Her Husband's Harlot (47 page)

Nicholas'
head fell back on the cushion as his last vestige of self-discipline flew to
the winds. He had never
felt
more colossal. "Helena, I do not want
to hurt you. It is too soon ..."

"I
want. . . you ...
now
." Helena punctuated each word by releasing another
button, and then another, until finally he fell huge and hard and throbbing into
her soft hands. He watched, mesmerized by the sight of his wife kneeling
between his legs, studying his exposed rod with a distinctly lustful gleam in
her eyes. Bending forward, she licked the stretched dome, swirling fire over
his senses. Desire seeped instantly from the tip, and she tasted it, giving an
approving hum before planting kisses along the thick shaft. Light, teasing
kisses that made him burn for more.

"Minx."
He slid his hands into her perfect coiffure, dislodging feathers and sending
pearls clattering onto the floor of the carriage. He pulled her head firmly
toward his turgid prick. "If you wish to suck my cock, then do it properly
as I have taught you."

"Yes,
sir," his wife said, her tone meek, her eyes laughing. "Your wish is
my command."

Nicholas
growled in pleasure as she obeyed his direction, taking him deep into the
blazing recesses of her mouth. Her head bobbed up and down, fallen strands of
hair brushing against his thighs as she tasted him. Savored him. Licked him from
swollen tip to throbbing sac, before sucking him deeply inside again. The carriage
jolted suddenly, bumping the sensitive crown upward against her throat.

He
let out a feverish groan. "Yes, like that. Take me all the way into that
sweet mouth of yours ..."

"Mmm
mmm," his wife responded, her mouth clamped like wet fire around him. She
softened the suction of her mouth, and he slid deeper inside again, nudging
against the silken barrier. She squeaked in excitement, the sound muffled by
the massive truncheon she was swallowing with unbearable enthusiasm.

His
hands tightened in her hair. "Helena, my love, my God ... oh,
fuck
,"
he gasped.

He
felt himself spurt a little, the pleasure raging over him too early, too fast. Tonight
he did not want to spend himself in this fashion, not when a surfeit of delights
awaited him. Panting harshly, he pulled her head away. She released him with a moist
popping sound. Her lips glistened with the essence she drew so easily from him.

"You
are delicious," his wife pouted. "I want more."

Nicholas
was so consumed by lust he could barely speak. Instead, he hoisted her upward and
turned her around, bending her over so that her upper arms rested on the squabs
of the opposite seat. With a rough hand, he threw up her satin skirts and petticoats.

"Christ,"
he uttered, amazed by the soft, lush, and, most remarkable of all,
naked
curves exposed to him. He palmed her ass. Her flesh quivered, filling him with infinite
satisfaction. "Have you been like this all evening?"

"Without
my unmentionables, you mean?" Turning her head on the cushions, Helena sent him a flirtatious smile. "Of course, my lord. I did not want any
impediments to our romantic explorations. And I was just so that night at ..."

"The
Nunnery," Nicholas finished hoarsely. It was unbearably erotic, the image
of his proper marchioness conversing politely with visitors to their Opera Box
while underneath her demure exterior. . . damn, underneath ... He reverently caressed
the swell of her bottom before fingering her lower. Hot, drenched with longing
for him, she was all a man could ever want. All
he
would ever need. "The
anniversary you spoke of. How could I have forgotten our first night of
passion?"

"Yes,
my lord," his wife purred, as she worked herself against his hand. "The
night you mistook me for a harlot."

"Not
just any harlot.
My
harlot." Bending on one knee, Nicholas grasped
her thighs firmly in his hands and drove his tongue into the hot core of her. Helena's
cries swelled his chest with the pleasure that had somehow grown stronger, even
more intense, with time. He could not get enough of her. Their love had washed
away shame and insecurity so nothing separated them now—it was as if their two
hearts, two bodies, lived as one. He licked higher, tracing the crevice of her
ass until he reached her perfectly puckered hole. He paused before circling it slowly,
deliberately, with his tongue.

"Nicholas,
what are you ...?" Helena began, but her words lost their shape, became a
high keening cry, as he continued to tenderly explore her ass. He spread her luxuriant
cheeks further apart and loved her, her cunny, her bottom, until every inch of
her quaked and glistened with longing. Dipping his fingers into the thicket of
curls, he spread her honey upward, slicking her with her own desire.

"Nicholas,
please
," Helena begged, her hands clenching the seat cushions.

He
could not deny her, or himself, any longer. Standing, he positioned himself at
the entrance of her pussy. The carriage bumped, nudging his cock against her
swollen flesh. Helena gave a helpless moan. Balancing himself with the wall
strap, Nicholas drove his hips forward, and his nostrils flared at the sight of
his sex sliding into her. He moved gently at first, afraid to hurt her. It had
been months since he entered her thus, and she felt so snug, so damned hot and
tight. Her channel gripped him like a wet, velvet fist. He gritted his teeth,
forcing himself to go slow. Inch by inch, he eased himself in and out of her
luscious slit.

"Darling,"
his wife said, with an impish glance backward, "if you wish to fuck me,
then do it properly, will you?"

With
a strangled laugh, he obeyed her. When he saw that she writhed in pure
pleasure, without any sign of pain or discomfort, he began to pump her more vigorously.
He found a pace to match the jostle of the carriage, his balls slapping
rhythmically against his wife's soaking cunt. He took her fiercely, utterly
absorbed in the possession of her. In this moment, there was nothing but Helena: the softness of her hips in his hands, the plush pull of her pussy bringing him
home. He drove into her, giving her what she needed, even as he took and took
of her. Her cries soaked into the squabs, muffled words, sounds eclipsed by
feeling. By just being. But he understood anyway, for the same sentiments ballooned
in his chest, summoning his ecstasy.

"I
love you, Helena. Every part of you."

Reaching
under, he rolled her knot between his fingers, loving the way it made her gasp and
plead for more. He played with her until he felt her begin to tighten around him.
As he pumped steadily inside her, driving her higher and higher, his
dew-slickened finger found her ass. He breached her virgin hole with his
fingertip. Instantly, Helena stiffened.

"
Nicholas
...
"

He
pushed his finger in deeper. Her unused muscles clamped around his digit, at
the same time that her pussy began to convulse around his cock. He flexed his
hips powerfully, plunging so deep that his sex brushed her womb. His wife
screamed as a shattering climax racked her body.

"You
are mine," he groaned as wild pleasure swept through him. "Mine, as I
am yours. Take me, my love ..."

He
exploded in an endless release that fused his very being with hers. With his
last ounce of energy, he managed to scoop her up and sprawl her atop him onto
the seat. For several moments, the only sounds were their panted breaths and
the clip clop of the horses.

"Why
is the carriage still moving?" Nicholas mumbled with sudden awareness. He
was too stated to truly care, but they should have arrived at home more than a
quarter hour ago.

"I
told the driver to take the scenic route home," his wife answered,
nuzzling her cheek contentedly against his chest. "So I might surprise you
with my anniversary gift. But it seems, my lord, it is you who showed me
something new this evening."

Nicholas
grinned roguishly as he drew his greatcoat more snugly about her shoulders. "There
is plenty more where that came from, my dear. I should not want you to bore of
my husbandly affections."

Helena
snorted. "That hardly seems possible." A
few heartbeats later, she tilted her head and smiled drowsily up at him. "Happy
anniversary, my darling. I hope you enjoyed your gift."

"You
are all that I have ever wanted." Nicholas' eyes were free of ghosts as he
looked into his beloved's eyes. "Harlot of my fantasies and wife of my
dreams."

THE END

The Hall at Hope End

Hertfordshire, England

In the time of
Victoria
Regina

"Keep your eyes cast
down, but your wits about you," the housekeeper told me. "In and out.
That's the way to do it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs.
Beecher," I said, not for the first time.

She handed me the tray. I
gripped the wooden handles tightly for fear of spilling the precious contents.
The smooth red globes of grapes gleamed in the light of the kitchen tapers.
Circling them were delicate rings of pineapple and slices of an exotic
orange-fleshed fruit for which I knew not the name. "There, you see? I've
got it."

Mrs. Beecher's brow
furrowed beneath her frilled cap. "Oh, but I worry about you, Abby. This
is not a position suited for a girl such as yourself. What would dear Agnes
say?"

At the mention of my
aunt, I swallowed a swell of sorrow. Three months now she'd parted this earth,
and how I continued to yearn for her gentle smile, the warmth of her grey eyes.
She'd been the only shelter I had known in my two and twenty years.

"Aunt Agnes would
thank you, her dearest friend, for doing her this service," I said.
"For finding me employ, when I might otherwise find myself in the direst
of straits." Suppressing a shudder, I tried to close off the images of
poverty, the lurking miasma of factories and workhouses which fed on desperation.
My current position was the only protection between me and the hunger of those
ruthless jaws. "I will not let you down, Mrs. Beecher, for your favor to
me. I vow to be the best maid Earl Huxton has ever had."

Mrs. Beecher's lips
pressed together. "Blessed Mary! That is exactly what I fear the
most."

I gave her a perplexed
look.

With a sigh, she shook
her head and pushed the spectacles further up the scant curve of her nose.
"To be honest, Abby, you're more suited to being a governess than a maid. Are
you certain you wouldn't rather find a place in a more ... conventional
household?"

The housekeeper's
emphasis on the word
conventional
did not escape me. Despite his
fabulous wealth and aristocratic blood, my employer teetered on the brink of
respectability. His mysterious past was a source of titillation to the upper
and lower classes alike. According to Ginny, another of the maids, he'd been
briefly married. The Huxtons had been living abroad in Italy at the time, so no
one knew much about the countess
—
or what had
led to her untimely death some half-dozen years ago.

Ginny, however, had been
quick to point to a single clue: the unnamed portrait which hung in the
library. Above the fireplace (and in direct view of the earl's desk), a
beautiful woman reposed in languid splendor. As she combed her rose gold hair,
she stared dreamily into a hand-held looking glass. A loose gown of flowing
white set off her flawless figure, revealing skin like cream and curves so
voluptuous they seemed to leap from the paint. The bower surrounding her was no
less lush: a constellation of white roses lit the background, whilst foxglove
and peony bloomed in colorful counterpart. At the bottom of the gilt frame,
three mysterious letters stood darkly carved into the wood.