Charlotte Featherstone - Addicted

“Oh, look,” Wallingford drawled, his eyes glistening wickedly. “A new way to sip your evening tipple.”

Male laughter erupted in the room as Wallingford bent his head to the girl’s bosom and licked the trickling red liquor as it dribbled between her breasts. Instead of acting shocked, the girl, obviously a professional courtesan, giggled and clutched his face to her décolletage.

“Come, let us see what else we can have dribbling between these,” Wallingford purred as he raised himself onto unsteady feet, his gaze never leaving the large ivory mounds of the courtesan’s breasts.

Lindsay looked away from the departing couple. He had witnessed more drunken debauchery at his father’s hands than he cared to recount. He had no wish to see Wallingford make an ass of himself—nor had he a wish to follow him down the drunken path of nothingness.

Searching the room and seeing that several other men had sequestered themselves with other willing women, Lindsay sighed and plucked the incense stick from the wood-and-brass holder. Waving it under his nose, he let the curling tendrils caress his skin before inhaling the scent, dissecting the pungent fragrance like a connoisseur. The aroma was rich, earthy with a touch of moss and sandalwood. Definitely Turkish. Nothing smelled quite as potent as Turkish opium.

Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the settee, glancing at the clock. It was not quite midnight. He had a bit longer yet before he would meet Anais on the terrace. He thought about her and how she had looked standing naked before him in the stable. What a beauty she had been with her honey-blond hair lying loose around her shoulders and her wide blue eyes, eyes that were always full of life and mischief. Mentally he conjured up the memory of her full, rose-tipped breasts and the delightfully rounded mound of her belly. He had not spent enough time worshiping her belly, nor had he allowed himself to linger over the soft space between her thighs.

He had stared at the soft triangle of space where her lush thighs grazed together and the downy curls of her mons connected. It was a mysterious space, a place where he was drawn, a place for his mouth, his fingers, his cock . Lord, but he was hungry for her. He’d had her twice two nights ago. Instead of abating his desire, it had only fuelled his need for her.

How long it had been since he’d desired to have her in his bed? He’d been sixteen. That was how long he’d been fantasizing about Anais. Fourteen long, agonizing years—seeing her, hearing her, being next to her. So many years of yearning, of imagining her face on the women he’d bedded.

He’d waited too long, he sighed, tossing the used stick atop the table. He’d wasted too many years. But he’d been uncertain— of her and himself.

Up until two nights ago, he hadn’t known what she truly thought of him. Her letters to him while he was away at Cambridge had always been warm and personal while staying just on the side of propriety. He hadn’t been able to glean what truly lay inside her heart, although he had spent many a night rereading every letter she had sent him, searching for the slightest sign that she returned his affection.

He in turn had started countless letters, declaring his love for her, his physical need for her. But he’d only balled them up and flung them into the fire, afraid of alienating her from his life with his lustful thoughts and actions. So he had bided his time, trying to make certain that she returned something of his regard.

But it hadn’t only been her he’d been unsure of. He’d been worried about his own worthiness.

Anais might be a shy, and somewhat self-conscious woman, but she was also a gently bred lady who knew what she was about. She wasn’t like the other women of his acquaintance— overblown and concerned only with money and fashion. That was the beauty of Anais. She didn’t have any idea how damn desirable she was or how to use her voluptuous body to get what she wanted. Anais was not that sort of woman. She was strong in her convictions with unwavering loyalty. Anais thought only in black and white, good and evil.

For Anais, there weren’t any shades of gray in her life—and so much of his life was nothing but a gray veil of mist. And yet, as unbending in her views of right and wrong were, she was kind, thoughtful and sweetly innocent. Simply put, Anais was the angel to his demon.

Her friendship had meant the world to him. He treasured it as if it were the rarest of gems. He had told her things that he’d never told another soul. She knew him more intimately than anyone did, or, he thought, anyone ever would. There was something about Anais that allowed openness and honesty. She had a way of making him feel calm and peaceful and loved.

Whether she realized it or not, she had carved out a place in his heart, settling herself so deeply inside him that she would be forever entrenched in his soul. She had stood by him through thick and thin, despite her obvious distaste for his father and his libertine ways.

How many times had he spoken of his father? How he feared for the way he might grow up? How often had she reassured him that he was not his father? That his father’s weaknesses and excesses would not be his?

She had such faith in the man he was, in the man she knew he could be. He would never do anything to harm that trust, because Lindsay knew that if he lost Anais’s faith in him, he had nothing. Without Anais, he would be his father’s son in more than just blood.

“Evening, Raeburn.”

Lindsay opened his eyes in time to see Garrett, Lord Broughton, flick his dress tails out behind him and sit on the cushion beside him.

“Evening, Broughton.”

“An interesting little scene of debauchery, isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” Lindsay murmured, before lighting another incense stick and passing it to his friend who shook his head. Lindsay shrugged and waved the opium beneath his nose, inhaling the curling smoke.

“I don’t know how you abide that stuff.” Broughton coughed. “I damn near suffocated the instant I walked into the room. It makes my head feel damned strange and I nearly always purge my guts into the nearest potted palm.”

Lindsay shut his eyes once again, allowing his senses to slow. “Nothing like a little quality Turkish Delight to facilitate the mind, Broughton. It is supposed to elevate the senses and carry you to another place and time. It’s like living out a dream,” he murmured, remembering all the wicked dreams he had of Anais over the years. Passionate, carnal dreams of making love to her in every conceivable way. Dreams of passionate lovemaking and heated, carnal fucking.

“I’m afraid the only Turkish Delight I indulge in is covered in powdered sugar.”

“Stop being such a stick in the mud and light up. Blowing a cloud would do you wonders, you know. The Magic Mist hinders melancholy, begets confidence, converts fear into boldness and makes the silent eloquent. You’d be amazed at the things you can imagine when the smoke is caressing your face. Hell, you may even discover a hidden poet inside that dutiful breast of yours.”

“I haven’t the imagination, I’m afraid,” Broughton grumbled.

Lindsay was no poet, but he certainly had a healthy imagination. Even now, with his blood slowing and thickening in his veins, Lindsay could imagine Anais on her knees, loving his cock with her mouth. He wanted to see that lovely pink mouth taking in his thick shaft. He wanted to see it glistening from her wet mouth and pulsating with the urge to spend freely along her full, high breasts.

“I don’t need anything to facilitate my mind, thank you. Furthermore, neither do you,” Broughton lectured. “Have you seen enough?” he asked, suddenly sounding perturbed. “You look as though you’re about to fall asleep.”