Portia Costa - In the Flesh

But she did do it—yes, she did—in her quiet, lonely bed.

“Answer me! If you admit to stroking your own clitoris, I’ll double that annuity.”

Beatrice bit her lips, trying to stifle the uncouth sounds she couldn’t stop making. He might command her flesh, but he couldn’t make her utter such personal revelations. Not even for ten times the allowance!

“Don’t fight me, my sweet girl. Don’t fight me. I only want to pleasure you and to hear you describe your private games.” He kissed her neck again, his hot tongue gliding over her skin as his finger slid around and around below.

Beatrice started to whimper again, tossing her head. She might cry and shriek and wail like an animal, but she would not speak the revealing words he wanted.

“So that’s how it is, eh?” He laughed, his husky voice seeming to dance where his fingers flicked and played. “Perhaps another time then? For the moment, I’ll simply make you spend.”

He circled faster. And as she latched on harder to him, with both arms clasped around his neck, he burrowed beneath her skirts with his other hand, sneaking it into her drawers at the back.

Oh no! Oh no! Please, no!

The thoughts were nonsense. Her whole mind was nonsense. But her body knew what it wanted, what it enjoyed.

When he stroked the rounds of her bottom, and the tender groove between them, she arched like a steel bow and reached her pinnacle. Waves of pleasure pulsed through her belly, and her clitoris beat like a little heart, jumping and throbbing beneath Ritchie’s clever fingertip.

Half out of her senses, Beatrice thrashed and jerked about, holding on hard, and when the pleasure crested again, she buried her face in Ritchie’s neck, her mouth against his collar, her teeth closing and nipping at his skin. He let out a curse, but he laughed, still working on her.

“Enough, oh, I beg you … please, enough,” gasped Beatrice. Perspiration was soaking her chemise, her skin felt like fire, and she was sure that any moment she was going to faint clean away. Her own cautious experimental touches had yielded some delicious little flurries of fulfillment, but nothing like this, oh no, nothing like this. And exquisite as it was, she wasn’t sure if she could survive much more right now.

“Are you sure? Are you really sure?” Ritchie was gasping too, his voice broken as if he’d run a dozen miles without breaking his stride, “A woman like you must be capable of infinite sensuality.”

A woman like you?

As his hands withdrew with a last affectionate pat or two, Beatrice was deposited rudely back into the world of actions and their consequences with a ringing thud. She was angry with Ritchie, but angrier by far with both Eustace and herself.

Mostly with herself. For her own gullibility, and her incautious pursuit of a little affection. If she’d been more prudent, she wouldn’t even have got herself into the start of this trouble.

Finding her feet, she wriggled away, and as her skirts swished down into place again she smoothed them compulsively with her hands. But no amount of smoothing and patting could wipe away what had just happened underneath them.

“You can’t behave as if that didn’t just happen, you know.” He looked at her, long and hard, his eyes dancing. “I have the evidence.” In a slow, lascivious action, he raised his right hand to his lips, and licked the very fingertips that had stroked her so thoroughly. “Mmm … delicious. I could become addicted.”

“You’re disgusting, Mr. Ritchie.” Beatrice strode across to the sideboard, where a silver tray bore decanters and crystal glasses. It was the first time she’d ever helped herself to alcohol in the way men customarily did, but the aromatic bite of a fine brandy might calm her nerves. She stared at Ritchie over the crystal rim of the vessel, and what she noticed made her grin before she took a revivifying sip.

A vivid red bite mark adorned his neck, just above his crisp high collar, and he still sported a prodigious erection.

Serves you right! I hope it’s exceedingly uncomfortable. Because I’m not going to do anything about it.

“You could help with this.” He glanced down, following her look, his long lashes flicking. “I’m sure you know what to do.”

“Of course I do, Mr. Ritchie, but I’m afraid I’m not going to oblige you at the moment.” Clopping down the glass on the tray, Beatrice swept across the room and retrieved her forgotten fan, reticule and dance card. She half anticipated that her antagonist would intercept her with one of his preternatural bursts of speed, but he remained where he was, and when she reached the door, he even stepped aside. “You’ve had your sample, and there’ll be nothing further until I see an … an offer in writing. With no assets and no good reputation, I’ve got to be sure of what I’m getting before I give anything more in return.”

Ritchie shook his head, but the expression on his face was as much about admiration as it was of thwarted lust. “You’re a shrewd businesswoman, Beatrice.” He rubbed his neck where she’d bitten him as if silently adding a few other choice descriptors. “In your place, I’d do exactly the same. You’ll have a letter tomorrow.”

So easy? Yes, she supposed so. The formal particulars were the least of it. The very least.

“Excellent. Good. I’ll look forward to it.” She turned the key, grabbed the doorknob and swung open the door, her heart thudding. A few moments ago, this wretched man had gasped as if he’d been running, now she felt as if she’d done the fabled run from Marathon too. And probably back again. “I’ll bid you good-night, Mr. Ritchie. I think it’s time I went home. I’m feeling rather fatigued and need to rest.”

Barely pausing to accept his elaborate bow, and not wanting to see his mocking smile, Beatrice rushed out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her with a loud slam. Impolite behavior, she admitted, but after what had happened in that room just now, the natural boundaries of polite, acceptable behavior were redefined forever.

Would he follow? She hesitated just a second or two, but the door remained closed. Much for the best, she supposed, but in that case why did her heart sink inside her with crushing disappointment?

What have I done? Oh dear God in heaven, what have I done?

Between her thighs, right at her core, she felt his touch.

The corridor was silent, but in her head, she heard Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie laughing.

In the Pale Moonlight

CHARLIE WEATHERLY BREATHED deep as he exited onto the moonlit terrace and made his way, somewhat shakily, down the broad steps that led to the garden.

His head was whirling, and his heart beating. This evening was not turning out to be satisfactory at all. Not at all. He’d spent a large part of his time avoiding a couple of fellows from his club to whom he owed a considerable amount of money, and to cap it all, instead of behaving with suitable decorum, and attempting to mend her shattered reputation and conduct herself as a suitable young lady for marriage, Bea had been quite clearly seen in conversation with that wretched ladies’ man, Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.

The man was as disreputable as he was rich and Charlie would have been prepared to overlook the former for the sake of the latter, if Ritchie wasn’t known to be sworn against further marriages. There were mutterings about not one, but two wives lost already. Hints of mysterious circumstances and nefariousness, but all no doubt hushed up due to the blackguard’s obscene wealth.

Charlie frowned, longing for the taste of brandy, even though he was unsteady enough on his feet already. A card game would be a nice distraction too, even if he was likely to lose again.