The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark
“Careful, you’ll make me think you’ve not known pleasure like this.” His voice was low and husky, laden with lust and unexpected humour.
His hands gripped her hips and drew them forward, tumbling her backwards, and his head bent to kiss her stomach. Her muscle tightened, caught by surprise, but she was equally overwhelmed by a feeling of tenderness—care. It pierced her disordered thoughts. It was in his touch. She knew if she asked him to stop, even now, he would.
Moisture rushed into her eyes. This man is kind and gentle. Longing swelled inside her, body and soul. Desire and hope.
But he is not my rescuer. She had to push the thought away and shield herself behind denial. Her heart could not be involved in this. It was a physical hunger. He knows the art of sex better than other men I’ve known, that is all.
His fingers slid down her thighs and up again. “Relax, Ellen,” he whispered, looking up and smiling.
She closed her eyes, took a breath and tried to, but she felt so nervous and uncertain. When his lips touched her, her fingernails dug into his flesh.
She’d thought herself incapable of embarrassment after a lifetime of humiliation, yet this intimate caress made her blush. No one else, not even Paul, had kissed her there.
She clung to him, hanging on as he urged her back into the pool of sensual delight. He knew more than Paul had done, Paul had made her happy, but never like this.
This time when the flood swelled, smashing aside her sanity, Edward did not let her escape but pushed her over another wave. It was then he freed the buttons of his breeches and filled her.
An exclamation of satisfaction left her lips.
His slate-blue-eyes looked into hers and his closed lips smiled as he pressed into her again. He smiled more and she gripped the arms of the chair.
Well, she had wanted escape. He was certainly giving her that.
The sweet sensations transported her beyond the room, body and soul, and she clung to him, watching him through a haze of lust.
He was so beautiful, hard, masculine, yet gentle.
She loved this man, she had known him only moments but still she knew she loved him. He’d possessed her body and her heart.
He released her hips and held her hands, weaving their fingers together.
How could this? How could anyone stand such..? Light exploded within her.
The man was a God, an athlete, his strength, his stamina, his gallantry all spoke of it. There was no doubt.
“You are…” She stopped, hardly knowing what she said, and then her fingernails digging into his flesh she fell over the edge of reality into an abyss of sensation far below.
A virile cry escaped his throat, erupting from deep in his chest and he hastily withdrew.
When she felt the warmth on her stomach, she was plummeted back to reality and felt cheated, insulted. She was still a whore whom he would not want to bear his child. He was no hero, just another man. For a moment she hated him, even though he’d only really shown forethought and kindness. He’d reduced the possibility of a child. What good would a bastard child bring? No good, except a memory of this one night of release and him.
Ellen felt cold, thrown from a warm hearth in to snow, soiled again, naïve and foolish. She’d given herself completely, crying out. Anyone in the hall outside might have heard her. She hadn’t just let him use her, she’d let him pluck and strum her sensual strings. He had played her like an instrument for his amusement. She’d spent years under the influence of men and still she had not learnt this lesson. Men took. He simply had a greater skill and different tastes.
Yet the delicious feelings he’d stirred up inside her still ran through her blood, overwhelming her tangled senses. Without looking at him, she accepted the handkerchief he pulled from his coat and held towards her. Then she wiped her stomach, expecting him to reach for his clothes and make himself ready to leave. Instead he did something which surprised her. He handed over her glass.
“Drink, it will steady your nerves.”
She sipped the ruby liquid and as its warmth slid down her throat, she dared herself, lifted her gaze and looked at him.
His fingers slotted the buttons of his breeches into place and then he bent over and picked up her undergarments. Seeing her watching, he smiled. There was no hint in it that he intended to simply walk away, no rake’s art, nor aversion. He looked embarrassed too. She could see his pulse flickering at the base of his throat.
Drinking down the remainder of the port in one swallow, she waited. She wanted a word from him, an acknowledgement, something. Something to confirm his life had been changed by this, by their private interlude. She wanted it to not be her imagination.
But what could change?
Nothing.
He did not have the money to free her from Gainsborough.
She could not escape.
Just because he was beautiful and gentle and she’d engaged her heart in this, it did not mean he returned her feelings. The man was in his physical prime, he could have any woman he wanted. It doesn’t make him my hero.
She had to stop this ridiculous hope from rising to lessen the pain when he walked away.
Her stubborn heart clenched in her chest. He’d been kind. He was being kind now.
How pathetic she’d become, craving so much for kindness she would love a man after little more than an hour, simply because he’d thrown her crumbs of it.
She accepted her undergarments from his hand and rose, pulling them on while he donned his shirt and tucked it in.
“My corset?” She couldn’t tie it alone with the lacing at her back. “Would you send for Madam?”
“I’ll lace it.” He smiled, a masculine blush darkening the skin across the bones of his cheeks and took the garment from her hand. She turned.
Her fingers pressing it to her ribs, his threaded the laces at her back.
The gentle tug as he worked each lace, the pressure of her corset as he pulled it tight, the brush of his fingers as he tied it off—sent warmth racing through the heightened senses of her skin.
Daft, foolish woman to make so much of this. His skill with the lacing of a corset was testament to the level of his past experience.
He bent and picked up her dress. “Lift your arms, Ellen.” And so, she was dressed.
While his fingers worked the tiny buttons at her back into place, her senses reeled and her head told her heart over and over again, this was no more than sex.
When he returned to the task of his own attire he faced the mirror to retie his neckcloth.
Ellen blushed, remembering those fingers, now adeptly crafting a fashionable knot, playing master to her body’s whim moments before.
He smiled at her in the mirror.
She caught sight of her disordered hair and her heart kicked in fear.
Panic locking the air in her lungs, she knelt and began picking up her scattered hairpins. She couldn’t leave the room looking like this.
In a moment he was on one knee beside her, helping her. He must have sensed her concern for he caught one of her hands and held it still. “There’s no need to worry, Ellen.”
For you perhaps, but not for me, for me there is every need. She pulled her hand free and continued the task, but tried to make light of her fear. “Not if you can dress a woman’s hair.”
“I can make a fair go of it.” His voice was jovial in response.
All pins recovered, they rose, her eyes meeting his. She took a breath. “Then do your best, my Lord, please.”