Eye of the Beholder (5 page)

“Please, there. Touch me there,” she gasped.
“I have to know.”

Despite his own desire, he circled his
fingertip over the nub, feeling her body tightened, hell, feeling
his own body tighten as she wriggled against him.

And then she spent, her hips pushing against
his hand, her breath escaping in wild cries, her juices coating his
fingers. He continued his caress until she fell lax against his
chest, breathing hard.

“Was wonderful,” she managed at last, rolling
her head against his shoulder to look up at him. “Something was
missing, though.”

“My cock inside you,” he said, pressing his
hips against her backside without thinking.

She rolled her bottom against him. “I feel
it. May I see it?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’ve seen my most intimate parts,
and I want to understand the mystery.”

“Because I do not have a great deal of
self-control right now. I feel as restless as you did moments
ago.”

“I can help you find release.”

The thought of her virgin hands—her virgin
mouth—on his swollen cock only made him harder. He wanted to show
her, but it wasn’t the wisest choice.

And then she turned in his arms and slid her
hand down the front of his trousers. He groaned and it was no
longer his choice. She sat between his parted thighs and unfastened
his trousers with some difficulty, her knuckles brushing the
underside of his erection through the fabric. He clenched his teeth
so he wouldn’t spend in his pants like an untried youth.

“Let me,” he said, finally pushing her hands
away and parting the fabric, then bringing out his cock in his own
fist.

She sat back. “It’s larger than I
expected.”

“What every man wishes to hear,” he said
through gritted teeth.

“May I touch it?”

“When I spend, it’s much messier than when
you do,” he advised. ”Proceed with caution.”

She glided delicate fingertips down his
length, tracing veins, her nails lightly scraping his balls, which
tightened in response. She explored the shape of them, then dragged
her touch up to circle the head, flicking her finger over the drop
of fluid and easing it over the skin.

“Hard and soft,” she murmured, to
herself.

“More hard than soft.”

“How can I help you spend?” she asked, the
last word not quite tripping off her tongue.

“Wrap your hand around me.” He wanted her
mouth on him so badly he couldn’t think to tell her no. Instead he
folded her hand around his width—and got harder—before guiding her
movements, up and down. “This is the rhythm of sex. When you make
love with your husband, he will slide in and out of you just like
this.”

She made a small sound that he interpreted as
longing. “It’s what was missing. The emptiness.”

“Yes.” She was watching him so closely,
studying him, learning him.

“I want to kiss it. It’s so very odd. May I
kiss it?”

Yes! “No! I would—I--” He couldn’t form words
anymore, just imagined her lips brushing the sensitive head, her
tongue touching his skin, and his cum spilled out, striping her
thigh, pulsing over her hand.

Her gaze still on him, though her eyes were
markedly wider, Sarah peeled her hand away and he climbed off the
bed to fetch a cloth to clean her up. He could hardly send her back
to her mother this way. But Christ, he was shaking.

“Is your curiosity quite satisfied?” he
asked, managing not to sound breathless after his orgasm, tucking
away his cock as she wiped herself clean.

She lifted those dark eyes to him. “More
curious than ever, I’m afraid. I can cancel my plans for tomorrow,
return and you can show me more.”

“I can show you no more,” he said sharply.
“You are a virgin, which is how you will leave me, each and every
time.”

“But I want to know.”

“Then find a husband.” He tossed his own
cloth aside and strode toward the door. He very rarely walked away
from temptation, but this time, he had no choice.

***

Sarah hurried down the stairs, tugging her
gloves on, her heart stinging with Monsieur Cresson’s rejection.
Her good sense told her he was only looking out for her, but every
other sense—her pride, her desire—ached with his words.

She placed her hand on the door leading into
the kitchen, where Lily waited for her to complete each session.
Sounds coming from the other side of the door urged her to proceed
cautiously, and when she peeked through the crack in the door, she
saw her hesitation was warranted.

Lily lay back on the table, knees raised,
skirt around her hips, legs parted, and Dominic bent between them,
his mouth on her sex.

Heat pooled between Sarah’s own thighs as she
watched, riveted. From her angle, she could see the movement of his
mouth against Lily’s blonde curls. First he’d cover her quim with
his lips, then he’d draw back to flick his tongue over her jutting
pink flesh, encouraging gasps from Lily, whose fingers gripped the
edge of the table.

Sarah stepped back from the door, unable to
look away, and jolted in alarm when hands closed over her arms.

“Are you enjoying watching?” Monsieur
Cresson’s voice asked in her ear.

She couldn’t find the words to respond, so
only nodded. She didn’t turn away, and he didn’t turn her away,
instead crowding closer, his own breathing uneven, his palms
sliding down her sleeves to her hands, then back up again to her
shoulders.

Her breasts swelled in her bodice, and as if
he sensed it, he glided his hands over them until she pushed
against him. He chuckled, his mouth close to her throat, and slid
his hand down to cover her mound through her skirts. She
whimpered—the pressure was nice, but the touch not nearly intimate
enough, not when she was watching Dominic’s tongue dance over
Lily’s bare flesh, thrust into her pink opening. Sarah wanted
Monsieur Cresson’s fingers on her skin, and so reached for the hem
of her skirt to lift it.

Beside her ear, he drew in a sharp breath,
then assisted her with the heavy fabric, bunching it at her waist
and sliding his hand between her parted legs, finding her slick
flesh, stroking everywhere but where she wanted his touch most,
making her swell with desire until she thought she would burst.

On the kitchen table, Lily climaxed, her body
bowing, her mouth open on a cry as Dominic licked and sucked, even
after Lily eased back on the table, bonelessly.

Sarah wanted to experience the same sensation
and swiveled her hips toward Monsieur Cresson’s touch, but he
danced his fingertips out of the way, frustrating her.

Arousing her.

Through the crack in the door, they watched
Dominic rise and unfasten his trousers. He drew out his cock—not as
handsome as Monsieur Cresson’s. Sarah had never considered that
cocks could appear different. He walked to the edge of the table
and presented his erect manhood to Lily, who opened her eyes and
smiled before rolling off the table and kneeling on the floor in
front of him. Monsieur Cresson pressed his own hard sex—still
clothed—against Sarah’s bottom as Lily closed her hand around
Dominic’s and brought it to her mouth.

She dragged her tongue down the length of it,
then back to toy with the tip, licking like she had a treat.
Dominic groaned, and Lily eased her mouth down his shaft, taking
the whole of him into her mouth. Sarah gasped at the sight and
Monsieur Cresson bucked his hips against hers. Sarah remembered the
strange urge to kiss him when he exposed his manhood to her. Was
this why? Was this natural? She’d never heard of such a thing.

She watched her maid suck on the butler’s
cock as her artist played his fingers between her legs, teasing,
spreading her wetness, before finally circling her swollen nub and
bringing her to a climax that had her crying out, bracing her hand
against the door and slamming it shut.

She had time to meet Dominic’s startled gaze
just before she did.

***

Sarah sat mortified in the hackney, unable to
meet her maid’s gaze. The tension between them was high with
unasked questions.

“It doesn’t matter to me that you watched
us,” Lily said at last. “How long were you there?”

“We watched him lick your sex until you cried
out. And then we watched you take his cock in your mouth.”

Lily gasped as if surprised to hear those
words from her mistress. “Did you enjoy watching?”

A smile curved Sarah’s lips despite herself.
“Oh, quite. Was it as pleasurable as it seemed?”

“Oh, quite,” Lily mimicked.

“Were you not embarrassed to have his mouth
between your legs?”

“I prefer that to his cock.”

What an odd thing to say, since Sarah’s quim
still ached to be filled by Monsieur Cresson’s sex.

“I can show you what it feels like, if you
wish, to have a tongue, a mouth, on your quim.”

Sarah lifted her shocked gaze to Lily at
that. The expression on the younger woman’s face was unreadable.
Surely she didn’t mean—no. Besides, all Sarah wanted was Monsieur
Cresson’s mouth there, wanted to feel the surety of it. Of course
he would know exactly what to do. And she would want to return the
favor.

“Where did you learn—how to bring a man to
pleasure with your mouth?”

It was Lily’s turn to widen her eyes. “Do you
wish to try that trick on your artist?”

Sarah’s face heated.

“He’s shown you things. Pleasure.”

“He’s cautious to leave me a virgin but I no
longer care as much. I only want to know where these feelings
lead.”

“Because of him.”

“It’s wrong. I don’t even know what he looks
like but I can think of nothing else.”

“Then I will show you.”

Chapter Four

Sarah stood naked before her mirror that
night, and watched her own hands glide over her body. She cupped
her breasts as Monsieur Cresson had done, and pinched the nipples.
A resulting pulse echoed between her thighs, which she parted, just
a bit. Interesting how connected her body was. She circled her
fingers around her nipples, and felt her arousal grow, throbbing,
waiting for release. She glided a hand down her belly and stroked
her curls, teasing herself with the possibility of touch, then
stroked her breasts again. Would Monsieur Cresson’s next portrait
of her be a nude, holding her breasts? Would he touch her again?
Would he put that great cock in her?

She should be more worried about her
virginity, she knew, but her curiosity was a wild thing. What would
it feel like to have his body joined with hers?

His cock was very much wider than her finger,
than three of her fingers, but she parted her legs farther and
slipped one finger into the part of her where he said his sex would
go, the part of her that ached even when he was touching her
clitoris.

Goodness, she was wet and swollen, but her
caress felt good. She moved her finger deeper, because his cock was
certainly longer than her finger. He would put the whole thing in
her, would he not? She pushed deeper and wiggled her finger, and a
small moan of pleasure escaped her lips. Yes, having him inside her
would be delicious. Her clitoris, as he called it, begged for
attention, so she slid her finger out of her body and across the
quivering flesh. Yes. Yes. She didn’t have the strength to resist,
only flicked her fingers back and forth until the wave hit her,
weakening her knees until she leaned forward against her
dresser.

She looked up into the mirror and saw her
flushed face and her own knowing eyes. Would Grayson Adams
recognize her knowledge when they went riding tomorrow?

Was it wrong to dream about two different men
helping her find her body’s pleasure?

***

Her mother hovered as Sarah welcomed Grayson
Adams into the drawing room. She was surprised by her urge to look
at his hands, to see their shape, to imagine how they’d feel
against her skin. Her new discoveries of her body made her so aware
of everything male about him, and how it would fit against
everything female of her. Something flashed in his eyes, like
curiosity, as he bent over her hand in greeting. Did he see the
difference in her?

His scent wafted up and the familiarity of it
took her aback. A moment passed before she recognized the
scent.

He smelled like Monsieur Cresson’s house, the
oils, the paints, the turpentine. An idea struck her so hard, so
quick, she wanted to shake it off. No, it couldn’t be. Grayson
Adams was not Monsieur Cresson. Why would he be? But the
coincidence—Grayson paying attention to her as soon as she posed
for the artist? Was it just coincidence?

Of course it was. Grayson didn’t speak with
an accent. And Monsieur Cresson surely didn’t move about freely in
society. Still, she couldn’t shake the idea as he stepped back,
sweeping his hand ahead of him.

“Shall we?”

He’d brought her a mare to ride, complete
with sidesaddle. His man rode behind, a hat pulled low over his
eyes, but he would serve as chaperone. Something about his posture
drew her attention, until Grayson stepped up assist her into the
saddle. Her gaze dropped to his hands, hoping to catch another
hint, but he wore gloves. She allowed herself the pleasure of his
hands encircling her waist as he lifted her, let her own hands rest
on his broad shoulders, lingering there until she was settled in
her seat. She’d forgotten how lovely his eyes were, a deep green,
and she sought her memory for recollection of Monsieur Cresson’s
eyes when he wore his domino. They were light, she recalled, but it
was hard to see in the candlelit room.

She made an effort to put her suspicions
behind her as he mounted his own horse and they set out toward the
park.

“The color of your habit suits you far better
than the gowns you wear,” he said, giving her another jolt. Had
Monsieur Cresson not said something similar, that she needed to
stay away from pastels? Her habit was a deep red, the one outfit
she owned with real color.