Читать книгу Sin - Sharon Page - Страница 5

London, April 1818

There was nothing like money to pique a lady’s desire…Lydia Harcourt smiled in triumph at the two open letters sitting beside her plate. Humming happily, she refreshed her chocolate with a splash from the china pot.

Promises of generous payment. Enough to pay her bills, if she were so inclined. But the tradesmen, so desperate about their unpaid accounts, were also so easily distracted.

She lifted the letter closest to her and reread it as she sipped her chocolate, savoring her victory. A thousand pounds.

Still, Norton really should be good for more. Perhaps if she pressed…

Lydia settled her cup on its saucer and gave a luxurious yawn and stretch. She was one of the few Incognitas who knew what morning was. She picked up the third letter delivered in the morning’s post. This one promised to be her coup de grâce.

None of her lovers could ever keep their secrets from her.

A talent that now served her well.

A flick of the letter opener and she smoothed out the thin sheet. For a duke, Montberry used the cheapest paper. He’d not wasted much ink either. One stark line sprawled across the page.

Publish and be damned.

And Montberry written beneath, with a flourishing ‘M’ and ‘y’.

Blast the man! Did he really wish the polite world to know what a dreadful bore he was in bed? To know about his preferences? The haute ton thought him a hero. A great man, larger than life. What a grand joke it would be when all learned the truth.

She tossed the letters aside, shook out her loose hair. Rodesson preferred her hair down and tousled into shimmering waves. For some reason, the eccentric artist enjoyed his carnal pleasures before noon. Her cunny bubbled at the thought of their upcoming encounter and she allowed a vindictive smirk to curve her lips, despite the risk of aging lines. It would be a delight to destroy Rodesson after the mocking pictures he’d painted of her! She would not even give him the chance to bribe her.

In fact, today she would start on the letters ‘R’, ‘S’, and ‘T’. She leafed through the small leather bound book that sat by her right hand. A good thing she’d kept meticulous records. Over twenty years, a woman did tend to forget the men she had entertained.

When so few had entertained her.

Two hours later, Lydia stretched out on her bed and skimmed her hands suggestively along her naked curves. She plucked at her nipples, then delved her fingers into her neatly trimmed nether curls.

She gazed with coquettish invitation at her visitor, but inside she glowed with victory at the pained look that burned in his green eyes. Handsome eyes that narrowed at the sight of her feminine juices soaking her curls, droplets sitting atop the bush of black hair like morning dew.

Even nearing sixty, with thick hair of pure white, Rodesson was a handsome man. Lean and well muscled. The lines on his face gave him a grizzled, sensual appeal. An artist, he appreciated that women enjoyed an aesthetic body on a lover.

How she longed to laugh. The great Rodesson, lolling at her feet like a lapdog.

“I would like to tie you up,” he said, hoarsely.

He was the sort of man that allowed the submissive to hold the power in the game. He would not force her, but he was waiting, his emerald eyes afire, to see what she would allow. What she would suggest.

Excitement rushed through Lydia, dampening her cunny even more. Rodesson sought escape in games of bondage when he was haunted by worries—either money or guilt, or when he’d sunk into maudlin contemplation of the woman he’d loved and lost.

“I am your servant,” she promised.

He was not yet fully aroused, though even in its semi-slumbering state his cock was long and beautifully formed. He would often be sexually excited without having an erection, eager to slide into her mouth and have her bring him to attention.

She merely flicked her glance to the bedside table, to the tangle of silken rope and ribbons jumbled on top.

Sunlight spilled through the paned windows, drawing crisscrossed shadows over her nude breasts, belly, and thighs. The thought of bondage at the time when most were rising to sip their coffee and chocolate did indeed titillate.

She closed her eyes as Rodesson left her bed to rifle through her playthings. She heard the sharp intake of breath as he discovered the true treat amidst the heap of restraints. A gift from the Marquess of Chartrand—jeweled bracelets designed to be locked to her headboard. They clinked as Rodesson lifted them.

“Roll onto your stomach, lass.”

Lydia obeyed. How could she despise this man yet delight in the deep, gravelly sound of his voice? Sometimes she thought she seduced herself.

She buried her face between her two plump pillows and shivered at the softness of silken sheets brushing her hard nipples and her wet quim. Once more she closed her eyes, anticipating the touch of a velvet rope or silver shackles to her skin.

A deeper excitement set her heart pounding. A troubled man enjoying kinkier pleasures was more apt to spill his secrets.

Why had he not yet touched her?

She lifted her hips and wriggled her bare arse to tempt him. Now she was truly aroused.

“Bind me,” Lydia whispered in a throaty, alluring voice.

A pressure, a roughness touched her calves. Finally. But this was not the softness of velvet or silk.

Startled, she lifted, shoved a pillow aside, as something rasped across her ankles. She twisted to watch Rodesson wrap a length of rope around her ankles. He had brought rope!

“I prefer velvet,” she protested. The rough fibers scratched. And would leave angry red burns.

“Silence, captive.” The rope wound tighter, cutting into her skin. She could not escape these bonds. Her ankles were well and truly trussed and she found the sensation exciting.

Perhaps she’d betrayed her apprehension, her shock at the way she was growing delightfully wet, for he gave her a gruff laugh and then bent to kiss her bare arse. No, not a kiss. He bit her cheek! Gently, but really.

“Mind. I don’t wish permanent disfigurement.”

He laughed, paying her no heed, and bestowed love nips all over her buttocks. Which, despite her protests, left her soaked and throbbing. The rasp of his jaw along her curves made her yearn for a deep and thrilling penetration in her derriere and she lifted her bottom up to him, hoping he took the hint.

But no, the man instead resumed his work of tying her up. He labored with the knot at her feet for so long she was moaning in exasperation.

“Shackle my wrists! Please, oh yes, please, my master.”

Lydia fell back to the bed, burying her face into the softness of her mattress. She heard the clatter as he lifted them from the table and let out a happy whimper. They were locked, but the gold key was in the lock, ready for him to open it.

She waited and waited, squirming against her sheets.

“Damnation.”

Bother, had he lost the key? Her heart thudded for long moments, her frustration grew. What was he doing? Apprehension grew beneath her irritation. She arched up again to see what he was doing.

He knelt at the foot of her bed, his handsome features distorted in a grimace.

Wincing, Rodesson dropped the shackles to the bed and massaged his hands. “Bloody rheumy hands.” He appeared to be in genuine pain. With her ankles bound, she rolled up onto one hip, watching him try to work his hands, to flex out the stiffness.

But his gaze met hers and a look passed through his eyes that intrigued. He ceased his manipulations of his fingers. Instead he picked up a second length of rope. “Back on your belly, minx.”

Truly excited now, she lay down again. Her famously large breasts squashed against the mattress. He slid the rope under her legs, and circled it around her thighs.

“Your hands must pain you greatly when you paint.” Lydia kept a tone of sympathy and sensuality.

His answer was a curt yes.

He did not wish to speak of this. Was it due to shame? Or something more?

He began to knot the rope that bound her thighs together, struggling, and she could barely breathe with excitement. Her honey flowed like a river between her thighs, her heart pounding, her throat tight. She would never wish to be truly captured, bound, raped. God in heaven, she knew what it was to have a man force himself on her. She had spent a lifetime ensuring she would never have to endure that again, yet by some perversity of her nature, she enjoyed—no, needed—to have Rodesson make her his prisoner.

He lifted the jeweled cuffs. With muttered oaths, he struggled to control the key. She couldn’t see how he could hold a brush with such ruined hands. How it must hurt him to paint. How that gave her a sense of smug satisfaction. He had just produced a beautiful volume and every moment of his work must have been excruciating agony.

Lydia turned to watch him once more.

“Ah lass, it’s no use.” His broad shoulders drooped. So did his cock.

“Give them to me.”

He looked ashamed.

“It is exciting to do this,” she prompted. “To shackle myself because you wish it. I know I dare not disobey…”

He handed them over but his shaft did not swell or straighten. She must work harder to assuage his ego.

He followed her gaze. “No need to worry about that, lass. That still works. It’s the hands that don’t. Can’t even bloody well paint—”

Can’t paint? Had that one volume been his last? Did that mean she had no need to destroy him? She unlocked one cuff and clasped it around her wrist. Lined with velvet it was comfortable—she might enjoy the game, but she didn’t truly like discomfort.

“Lydia, love—”

She gazed up, looking as innocent as she could while locking the second cuff in place. The gold chain between them allowed her movement but she entwined it around her wrists to give the illusion she was completely trapped.

“Lydia, you can’t let anyone know I can’t paint.”

A secret. How delicious. How useful.

“You are my master and I will obey.”

“I am serious, gel. I can’t have it known that I can no longer…perform in that arena.”

She smiled, the submissive once again controlling the man who wished to play dominant. “Now, my master, do you wish to fuck me?”

“I do indeed.” His eyes narrowed and he licked at his lips. “My houri.”

His hands did not trouble him as he lifted her hips up into the air, presenting her derriere and her quim like a heated mare. She no longer knew where she wished him to penetrate. The blunt head of his cock slid from her puckered anus to her bubbling quim and back, soaking her along the way. Her heart thundered as she waited for him to choose, to push inside. Something large pressed against the entrance of her bottom and she lifted toward it, relaxing. She felt herself open to receive…one of her own gew-gaws, a wand of ivory carved like an enormous phallus. His ministrations were gentle and slow, coaxing her to spread for her gigantic toy. Within a few strokes, he had it halfway inside.

“God yes,” he groaned, “Take it deep, my beauty.”

Lydia moaned in answer. “Push it to the hilt, my master.”

Realistic ballocks had been carved as part of the phallus and these pressed into her parted cheeks. Goodness, it meant she was completely filled, the entire length within her. Rodesson held it in place with one hand and she felt him part her nether lips. Her moisture released in a flood, drawing a hungry groan from her lover.

His cock began to do battle with the phallus in her bottom. As his thick, hot staff slid inside her quim, it pushed the other out of her arse. He pushed it back in, stretching her impossibly.

His secret. She must think of his secret…there was something significant in what he had told her…But she was stuffed so wonderfully full. And he began to paint her an image…

“What if you were caught like this by a man in your employ? A young footman of twenty. Randy, brawny, but still a virgin and eager to be taught by a voluptuous, experienced woman. His swollen cock would stand tall for you. You would be imprisoned yet you would control him. And then, his friend would come to see where he was. Another young man, another enormous cock. Both thrusting into you and determined to please. It would be torture for them to control their climaxes until they pleasure you. And you, my beauty, would enjoy their pain.”

She must concentrate but his fantasy was so perfect she couldn’t resist letting herself imagine…

His cock thrust deep and each plunge of his hips crammed her toy deep within her bottom. She rarely reached orgasm with her gentlemen. But with Rodesson it happened every time. It would happen now. The double penetration brought her to her peak without fail. Her anus was so delightfully sensitive and he knew it.

He pounded into her, brutally hard, just as she liked it. She was so wet and slick, she loved the pounding of his hips, the strike of his solid groin against her cheeks. The ripple of her flesh with each slap sent an answering ripple of ecstasy through her butt and quim.

“Yes, harder,” Lydia cried. She wriggled her captured hands between her belly and the bed. With a moan of pure pleasure, she reached her nubbin, the trigger for her pleasure. She must work quickly. She loved to have many climaxes this way and he would reach his peak soon. He was almost sixty after all.

“Oh God, yes.” Two strokes took her to her first. The orgasm slammed into her, roaring through every nerve. Oh yes, yes. Such pleasure. So long had it taken her to learn of pleasure like this. She saw stars, as she did each time with this man. Stars that sparkled like priceless jewels against black velvet.

Barely did she gain her senses from her first climax, before she brought herself to a second. And then a third. By the fifth, she no longer needed to stroke her throbbing, abraded clit. It took one deep thrust of Rodesson’s magnificent cock to make her climax again. She was soaked and finished. But he was not.

“Withdraw,” she instructed, panting, “You must withdraw.”

With a groan of frustration, he did. Wet, exhausted, she rolled onto her back. Her bottom hit the bed, driving the phallus impossibly deep inside her. She came with it, but the orgasm was a mere ripple through her sated body. She didn’t need to give more instruction. Rodesson moved to straddle her shoulders and he held his rigid cock down to her lips.

Once he forced himself to wait it became almost impossible to bring him to climax. Sometimes she had to leave him unsatisfied—on the days he took her by her arse. But today, she must give him special pleasure, for she knew he had secrets to reveal.

She tongued the head, drawing out a moan. His story had been true. Even shackled she possessed great power. She kissed the bubbling eye. “You can’t paint at all?” she whispered.

He tried to thrust himself inside her mouth, but she kept her lips together, teasing the engorged head. “But that is not so tragic,” she reassured. “Wouldn’t your books become more valuable if it is known there is to be no more?”

“I wish there weren’t,” he muttered, speaking more by reflex than by conscious thought.

She took him inside then let him out to torment him once again.

“It doesn’t work that way, love,” he said louder. For a man experiencing skilled pleasure to his cock, he looked decidedly grim. “I done a few things considered shocking in the world of publishing. Keeping me copyright, for example. But if the volumes stop, me blunt will.”

So if she wanted anything from him, she must get it now.

“And hell, since me money’s gone, I’m to be in dun territory. Again.”

“Don’t think of such things, master. Let your slave suckle you and please you.”

“You’re a talented and cunning lass, aren’t you, Lydia?”

No, she could not let him think her cunning and calculating. She must play the courtesan who loved to please, even if he could readily see through the ruse.

She took him deep into her mouth and he rewarded her skill by swelling large. She grabbed his buttocks and let him thrust into her as vigorously as he needed to. She curled her lips over her teeth and endured. His explosion rocked him, and for a moment she feared that his heart was not strong enough. He collapsed to the bed beside her, muttering endearments and words of appreciation.

She breathed hard and murmured words of pleasure. He still seemed to be semi-conscious as he struggled to free her of the ropes, as he gave her the key to free her own hands.

“Yes, you’re a talented woman…” He flopped back.

Knowing Rodesson, she guessed he’d played cards all night and had not yet slept. Curling up beside him, she stroked the damp gray hair on his chest, and waited until he drifted into a post-coital slumber.

Lydia slipped from the bed and drew on her silky wrapper. As she tied the belt around her waist, she padded out of the room.

Once in her library, she scanned the leather-bound books on the crowded shelves. To extract the one she wanted, she had to tug hard to free it. With a warm sense of pride, she surveyed the books surrounding her. Her library was as well appointed as any gentleman’s.

Stroking a finger across the gilt letters embossed in the rich leather, she lay the book on the large table. Opened it, flipped the pages until she found the first erotic picture. She then took a second book and laid it beside the first. Rodesson’s last two books, Tales of a London Gentleman and A Gentleman’s Pleasures.

Why should his inability to paint be a secret, unless…

She studied the pictures closely. The poses. The expressions. The style.

Her guess had been correct. These pictures were…different.

Who had painted Rodesson’s work?