Simply Sinful (3 page)

He glanced out of the window. Oh good, it was starting to rain. Peter hoped it would be enough to dampen Lord Beecham’s enthusiasm.

“I would be delighted.” Lord Beecham gestured back into the office. “If it is acceptable, I will leave my man of business, Mr. Forbes, here to discuss some details with your head clerk. We can use my carriage if you wish.”

Anthony’s expression brightened. Peter shook his head.

“It’s not far to walk.” His gaze skimmed Lord Beecham’s highly polished boots and perfectly fitted olive green coat. “Unless you prefer to drive?”

“Walking is fine.” Lord Beecham put his hat back on. “After last night’s excesses, I could do with some exercise.”

Peter resigned himself to Lord Beecham’s company and ushered Anthony out of the door. The uneven cobblestones shone a metallic gray as the rain pattered down on them. He tried not to breathe in the stench of dead fish and refuse that rose from the overflowing gutters. Their offices in Aldgate were situated much closer to the docks than the polite world of the
ton
. Anthony forged ahead, his dark hair and cloak flapping in the wind.

Lord Beecham walked alongside Peter and matched him stride for stride. They were of the same height and probably similar in age. And either Lord Beecham had an excellent tailor or Peter was not as broad across the shoulders and chest.

“What is the name of the ship we are visiting?”

Peter shook the raindrops from his face. Lord Beecham obviously expected to be entertained as they walked.

“Actually, we are going to visit one of our smaller ships that will take the last portion of cargo down to the coast at Southampton to be loaded onto the
Princess Sara
.”

“Named for Valentin’s beautiful wife, I assume?”

“I believe so.” He moved to one side to avoid a hole in the road wide and deep enough to drown a horse in. Lord Beecham followed him.

“What a charming notion. Are any of the ships named for your loved ones?”

Peter half smiled. “I have no loved ones. I’m an orphan.”

There, that should keep Lord Beecham quiet, unless he was insensitive enough to pursue such a delicate subject.

“Sometimes I wish I had no family.”

Peter shot him an incredulous glance. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Lord Beecham shrugged. “You don’t know my family. The obligation to behave as befits my ancient name can be extremely tiresome.”

Damnation, what was wrong with the man? Did he expect Peter to commiserate with him? They were hardly destined to be friends. Peter pointed to the bottom of the street where a vertical strip of dark gray had appeared between the soot-stained brick buildings.

“There’s the dock up ahead. The
Princess Sara
is bound for Jamaica. I should imagine you might be interested in the outward-bound cargo, which we trade for rum, sugar and spices.”

To his relief, Lord Beecham accepted his abrupt change of subject and simply nodded. “Are there any traders in Jamaica who do not use slaves? I find that hard to believe.”

“You have been there, then?” Peter didn’t try to hide his skepticism as he stopped and faced Lord Beecham.

“Indeed I have. I spent several years on my uncle’s sugar plantation.” An expression of revulsion swept over Lord Beecham’s face. “I hope to God I never have to experience such suffering again.”

Peter fought an urge to nod in sympathy. He reminded himself that he had no interest in Lord Beecham’s surprisingly compassionate views, only his money.

“There are some smaller companies.” Peter cleared his throat. “Mostly owned by ex-slaves. I admit, the return on our investment might be slightly lower than some of our competitors, but as least we can all sleep at night.”

“Thank God for that.”

Peter met Lord Beecham’s gaze and found he couldn’t look away. What other surprises lurked under that exquisitely fashionable exterior? He tensed as Lord Beecham drew an unsteady breath.

“Mr. Howard, I…”

“Peter, are you coming?”

Peter turned abruptly away and focused his attention on Anthony, who had stopped at the end of the passageway. Anthony waved, his face alive with eagerness.

“The boat is just over here. I’ll go and see if the captain is on board.”

As Peter readied himself for his appointment with Lord Beecham at Madame Helene’s that night, he thought over the man’s visit to his office. After Peter had rebuffed his attempt to direct the conversation to a more personal bent, Lord Beecham reverted to talking solely about business. He obviously had as good a head for commerce as he did for cards.

Peter frowned as he tied his cravat and fixed it in place with a pearl-headed pin. What did Lord Beecham want with him? Despite the man’s efforts to befriend him, Peter had learned to be wary. For a moment he considered not turning up at Madame’s and accepting the consequences. But a worm of curiosity niggled him and he knew he would go.

There was no denying it. Lord Beecham intrigued him. Honesty compelled Peter to admit that such a male personification of beauty aroused him. Was that why he disliked Beecham on sight? Simply because he seemed content in his own skin and Peter was not? It was something to think about and did not reflect well on him.

He took a short carriage ride through the darkened streets to Mayfair and alighted at his destination still deep in thought. When he entered the marble hallway of Madame’s house, one of the footmen handed him a sealed note. On it was written the number twelve. Peter crumpled the paper and pushed it into his pocket. Lord Beecham had chosen to meet him in one of the intimate rooms on the third floor of the pleasure house.

As he mounted the stairs, a thousand questions formed and were discarded in his brain. What did Lord Beecham want? He found himself hesitating outside the door marked twelve and went in without knocking.

Lord Beecham sprang up from his seat by the fire and bowed.

“Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.”

Peter remained standing by the door and took out his pocket watch. “I believe you requested an hour of my time. Don’t waste it.”

Lord Beecham smiled and strolled toward him. He wore a black coat and brown waistcoat, which enhanced his good looks. A diamond glinted in the crisp white folds of his intricately folded cravat.

“Can I get you a glass of brandy, or even better, persuade you to sit down?”

“No, I prefer to stand.” Inwardly, Peter grimaced at his choice of words. He sounded like a bad actor in a melodrama. “What do you want from me?”

Lord Beecham stopped in front of him, his brown eyes level with Peter’s.

“Don’t you know?”

Peter gritted his teeth. “It seems you find the situation highly amusing, but I ask you once again. You won your bet. What do you want?”

Beau Beecham smiled. “I want your cock in my mouth.”

Before he could stop himself, Peter pivoted and slammed the other man up against the door. He wrapped a hand around Lord Beecham’s throat.

“Do you think I am some kind of male harlot or Molly to be bought for your perverted pleasure?”

Lord Beecham coughed and tried to clear his throat. “No.”

Peter pressed harder. “I will not become a figure of fun for you and your obnoxious cronies. If this is how you choose to win a bet, tell me how much you stand to lose and I will willingly pay up for you.”

Lord Beecham held his gaze, his brown eyes steady. “There is no bet. Only the one you lost. If you are a gentleman, you will honor my request. I want my mouth around your cock. I want to suck you until you come.”

Peter stared right back at him, already aware from their close proximity that Lord Beecham’s cock was erect and rubbed against his own, which was rapidly filling out too. A surge of inconvenient lust uncoiled in his loins accompanied by a series of lascivious images.

He tightened his grip on the other man’s throat. “I will honor your request. But if I hear one word about this in the clubs, if my reputation is damaged by your gossiping tongue, I will find you and make you sorry you ever lived.”

He stepped back against the wall and ripped at the buttons of his breeches. Lord Beecham exhaled and sank to his knees. Good lord, the man was eager. Peter looked down at the thick wet crown of his cock, which already thrust through the confines of his underthings. He tensed as Lord Beecham shoved the fine linen away to expose him in all his glory.

With agonizing slowness, Lord Beecham simply stared at him. Peter shuddered as Lord Beecham’s tongue emerged and licked a drop of pre-cum from the crown.

“Get on with it, damn you.”

He groaned as Lord Beecham sucked him into his mouth, one hand gripping Peter’s balls, the other braced on the wall beside him. As he drew the long shaft farther down his throat, Peter closed his eyes and tried to move his hips. Lord Beecham used his shoulder to hold him pinned against the wall and sucked harder, used his teeth to graze the tender flesh. Used all the techniques Peter had learned in Turkey to give a man a hard, fast and forceful climax.

His hands fisted at his sides in a concentrated effort not to touch Lord Beecham, to caress his thick dark hair, to offer himself in return. His cum traveled up his shaft and he gritted his teeth.

Lord Beecham released his cock and sat back.

Peter opened his eyes and heard himself panting like a hunted animal. He’d been played for a fool. Lord Beecham obviously intended to leave him aroused and unsatisfied. He tried to compose his features into his usual calm expression but realized he couldn’t. He tensed as Lord Beecham rose to his feet; his pupils were so dilated that all the brown had disappeared. Peter managed a sneer.

“Are you satisfied now, Lord Beecham?”

“Not yet, and my name is James. You still owe me fifty minutes of your time.”

Holding Peter’s gaze, he slowly untied his cravat. His coat and waistcoat followed and then his shirt, exposing his broad chest and flat furred stomach. Peter remained rigid, his cock pumping hard to the rhythm of his raised heartbeat. Lord Beecham bent to remove his boots and tight breeches, displaying the long elegant line of his back. Peter’s mouth went dry.

When Lord Beecham was naked, he moved toward the high four-poster bed and climbed up on all fours. In the candlelight he presented Peter with a magnificent view of his muscular thighs and tight buttocks. He looked over his shoulder. The temptation in his glance and his inviting posture was unmistakable.

Peter ran his hand over his throbbing cock. Without speaking he walked across to the bottom of the bed. He found the perfumed oil Madame conveniently left on the nightstand and used his knee to deliberately widen Lord Beecham’s legs. He guided his wet, glistening cock toward the other man’s arse. Pausing only to grip Lord Beecham’s hips, Peter lunged forward and penetrated him.

Lord Beecham groaned. “God…”

Peter used little finesse. If Lord Beecham thought he could coerce him into having sex he would get the most basic fucking available. The kind Peter had been forced to give and take from the roughest of the men who had bought his time at the brothel. The kind of sex that had nothing to do with love and tenderness, only raw, basic need.

He kept his grip of Lord Beecham’s hips and pulled back again, drove his length deep. Lord Beecham grunted in time to each hard stroke, widening his stance to invite Peter deeper, his weight braced on his outstretched arms.

Mindlessly, Peter continued to fuck. Aware of the other man’s cock pistoning into the black silk counterpane, dripping with pre-cum, as big and hard as Peter had anticipated. He felt his own climax approach, increased the speed of his thrusts until the smack of his flesh against Lord Beecham’s sounded almost as loud as their combined groans.

His cum traveled up his shaft and he came deep. He liked the thought of the other man filled with his cum, feeling him for days afterward. A constant reminder of the coarse act he had made Peter commit.

After he caught his breath, Peter withdrew and rebuttoned his breeches. He hardly spared a glance for the naked figure sprawled on the bed. With shaking fingers he took out his leather purse and opened it. He threw two gold sovereigns onto the counterpane.

“That’s for the rest of your time. I can’t say it has been a pleasure.”

Lord Beecham’s long fingers closed around the coins, and he rolled over to face Peter.

“Damn you, Mr. Howard.”

Peter bowed. “And damn you too, sir, for making me behave like an animal.”

He turned on his heel and walked out. He managed to find his way down to Madame Helene’s private quarters before his stomach threatened rebellion. Thankfully Helene was not there. He had no intention of sharing his thoughts on the evening’s unexpected encounter with anyone.

After he heaved up the contents of his stomach, Peter poured himself a large brandy and sat down beside the fire. With an inarticulate sound he buried his head in his hands. What on earth had he been thinking? He’d used Lord Beecham like a whore, and worst of all he’d enjoyed it. He retrieved the brandy and drained it in one gulp.

After his experiences in the brothel, he’d vowed never to use anyone sexually again. His recent encounters with both sexes had all been by choice and by mutual consent. He’d enjoyed every one of them. Why had he gone against everything he believed in?

He studied the intricately cut brandy glass. Because something about Lord Beecham brought out the worst in him. The man’s charming face and legendary reputation with women irked him. Was he simply jealous and had tonight’s exercise in power made him feel like the better man?

He got up and retrieved the brandy bottle. His cock had no conscience and throbbed with satisfaction as he pictured Lord Beecham getting dressed and having to walk through the salons, the mark of Peter’s handling on his hips and arse. Would Lord Beecham regret his choice? His body had been more than willing to accept Peter’s domination.

Peter’s cock stirred even more at the salacious thought. One thing was certain. It wasn’t the first time Lord Beecham had been with a man. Had Helene brought them together for a reason? She had suggested James Beecham was not all he seemed.

Peter put down the brandy bottle and let out a disgusted breath. Still, he wasn’t proud of himself. He felt wretched. There was no way around it. Lord Beecham would have to be faced.