Lady Varney's Risqué Business (7 page)

“A woman who speaks her mind about politics and marriage,” he admitted.

“Ah. Well. Politics can kill.”

“So can some marriages.” He arched a brow. “You knew it firsthand.”

“I did.”
But no longer. And never again.

At her expression, he scowled but smiled half-heartedly as if he made a note of this issue. “Wait here. I will return to be your maid.”

She laughed as he strode away, his long naked back a beautiful ripple of muscle and sinew. “I enjoyed your copper tubing for heated water for my bath.”

“I’m afraid,” he called to her from the main room, “I have no such convenience here. I am boiling water.”

She inched up and pushed pillows behind her. As she sat, she looked down at her nude body and marveled at her ease under the circumstances. Had she ever thought to take a lover, she never would have presumed she could lounge about without a stitch to cover herself. But this was Justin. And she was enchanted. Amused.
And you’ve thrown caution to the wind. Tossed away more than your clothes. Have you even lost your mind?

“The kettle’s boiling on the fireplace. It’ll be a few minutes,” he told her as he came to sit on the bed, lean over her and kiss one nipple and then the other. “What bothers you, darling?”

She stared at him. Her naked lover. Serene. Pleased with himself. His plans. His seduction of her. Did he think beyond this rendezvous? The consequences? God knows, she had, but then caught off guard in the garden, she had turned into a blithering idiot! “Do you have any French letters?”

“I do.” His tone grew grave. “Did you bring any with you?”

“To the Manor? Yes. They’re in my room.”

“Do you like using them?” He scowled. “I don’t.”

“I’ve never used them,” she declared. “Henry had no need for them.”

“Of course not.” Justin pushed up. “And yet you have only one child by him?”

“Yes,” she said and sat higher against the headboard. “He was not always able to perform.”

“As I thought,” he said with a mixed tone of acceptance and relief.

“I doubt you have that problem.” She could not help the challenge in her voice.

“You are perceptive.”

Her lower lip quivered. “We must use them. I cannot become pregnant.”

“If you did—”

“I cannot!”
Cannot marry you. Your uncle would not allow it. He wants too much, including a sizable dowry which I do not have. Worse, if I were to become pregnant, he still might not permit the marriage for the lack of wealth. And I? Dear God. If I were to become pregnant, once discovered, my condition would mean I lose my social standing. Become disgraced.
“All my work, my business, my need to—”

“Stop.
Stop!
” He had his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers, sweet little kisses pressed against her lips. “We will use the letters. Hate them though I do, I will not have you think me so dastardly that I will get you with child and never care for him or her or—Sweet Puss—or you! Look at me!”

She did, though tears dribbled down her cheeks.

He brushed them away. “Let me have you as I will, when I will for the hours remaining to us and know that as you do, I will use the damned letters, darling.”

He left her then, her arms crossed, her victory less than satisfying. She’d seen the letters. Odd translucent skins. She grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to imagine how the misshapen sheets fit around a man’s cock. How they would fit around one as large as Justin’s.

She grinned, wondering if it took two people to dress a man for his lover. She giggled.

Justin appeared in the doorway, a basin in his hands. “Your mood has improved, I see. Lie down.”

She stiffened her spine. “No.”

He warned her to obedience with wide eyes and a fierce, funny look on his face. “I said, lie down and let me inside here.”

As he put his fingers to her slit, she gasped. “You cannot order me about…”

“No?” he countered her, his hands opening her cunny to his view. “This is my pretty pussy. Mine, for tonight and tomorrow. And you like me inside you. My fingers.” He stroked her slit, parted her tender labia and bent to place a kiss on her pubic bone. “Let me wash you. Then I’ll get my contraceptives and fuck you again.”

At his ribald words, she groaned and widened her thighs for him.

He nuzzled her swollen labia, and she froze. He would kiss her with the essence of both of them in her cunt?

He would.

She swooned.

He did.

“You like this,” he crooned. “And so do I. No one tastes like you, Pussy mine. No one.”

She heard water trickle, swish. She felt him press a warm cloth to her hot needy cunt.

“You are still red and hot for me, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Very,” she confessed as he washed her thoroughly.

“I want you to taste you again. Now and often. You will allow me, darling.” He used two fingers to part her inner folds. “This is so lovely. I must kiss you here.”

“Mmm,” she objected, but he held her open.

“You will tell me how I please you.” Then he found that special spot that made her keen and buck. “Your clitoris. Your button. Your nub. Mine. I will use it often to unlock your secrets, Pussy mine.”

She moaned and spread her legs wider. “Kiss me again there!”

He threw the cloth to the floor and as she heard it splat, his mouth covered her clitoris and he licked her, rubbed her, massaged her right out of her mind.

She grabbed for his shoulders, and felt his muscles contract as he laved her and held her, then lifted her up and ate every inch of her like a man who was starving.

She whimpered, she thrashed. “Fuck me! Do it now!”

He lifted, shifted and rammed his cock so straight, so deep, so hard inside her, she let him ride her on a wave of madness until once more she felt a quake approach.

“How’s this?” he bellowed as he pumped her mercilessly.

“Good!” she yelled and dug her nails into the mattress.

“This?” he snarled and picked up his tempo, while two fingers pinched her clitoris in time with his thrusts.

“Great! Yes!” she screamed at him. “
Yes! Now
!”

She throbbed with a madness that blanked her mind and made her body tremble with delight. He yelled, his eyes shut, his body bent to fucking her. Fucking her. Taking her until she throbbed no more, but her cunt grabbed him, cupped him, kept him.

“Christ, darling. You are so swollen, I cannot move.”

She dare not loosen her hold of him. “You are superb.”

“Best only with you,” he whispered to her ear and fell over her, a heap of manly bones draped around her like a dying man. A loving man. “You are incomparable.”

She smiled to herself, her fingers tracing little patterns on his body. Little by little, she relaxed her pussy around his cock, and he slipped out of her body. Still, he held her close, his hands covering her breasts.

“Come. I will feed you,” he told her and caught her up in his arms.

“I cannot think, let alone dine!”

He chuckled, set her on his lap before a circular table laden with dishes and platters piled high with offerings. He fed her sugared strawberries and candied walnuts. Slices of cold roast beef, the juices dripping over his fingers, a silent invitation to lick him clean one she did not overlook. He dipped tiny tartlets into chocolate sauce and kissed the excess from her lips. He poured rich red Spanish wine from a jug into one large silver goblet and let her drink from it, then drained it himself. By the time the repast was gone, she was stuffed, and he, hungry still for items not on the table, cleared it with one swipe of his arm. Then he set her on it.

“My dessert,” he proclaimed then nibbled on her breasts and toyed with her clitoris. “Open wide, my pussy, I need to feast on you again.”

She let him. Reclining, reveling, moaning at his tender touch, his sweet caring mouth and tongue and teeth over her most sensitive cunny, she sighed and screamed and came once again.

This time, when he took her in his arms, he took her back to bed and there they slept.

She awoke, tangled in the sheets and his arms.

When she blinked, she noticed why she had awakened. The insatiable man was sucking delicately, devilishly on one of her nipples.

“I cannot resist these,” he declared, his voice rough with sleep. “I had to have a taste before breakfast.”

Emboldened by all they had shared last night, she ran her hand down his torso to stroke his shaft and roll his balls. She lifted her brows at him. “What’s good for the cock is good for the gander.”

With narrowing gaze, he asked her mutely if she really meant to emulate his own act.

She pushed him to his back and with a reverent touch, examined how readily he responded to her offer. His rod grew taller, prouder, fuller even as she watched. The head became purple, a drop of fluid forming at the slit. She never considered this for Henry, but her pussy pulsed and her nipples beaded at the very idea of taking Justin in her mouth. She sank over him, his taste an aphrodisiac to her, making her moan and want and suck him harder. His cock was a luscious piece with soft skin and rigid power.

He gasped, then pushed her to her back, and in one long drive, he claimed her. Fucked her. Made her his own. Once more in a pounding ecstasy that took her breath away.

Hours later when she opened her eyes, the sun streamed in the tiny windows of the cottage. Was it afternoon, perhaps?

She rose from their bed and silently crept out to the larger room. The remnants of their early morning repast stood as a reminder of how he had made love to her there. In haste. And joy. Passionately upon the tiny table.

And without protection from ruin.

She pushed that reminder aside. In months to come, there would be enough time to consider her folly here. And deal with it.

She sought the warmth of the sunshine and opened the door. Naked still, she somehow felt secure from prying eyes. Another measure of how she trusted Justin to have prepared for this tryst so well that no one, not even servants, would intrude.

She stepped out onto the path and the fragrance of roses surrounded her. At once, she saw why. Here before her stood a dozen or more cuttings of rose bushes. Each was planted in good loam, secured with posts and held to the rods toward the warmth of the sun by tiny ribbons of good hemp.

She’d not been so dazed by lust last night when Justin brought her here that she was dreaming when she smelled the musk of roses.

“They will bloom next year I am told,” Justin’s voice reached out to her.

“Your gardener has done a very good job,” she said as she walked forward to examine the expert cuttings. “What colors will they be, do you know?”

“I do. Ruby red and virgin white.” He came to stand behind her as she bent to smile at the plants and touch a fingertip to two in turn. “I understand you love those colors best.”

She tipped up her head, shielded her eyes, trying to see him but failing because his form was silhouetted by the sun. Complimented but wary of his knowledge, she had to ask, “How do you know that?”