appeared
wantonly oblivious to anything at the moment, her eyes half-closed, her generous
breasts rising and falling in rapid rhythm. Some of the paint had smeared around
the edge of her lips; he found that imperfection strangely erotic.

Lust
bolted through him. With a swift movement, he jerked her into his arms and
yanked aside the curtain. Before she had time to make a sound, he laid her on
the nearest available surface, the desk. She was spread like a feast, and he
felt like a survivor of an endless famine. She made a movement as if to
protest. He merely ran his hands over the tiny sleeves of her loose white
tunic, pulling them down, imprisoning her shapely arms. Her bodice had no
choice but to follow the sleeves, the edge of satin rubbing over creamy mounds
before exposing plump nipples. Ripe as berries they were, puckered sweetly atop
full flawless tits. He filled his hands with the abundance, and the blood
roared in his head when she moaned.

His
fingers found her nipples, thrummed the buds until her moans became breathy,
desperate. God, but she was an inferno. He had a mind to taste her fire before
he went up in flames himself. He yanked up her skirt. Arousal blasted through
him to find no impeding undergarments save a thin chemise. He slid the hem of
the chemise up further, past her luscious stocking-clad legs, past the frilled
garters, all the way up. At the top of all that delight, he found even more of
heaven—downy soft curls, a shy pussy. He ran his finger reverently down her
slit, found it plump and moist and slippery with wanting.

She
gave a muffled shriek.

He
placed his hand over her mouth, noticing how bronzed his hand appeared against
her lily white softness. For a doxy, she had the skin of a lady. "Shh,
sweet, unless you wish to invite others to our party. You would not want that,
would you?"

Her
eyes grew huge. She shook her head.

"Good."
Satisfaction humming in his veins, Nicholas slid his hand lower, holding her
gently at the throat. "I am not a man to share."

With
his other hand, he unbuttoned his pantaloons. His turgid flesh sprang free,
curving upward in triumphant freedom. He brought the bulging tip to the mouth
of her sex, tormenting them both by rubbing the sensitive head against her damp
curls. Up and down he stroked, nudging her hidden peak with the head of his
cock. She gasped, her eyes closing.

"Look
at me." Gently, he pressed down on her throat. "Tell me you want me."

Her
eyes flew open. He nearly spilled his seed at her expression, the oh-so
seemingly innocent sweep of long eyelashes, the surely feigned shock widening
her eyes. One would almost believe that beneath that exotic feathered mask one
would find the blushing fresh cheeks of a debutante.

Yes,
he had found himself a veritable actress. The perfect harlot, one who could not
only satisfy his rod, but also fulfill his darkest innermost desire: to
transform innocence into wanton passion. To turn a lady—his lady—into a sweet,
uninhibited slut.

"Tell
me then, my sweet, what is it that you want?"

His
vixen moaned, arching her hips against his erection, instinctively seeking
hardness to rub against her softness. Her desire left the head of his shaft slippery,
quivering for entry into the moist paradise. Nicholas withdrew, his expression stern.
"A well-bred miss such as yourself surely knows to answer a question when
asked. Answer me, or we shall cease."

She looked at him, eyes huge. When she spoke, her
words were soft, husky, and wholly unexpected. "
Monsieur, s'il vous plaît.
Je ne comprends pas
..."

She
was French then, likely newly arrived in England. He found her accent
entrancing and oddly familiar, which did not make any sense as he did not know
any French women. Then she shifted against him again, pleading with his cock,
coating it in intoxicating wetness. Though he knew only rudimentary French, the
language of lust was universal. He responded with a deliberate thrust forward, allowing
the distended tip to nudge past her lush lips.

"
Mademoiselle
,
is this what you want?" He moved in a little deeper, feeling her passage
clench before slowly giving way to him. She was surprisingly tight. He could
feel the rim of her stretching to accommodate his erection. He would not be
able to continue with this game much longer.

To
his relief, she nodded, as if in understanding.

"'Tis
my cock you're wanting then. My cock in your sweet pussy." He spoke the
words as a tutor would to an apt pupil. He thrust in deeper, slowly stretching
her, feeling his chest swell with her cries of pleasure. He sank himself further
into her molten depths. "Ask for it, sweeting. More of my cock."

"Cock,"
she echoed in breathy accents, her head moving side to side as he rewarded her
with another inch of his rod. "
S'il vous plaît, monsieur
... more
... cock!"

With
a hoarse groan, he filled his hands with the full curves of her ass,
luxuriating in its womanly softness. He lifted her hips and slammed his length
all the way into her. She was instant fire, pure flame wrapping along his shaft
as he moved within her. She moaned, arching off the table to receive his
thrusts. Seeking leverage, he gripped the edge of the desk as he worked himself
deeper and deeper, fucking to the heart of her pussy. Crazed with lust, he
pounded into her as she chanted wantonly, "
J'adore le
cock,
monsieur
,
ohhhh ... more ..."

The
overwhelming desire blurred the edges of his vision and tore deep growls from
his throat. Even as he ground into her tight passage, her entire body arched to
receive him, wanting more. Her lips released words in French that he did not
understand, yet the pleading tone of the silky syllables had him thrusting
harder, deeper. As he'd imagined, her full tits swayed gorgeously with each
thrust, her nipples engorged and begging for attention. He leaned down and
captured a tip in his mouth. He suckled in rhythm with his pistoning cock.

That
was all it took. She shrieked—there was no other word for it—a high, almost
startled sound that poured like a balm over his chafed soul. She came like the
beautiful wanton she was: her pussy gripped him with brazen insistence, milking
him with a cadence of shimmering contractions. His eyes closed as the pressure
expanded in his bollocks, intensifying, and finally bubbling upward along his
shaft. Delving into her folds, he found the center of her pleasure.

Her
scream sizzled in his ears even as his vision turned to black. With his last
ounce of control, he wrenched himself out. A harsh shout escaped his lips,
disguising a beloved's name, as his pleasure shot in glistening trails across
the desk.

Seated
in the blue and white drawing room, Helena sipped her tea and avoided Lady Marianne
Draven's eyes. She feared those intelligent emerald eyes held an all too
knowing expression. She had not stopped blushing since last evening, a state of
pinkness that her astute friend had likely already observed. Truth be told, she
was fairly bursting to talk about the extraordinary events that had transpired a
few hours ago, but how did one discuss delirious fornication with one's husband
in polite company?

Her cup
rattled as she settled it into the saucer, the steam from the tea curling upward
into the slants of morning light. From the mantel, the ormolu clock chimed
eight times. Despite the lack of sleep, Helena's insides frothed with energy. She
eyed the plate of tarts on the rosewood coffee table. Bejeweled with dollops of
Cook's delicious blackberry jam, the pastries seemed to wink at her. With a
resolute sigh, Helena turned her gaze back to her cup. If she wanted to win
Nicholas back, she needed to stick with her slimming plan.

"My
dear, that tea, fine Ceylon though it may be, can hardly bear such studious
observation," Lady Marianne remarked. Seated on the adjacent Sheraton sofa,
she removed her butter-colored gloves in a graceful motion. "Wouldn't you
care to discuss what truly holds your attention?"

Helena's
eyes darted to her friend's face. Gifted with silver blonde hair and
classically sculpted features, Marianne's beauty had the effect of staring
directly into the sun. She had known Marianne since the schoolroom and still she
could not help but blink at her friend's physical perfection. Despite the early
hour, no shadows detracted from the vividness of Marianne's gaze, and her skin
glowed with the health of the well-rested. Not that Marianne could have gotten
much sleep—she had been the one to deposit Helena at the Nunnery last night, en
route to her other entertainments. Dubbed
The Merry Widow
, Marianne
never stepped foot inside her townhouse before dawn.

"Tea
is easier than candid conversation," Helena admitted. "I hardly know
where to begin."

"Is
Lord Harteford at home this morning?" Marianne inquired.

"No.
He ... he did not return last evening." Helena took a gulp of tea. "I
suppose he stayed at his club."

"Excellent.
My calling at this ungodly hour will not be a wasted effort. I suggest, then,
that you start where my driver left you off—at the bawdy house," Marianne
said.

Helena
bit back a smile. Some things did not change. Nee Miss
Marianne Blunt, Lady Draven continued to well suit her maiden name.

Truth
be told, she had missed Marianne dreadfully these five years past. At the age
of nineteen, Marianne had wed the wealthy and reclusive Lord Draven. She had
been promptly whisked off to the wilds of Yorkshire, a place apparently
unreachable by Helena's many posts. When Helena had perchance encountered the
newly widowed Marianne at an assembly last month, she had felt like an awkward dowd
next to her once bosom companion. Always beautiful, Marianne had exuded a new
sensual confidence and a brittle wit which distinguished her even amongst the
fast crowd she ran with.