Portia Costa - In the Flesh

“Yes, oh God, yes I do!” Charlie tossed his head against the bricks, aware of the ever-present sooty grime of the city soiling his hair. “My name is Charles … Charlie … oh hell and damnation man, that’s wonderful … oh God!”

“But we’ve only just begun, Charlie,” breathed Jamie, then he stabbed in with another deep kiss, before nibbling on Charlie’s lower lip. “Shall we let the rampant beast see the air now?”

Reality suddenly pierced the hot, sensual haze. Charlie struggled for sanity, for sobriety, and tried to pull away, even though the denying words still eluded him.

But Jamie would not be gainsaid. He squeezed yet harder on the tip of Charlie’s organ, the fleeting moment of cruelty like heaven to a man of Charlie’s sensibilities.

“Oh no, you don’t, sir.” The husky voice was playful yet menacing, “I want a good look at this nice little toy.”

“Not so little, I’ll thank you,” growled Charlie, finding his backbone from somewhere.

“Indeed,” said Jamie, his deft fingers working on the buttons of Charlie’s trousers … and then his linens.

Charlie gasped as the cooler air of the garden night hit his cock. Jamie eased him out of the aperture in his clothing, and he could almost imagine his flesh steaming, hot and hard as an iron bar.

“Fine … very fine indeed,” murmured Jamie, his hand settling upon it.

At first he just held Charlie, his large yet nimble fingers lightly curled as he kissed Charlie’s face in little nips and dabs and busses. It was a delicate exploration, all the more stirring for the intimate hold down below. Charlie wanted to scream at Jamie to pump him.

“Steady, Charlie my boy, steady on.” Jamie’s smile was saturnine as he pulled back a little, staring into Charlie’s eyes, his own hooded and sultry as a finger drummed hither and thither, light and taunting. “I’m not ready for you to spend all over me … at least not yet. You have to earn your satisfaction, my fine lad.”

Luscious fear coiled in Charlie’s gut. He thought of practices performed in certain discreet houses and his organ stiffened harder at the thought, jumping in his lover’s hand.

“You’re a naughty fellow, aren’t you?” purred Jamie, his raw tone revealing his country origins. Despite his desperate state, Charlie felt a rush of warmth, remembering happy times at Westerlynne. “But I’m not doing it all for you, Charlie my lad. Not tonight …” He reached for Charlie’s hand and folded it around his very own flesh.

Blood burned in Charlie’s face and in the hard rod between his fingers. Dark pleasure surged at the thought of exhibiting his private technique. His fingers shook as they fumbled and slid, and his head felt as light as if he’d supped a quart of brandy on top of the several snifters he’d already consumed in addition to champagne.

But the thought of his debts and troubles was all but forgotten, and when Jamie’s hands finally strayed to his own trouser buttons, Charlie didn’t have a remaining care in the whole wide world.

The Indecent Proposal

“MISS BEA! MISS BEA! Wake up!”

Sleep had Beatrice in its grip. Holding her down deep, it wouldn’t be shaken off and she was drowning. But not in the sea or the grimy Thames or even the lake at Westerlynne. No, she was lost in a pair of dark blue eyes.

There was no escaping them. And she didn’t want to. Swathed in her dream, and enveloped in heat and sensation, she pressed her soft body to the hard muscled form of a man.

Beatrice’s eyes snapped open as two things impressed themselves upon her.

One was that her maid Polly was leaning over her and shaking her shoulder with far more vigor than most employers would tolerate from their servants.

The second realization brought a furnace of blush to her already warm cheeks. Beneath the covers, her flannel nightgown was bundled around her hips in a twisted, tangled bunch and her right hand was pressed firmly between her thighs.

Damn the man. All his fault. He was debauching her in her dreams now. Heaven help her when …

“Miss Bea! Come on! Please wake up, there’s men in the kitchen!”

“Men in the kitchen? What in goodness’ name do you mean? What men?” Beatrice snatched her fingers from where they’d strayed. Thank heavens for the mound of bedclothes, tucked high up to her chin. She struggled to wake up properly, still blinking at her maid.

“Two men, Miss Beatrice. They just arrived at the area door and Enid let them in. You know how daffy she can be when she’s half-asleep.”

Polly looked flushed, almost as pink in the face as Beatrice imagined herself to be. The young woman’s plain morning cap was sliding awry, as it often did, and one or two wisps of her flaxen hair were already tumbling.

“Arrived for what? What kind of men, Polly?”

A succession of horrid possibilities, all alarming, presented themselves.

When the photographs had first appeared and her notoriety as the Siren had begun, a variety of gentlemen of the lower press had hung around, hoping for a sight of her, or a statement. For a while it had been quite impossible to go out. But then a new sensation had arisen, as they always did, and her journalistic followers had thankfully drifted away, only to be replaced by a threat of another flavor.

Bailiffs!

Oh no, it hadn’t come to this, had it? Just when a solution, however imperfect and insalubrious, had presented itself. And even if it wasn’t the dreaded bailiffs, there’d been some decidedly shady and tough-looking coves loitering in their street the past few days. They didn’t approach in the way the journalists had, but just looked menacing, and Beatrice sorely feared they might be the hirelings of Charlie’s many creditors.

Thoroughly rattled now, Beatrice wriggled her way into a sitting position while at the same time surreptitiously pushing down her nightgown. Erotic fancies must be set aside for the moment in order to deal with hard, cold realities. She just hoped these men could be reasoned with, and persuaded to wait until Ritchie presented his indecent proposal and some money was forthcoming. Reaching for her shawl, though, she was embarrassingly aware that her fingers were somewhat fragrant, and with a scent that Polly would no doubt recognize.

“Have you woken Mr. Charles? I think he’ll want to deal with this.”

He wouldn’t, actually. Charlie would be worse than useless in this situation, and Polly had actually done the sensible thing coming to her first. But she didn’t want to insult her brother’s manhood by coming out and saying he was hopeless.

“No, actually … they … should I say he said to speak to you, Miss Beatrice. The one in charge, that is. He’s brought a letter for you, and he says a reply is expected by return.”

“The one in charge? In charge of whom? What letter?”

Dear heaven, the offer was here already?

And there was only one “man in charge” whose face sprang readily to mind. She could have drawn it in perfect line-for-line detail this very moment. Complete with the narrow wicked smile he’d worn as he dallied with her. The same demonic yet beautiful expression that had been on his face while he’d touched her.

Polly snatched up the tiny silver correspondence tray from the chair beside the bed and presented it as a moment-by-moment memory of all that had occurred last night washed like a waterfall into Beatrice’s mind.

Ritchie’s face. His smile. His hands.

His deep blue eyes, burning like dark coals. The devil!

But even though Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was only a gentleman of sorts, she couldn’t imagine him being content to wait in the kitchen for her answer to his own letter. Especially not with Cook blathering on at Enid, and the smoky range, and dish cloths and tea cloths all hung up to dry, and the general state of disorder that pervaded a house with not enough servants.