Читать книгу Black Silk - Sharon Page - Страница 9

He was going to make her come until she begged for mercy. Until she pleaded with him to stop because she couldn’t bear more pleasure. He would hear her scream for him.

“Oh, dear god!”

Dash chuckled at Verity’s shocked cry as his thick cock nosed its way into her quim. Her fingernails clamped into his bare shoulders. Her teeth sank into her lower lip. Like hot cream, she flowed around his rigid shaft. His chest brushed her tightly corseted breasts, his mouth grazed her forehead as he began the slow, easy rock of his hips.

Damn, but she was tight. A mere inch inside her slick, tight cunny and his brain wanted to shatter into a thousand pieces. His famed control was fleeing, and he fought to hang on to it.

A girl this tight was new.

He wouldn’t hurt her. But he needed to intensify the game.

Dash caught her hands in his and lifted her arms over her head. Panic flashed in her dark, massive eyes. Her legs were splayed on either side of the chaise. With his weight between her creamy thighs, his length positioned over her, she was trapped.

He read at once her fear at loss of control, but sex was best when accompanied by powerful emotion—by fear, by vulnerability, reputedly by love…

He pumped deep, rewarded by her gasps and moans with every thrust. Her cries were so sweet, so bewitching, so delicate. Verity’s fetching cries had a truth to them that spoke deeply to his heart.

She was so tentative beneath him.

Afraid of him? Because he was drunk? Because he’d shattered every tumbler in the room into the fireplace? She must have seen the shards of glass.

Her right leg hooked around his calves, her left around his hips.

“Yes,” he groaned, and he thrust deep as her hot, bubbling core accepted his cock until he nudged the entrance to her womb.

She cried out then, as women did when he gave that shocking thrust, when he filled them completely. He wasn’t buried to the hilt—it didn’t matter. Her cunny was snug around the head of his cock, pleasuring that spot on the shaft that was so sensitive.

He had to be gentle. God, that was the pleasure of it—fighting to be gentle while wanting so much to ram, to pound, to pump himself senseless.

He could slip off her mask, see her, but it would destroy trust. Her brown eyes sparkled at him; she gazed at him as if he could give her heaven with a sweep of his arm.

Yes, angel of truth, let us fuck our way to heaven.

Dash let his groans of mounting pleasure join with hers. Growing louder. An intimate chorus that sang in his head.

The slim rod in her derriere made her cunny incredibly tight—it was a trick many courtesans used to enhance their lover’s pleasure. Each bounce would pleasure her anus as well as her lush quim.

His brain began to fog. His eyes shut, and he drank in their luxurious scent, the scent now coating his cock and ballocks and her soft, sticky inner thighs. He was leaking into her, his balls ratcheting tighter, tighter, his body aching to burst.

Let her go.

Instinct told him to free her hands, and he braced his weight on one of his. He slid his other hand beneath her bottom, grasping a cheek. It tugged her anus, and she moaned in surprise.

Deep. Go deep. Climb inside.

His groin collided with hers, his jet-black nether hair crushing against her silky, chocolate pelt. Lovely. A shift of his hips, better aim, and he heard the cries that rewarded his success. His cock was stroking her clit with each plunge.

Yes.

He needed her climax. He was going to get it.

Her change was so subtle. Her hands skimmed down his back. Never once had he been caressed that way—so slowly, as though she was memorizing him by touch.

“What is your truth, love?” Why was he asking? Dash wondered. He didn’t want to give his truth. But he wanted hers. “Who are you really, Verity?”

Maryanne heard his lordship’s question but ignored it. She ran her hands down the broad expanse of his hard back, and her fingers dipped just inside the valley of his bottom.

She was touching Lord Swansborough’s arse!

His cock shaft, veined and thick and wet, slid along her clit, and her toes curled. Her hips arched. She wanted to find the rhythm. The perfect rhythm.

She’d read so many times about pain. Pain the first time. There’d been a twinge, almost nothing. But now it was the sweetest agony to be filled by such a big cock. Yet that little tweak of exhilarating pain with each thrust only excited her. It didn’t hurt, it excited her. She rose up to him, meeting him halfway, her legs flung over his.

Ruined. She was ruined.

How perfect ruination was.

She closed her eyes. He was a stranger, this man pounding into her. A man she’d dreamed of, yet his every thrust pounded one truth into her head. You know nothing about him. He doesn’t even…even fuck like you guessed he would.

She’d dreamed that he would be sweet. He would call her magnificent, beautiful—she had no idea how a man really behaved.

But this was so very, very good.

Swansborough was raw male hunger and pure graceful skill. A gentleman at the core, carefully balancing his weight, carefully gliding his slick cock over her teased, throbbing clit. But a beast at the heart of him, a man who hammered his pelvis into hers, who drove his cock as deep as he could, and sent shock waves of delight to her brain.

She loved each bang. Loved the blossoming soreness of each collision. Loved the deep, full feeling of being ripped apart by wild Lord Swansborough.

His big hand slid in between their bodies, his long index finger lying across her clit. Her bottom was invaded with each bounce of her hips, her clit stroked, her quim filled.

Sweat dripped onto her face from his brow. A drop hit her lips, and she tasted cool salt. His eyes looked ravaged, and harsh lines ringed his mouth as he gasped and panted.

As he fucked her.

God, she loved it so—

The patter of her heart ceased—like the stillness of nature just before a natural disaster. Her body paused, poised, and the orgasm roared over her like a crushing wave. She clung to shoulder and arse and screamed her pleasure at his ear, and closed her eyes shut, and knew how lovely it was to be ruined and a woman.

Lovely.

She was sobbing with it. Moaning. Gasping.

He surged forward, one last impossibly deep thrust, a bang that sent so much hot ecstasy through her she tore at his skin. His hips bucked, she felt his buttocks flex with it as he shot into her. He growled low in his throat. His body jerked with his orgasm.

It was exquisite to hold a climaxing man.

Marvelous. Perfect.

She couldn’t move. She could only hold him and hear his soft groan and the pounding of her heart.

His head lowered toward hers, his damp black hair hanging around his face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he was panting like she was.

He’d come inside her.

She’d done what foolish ruined girls did—she’d risked everything for a fleeting moment of intimacy. And he’d come in her, and she couldn’t take it back, and even now, she might be just about to become pregnant.

The horror numbed her.

She stayed absolutely still as he slid out of her. As his hot, thick semen rushed out, too. Her inner thighs, her curls, her buttocks were sticky with it.

What if he saw blood? Her blood on him? Or, dear heaven, would he offer marriage?

No, he was drunk. He wouldn’t notice, and if he did, he wouldn’t care.

He was a reprobate. A rake. He must have torn maidenheads before.

He’d asked who she was. She’d said nothing, she’d only moaned, and he hadn’t asked again.

He slid the toy from her sensitive derriere, wrapped it in a handkerchief. “Did you not enjoy yourself, sweet?”

Even with her mask, had her every thought shown in her eyes? In the cast of her mouth? “I—I…” Now was the time to race away. To push down her skirts and run for survival. Another moment longer, he might…guess. Not who she was but what she was. And once he’d guessed that, she feared her mask would have to come off.

He kissed her cheek. Gave a smile, but it only curved his lips and left his eyes unfocused and strangely blank.

“I have to go, love.”

“You can’t!” Her outcry shocked even her. It was the best solution to let him go. But she was afraid to be alone here. She wanted—

What? For him to escort her to safety? For him to take her home—foolishness, that. She could make him call her a hackney—payment for the tupping on a chaise.

She struggled to sit up, and she stared at his back. He’d gone over to his clothes, had pulled on his shirt and was now straightening it.

Without turning, he said, “Sorry, love. But I have to pursue this hunt. I can’t stay.”

Her brain was a mess of exhaustion and pleasure, champagne and raw fear. “I’m not safe here.”

That made him turn. “Are you a professional or not?”

“New. I’m new at this. It wasn’t…wasn’t what I thought. I came only to find Georgiana.”

Shrugging on his waistcoat, Swansborough paced back over to her. With his raven hair, midnight eyes, bronzed skin, and black whorls of hair, he was so dark, like a moving shadow. Firelight danced across his face, painting the sharp planes of cheekbone, jaw, and nose with gold. “What do you want with her?”

He could intimidate even while foxed. She guessed it was second nature to a viscount. He expected her obedience.

She took a steadying breath. “How could you know she’s gone after an earl? That can’t be true.”

As he sat down on the chaise beside her, he didn’t answer. He wore only a shirt. Glancing down, Maryanne could see his now slumbering cock—so adorable she wanted to touch it. Why shouldn’t she touch it? Desperately, fearing what she might start again, she looked up. Into his face. Best to look there, not at his cock, which she felt, foolishly, belonged to her.

His lashes lowered, brushing his cheeks—heavens, she saw the hint of freckles on his cheeks, across his nose, and her heart lurched in her chest.

Slowly he tilted his head, met her gaze. His eyes were so black they shocked her. She couldn’t tell where the pupils stopped and irises began.

“How could you know?” she repeated. Could he give her a sensible answer? He looked unsteady, as though the drink was affecting him more now.

He cupped her cheek, nuzzled her neck. His hair brushed her earlobe.

She fought the urge to squeal in shock and laughter—it tickled! “Tell me.”

He lifted. He had no scruples about touching her. He pinched her right nipple through her gown. Casually ran his thumb in a circle around the nipple poking hopefully at her dress.

“It’s the on dit, love.”

She drew back. She could barely find her voice with his hand making erotic magic on her breast. “What do you mean?”

He splayed his legs. Reach down and scratched his ballocks.

Good heavens—one fuck and they’d reached the intimate level of her sister’s marriage. She knew Marcus did such things thoughtlessly in front of Venetia, her sister laughed about it with other married women. Maryanne hadn’t expected the sight of Swansborough scratching an itch to make her heart somersault in her chest.

“I was looking for Craven,” he said, as he rearranged his ballocks to his satisfaction. “The story is that Georgiana pursued him to the country, and he left her there while he returned here.”

“Georgiana would never have stayed if Lord Craven returned.” Her hair. She really should try to fix her hair. “She sent me a letter. She said she was in great danger.”

“Indeed. And you came here to rescue her?”

Her hair was a snarl. Exhausted now, she felt on the edge of tears, but refused to give in to them. “You needn’t sound so amused. Of course I came to help.”

“In a place like this, a novice comes to rescue Mother Superior?”

A novice nun? Had he guessed she was a virgin?

She waited, as taut as a wound-up clock, but he said nothing more. He flopped back, the devil, onto the chaise.

To think she’d feared his first instinct on deflowering her would be to offer marriage. What a romantic fool she’d been. Of course, all who knew her expressed that sentiment behind their hands. Maryanne always has her nose in a book—and not the improving sort. Really, Maryanne has no practical sense at all. Maryanne must learn that romance is all very well in the pages of a book, but…

The champagne was making her thoughts a jumble. Could sex do that, too? She felt so boneless still, and her quim ached and throbbed in the most wonderful way. “She must be here. She sent the letter. I’ll have to go back out there. I have to find her.”

Doubt crept in at the edges of her conviction. Several times Georgiana had offered the chance of naughty adventure. A man to make love to her or to do everything but! She’d refused—more out of the fear of giving great leverage to Georgiana. If Georgiana knew she’d made love, she would be a slave to her partner, willing to do anything to protect her secret.

Though, really, one hint from Georgiana that a Miss Maryanne Hamilton edited erotic books and her entire life would be devastated. It was only the certainty that Georgiana needed her that kept her feeling safe. She’d grown up learning not to trust. Not anyone.

Rodesson, her father, had made so many promises and had never kept a one. They were never suitable for him, never convenient, and she’d learned, of course, that one rushed to keep promises for someone one was determined to keep.

“I had to assume her letter was the truth. I couldn’t turn my back on Georgiana’s plea.”

Swansborough got up from the chaise and patted her head. Even gave her a scratch behind her ear like a favored pup. “You aren’t going back out there, sweetheart. I promise you that Georgiana was not here when I arrived.”

She heard the hesitation and pounced. “But she could have been here. They find clues, don’t they? And go from one scandalous place to another. What if Georgiana went to the next place?”

A thought struck. What if Georgiana had planned such a thing all along? Instead of revealing where she really was, she went to the next place in the hunt and directed Maryanne here. All Maryanne needed to know was where to go next.

She needed one of the clues.

Swansborough gave her a lazy smile, the sort a lion would to a gazelle trapped beneath its paw.

“You have the most dangerous look in your eyes.” He had his trousers in his hands. “And considering I can see it even though you are masked, it definitely strikes fear in my heart.”

Determined, fighting nerves, she got up. Smoothed her skirts—as hopeless as that was. “I need the clue,” she said and gave her explanation.

His dark brows lifted. “Georgiana is that clever?” At her nod, he shook his head. “Astounding. You do realize you have to be whipped to get that clue.”

“What?”

“The lady of each couple is to be tied up and whipped. The gentleman is to receive some anal play from willing wenches while the whipping takes place.”

Georgiana had sent her here to be whipped?

“Do you still want a clue, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want to be whipped!”

“At the hands of an expert, it can be quite a sensual experience.”

“You’re mad! No!”

“I’ve never had a jade be quite so blunt, love.”

A mistake. Perhaps women readily agreed to be whipped if the suggestion was made by a man like Lord Swansborough. What if Georgiana’s life depended on her submitting to a lash?

“Not to worry, love.” That generous smile again, this one lighting up his eyes.

Easy for him to say that.

“I will get you a clue.”

“How—”

“Lock the door behind me, lass,” he continued without pause. “Barricade it if you wish. When I return I’ll knock three times and serenade you.” He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not enough to stopping thinking, alas.” He picked up a wing chair and carried it to the door. He wore shirt, trousers, shoes, and an open waistcoat. “Shove the back under the knob,” he instructed.

She certainly knew how to barricade a door. She had both an older sister and a younger one.

The instant he closed the door behind him, and she was alone, Maryanne sprinted over, turned the key in the lock, and jammed the chair in place.

Now all she could do was wait.

And think about how exquisite it had been to hold the broad vee of his back and surge up to meet his thrusting cock.

Or she could think about being ruined. Think about being pregnant, possibly.

Think about how gloriously she had thrown away her life.

He had promised her the clue, and now he must live up to his promise. Besides, he needed the clue, too.

The brandy began to taste sour in Dash’s mouth, and his head buzzed with the descent from lust and alcoholic madness.

He’d thought his cousin hadn’t known.

Murderer.

The word still rang in his head. His cousin Robert thought he was responsible for an innocent man’s death—for the death of Robert’s older brother, Simon.

He needed to shove aside those thoughts. He wished he could go back to Verity to obliterate his memories with ecstasy. To obliterate his mind.

There was drink to be found everywhere—carried on silver trays by half-naked footmen. He threw two glasses of champagne into his belly. The dull roar in his head focused once more.

The couplets of the clue that brought him here danced in his head:

Dark pleasures on the fringes of Mayfair for the daring, the bold

Bindings at slim wrist and ankle fair, the flick of a lash to behold

’Til torment and ecstasy shatter the voluptuous lass

And willing wenches use clever tongues to pleasure a gentleman’s ass

The last line was raw, blunt, designed to titillate. He enjoyed anal play, especially from a woman’s tongue—it was a treat rarely bestowed. A soak in the tub followed by a woman lying between his thighs, licking cock, ballocks, and anus. Such a rare boon, he had to admit he’d be almost tempted to take Verity to the dungeon, if she were to enjoy the same fun and avoid the whipping. But genuine horror had shown in her brown eyes at the thought of birch work.

Scavenger hunters—in couples—held the clue cards and raced toward a plain wooden door set in the wall of one of the back rooms of the town house. He’d been here months ago—Dante’s Dungeon was famed amongst those who sought dark pleasures.

As he followed the crowd down the narrow, twisting staircase, he overheard snippets of conversation. All the women expressed the same fear: “Am I really to be bound? To be whipped?” And the men laughed about their fate with the wicked jades awaiting them—a pretty pink tongue thrusting in their asses.

Dash joined the crowd that stood in the shadows of the punishment cell. One nude auburn beauty was being shackled in place. She gave her partner a fetching smile. A proper little submissive, she would accept her whipping with pretty grace.

The men who bound her were footmen dressed only in black breeches, with massive codpieces of gold. Two attended her, one on each side, locking the iron bracelets around her wrists. They bent, locked up her slim ankles. Her back was to the expectant crowd—full hips, large derriere, small waist.

She sighed delightedly as the footmen pinched her nipples and spanked her bottom. “Oh, yes. I have been naughty. I do need to be punished.” She half turned, face enraptured.

He scanned the crowd. Craven stood with a buxom blonde on his arm. Hell, he wanted to break Craven’s nose. No sign of Barrett, Craven’s partner.

And, damn, Robert was there—he saw the back of his cousin’s head, candlelight touching the curls as black as his own. A man stood beside him, a man who drew pensively on his cheroot—Jack Tate, the gaming hell proprietor who owed him twenty thousand pounds.

A woman walked forward, dressed in only a dyed-black corset and Hessians tailored to fit her shapely legs. The Queen of Dark Pleasure. She wore a mask, of course, with feathers of purple, the face encrusted with diamonds. Her lips were smeared with creamy crimson paint, her smile superior and cruel. A towering powdered wig disguised her hair.

Many speculated she was the Dowager Duchess of Derby.

All around him, the waiting women caught their breath. The Queen flicked the whip, sending the tail snapping against the stone flags on the floor. All jumped. One woman squealed. The victim, the auburn woman, tipped her head back, letting her curls spill down to her lower back. She then bent forward, exposing the line of her spine. Her hands fisted, and she betrayed herself with a flinch that sent the chains rattling.

Though he’d been in the same position himself, naked and spread-eagled, he had to fight the urge to free the auburn girl. He knew he could tolerate any pain, any torture—he had before. But a delicate, innocent, trusting woman…

He saw them then. A woman with a robe tossed around her, loose and flowing. A gentleman walked at her side, holding her hand and speaking in soothing tones.

Dash followed them back to the stairs.

“A thousand for your clue.”

Startled, the man paused and halted his lady, who held the robe and gaped. The woman gave a small gasp, a flutter of her lashes.

Had he made love to her one night? He couldn’t remember. He did recognize the man now. Viscount Braxton.

Braxton give a high-pitched laugh. “The prize is twenty thousand and a private harem trained in the erotic arts at Eden Manor.”

Eden Manor was a notorious country estate. Rosalyn Rose ran the place and taught her girls not to shy away from any sexual game—no matter how perverse. Reputedly the girls were innocents when they began, from impoverished gentility, desperate enough to go willingly to their fates. These were prostitutes who could not be purchased for money. Rosalyn knew her trade—she had made this “harem” exclusive and legendary.

Did it mean Rosalyn was involved in the disappearances of the Lady F and the other? Dash’s throat knotted as he remembered that Eden Manor was only a dozen miles north of his family seat.

“But you have to win to claim the twenty.” Coolly Dash let his tone remind Braxton that he would likely not win. “But I will pay five.”

The girl trembled. Her back must be stinging and raw. Her eyes spoke volumes, yet she dutifully did not speak.

“Five, eh?”

Braxton was in dun territory, close to having his credit refused.

With a shrug, Braxton pulled a card from a breast pocket.

“What does this mean?” Frowning, Maryanne again read the four-line clue.

Ascend to heaven to find true delight

But as you each take on orgasmic flight, you must remember to hold on tight.

The clue will be won if lovers find the position that lets them soar

And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar.

“You truly only paid for this—you didn’t do those things?”

“No, sweetheart. No whippings. No clever tongues pleasuring my arse.”

She knew her cheeks were flaming. “How much did it cost you?”

“Enough, love.” Swansborough lounged on the chaise again. His eyes were shut, his long legs sprawled off the end of the ivory silk cushions.

“How does one ascend to heaven?”

“One comes, love.”

“There must be more to the clue than that.” Suddenly Maryanne realized she had spoken to him the way she would to her sisters. She had forgotten who he was, his status, his station. Quickly she added, “My lord.”

He laid his hands on his chest, fingers entwined. Black curls peeked out in the open vee of his white shirt.

“To what would you hold on tight…?” she mused.

“In orgasmic flight? Depending on the position, your lovely plump tits, your sweet derriere, your slim ankles…ah, I could go on.”

“You are not helping.” But her quim grew wet at his words, and her heart lurched at the way he teased her. They were strangers, yet making love had somehow made them friends—

“Serpent’s river,” he muttered. “That could be the Serpentine. Which fits with ‘thundering horse.’ I’ve raced horses in Hyde Park. But what about ascend? To go up. To fly. To—”

“Balloon ascension!” Maryanne cried. In London, they had all gone to see one in a park. “Goodness, people are going to make love in a balloon?”