Nan Ryan - The Seduction Of Ellen

Mister Corey willingly obliged.

“Ahhhh,” Gabrielle moaned with delight as he slowly impaled her on his hard, pulsing flesh.

With his hands on her firm thighs, he guided her, lowering her soft, yielding body down onto him until he was buried in her.

She loved it.

Gabrielle immediately began rocking and thrusting her hips and Mister Corey quickly caught her rhythm. Her bare, full-nippled breasts pressed against his dark face, the Frenchwoman murmured teasingly, “You’ve done this before, Mister Corey.”

“As have you, Gaby,” he replied.

Unashamedly experienced, needing no extra time and mindless of her partner’s stage of arousal, Gabrielle quickly climaxed, letting herself go, crying out in her ecstasy. Damp with perspiration, heart pounding beneath her naked breasts, she collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and clutching his sides with her knees. She was aware that he’d not yet attained release and she was glad.

She wanted more.

Sighing, smiling foolishly, Gabrielle finally sat up, looked him in the eye and said, “You’re still hard, Mister Corey. Soooo deliciously hard.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Do you like games?”

“Try me.”

“Let’s see if we can manage to get all of your clothes off while you’re still inside me. Wouldn’t that be an enjoyable challenge?”

It turned out to be just that.

The couple tumbled about on the bed, rolling to one side so that Mister Corey could get his arm out of a jacket sleeve. Gabrielle busied herself with the buttons on his white ruffled shirt. Working furiously, Gabrielle laughing all the while, they contorted their bodies, reaching around each other, tugging at clothing, taking care to not come apart.

Finally Mister Corey was as naked as she, except for his dark stockings.

“Here’s how we’ll do this,” he said, lying on his back with Gabrielle seated astride him.

He slowly rolled up into a sitting position facing her as she drew her legs around his back. Checking to see if she was comfortable, assured that she was, he bent his right knee and brought it up close to his side. Immediately taking her cue, she twisted about, reached out, and peeled off his black stocking. She tossed it to the floor and said, “Now give me your other foot.”

“We did it!” Gabrielle cried jubilantly, when the last black stocking came off. “Now, let’s do it.”

“Good morning, Miss Cornelius. May I join you?”

Ellen turned from the ship’s railing to see Enrique O’Mara approaching.

Nodding, Ellen said, “That’s Mrs. Cornelius, Mr. O’Mara.”

He laughed and said, “That’s Ricky, Mrs. Cornelius.”

His warm, friendly manner and infectious grin disarmed her. She laughed too and said, “That’s Ellen, Ricky.”

“Ah, sí, Ellen,” the good-natured Ricky replied as he stepped up and rested his muscular forearms on the railing beside her.

Spanish on his mother’s side and Irish on his father’s, Ricky O’Mara possessed the good looks and fiery spirit of both parents. He was one of those rare individuals who enjoyed every minute of his life, no matter where he was, who he was with, or what he was doing. He took genuine delight in things others hardly noticed. To him, a spectacular sunrise was cause for celebration. As was the dazzling sight of the vast Atlantic Ocean stretching before them. He found joy all around, which made him a joy to be around. People liked Ricky O’Mara because he liked them.

Ellen Cornelius was no exception. Circumstances being what they were, she had honestly expected to dislike him. But it was impossible. The happy-go-lucky Ricky was a naturally sweet, kind, fun-loving man who cared about others. He was so amicable, Ellen wondered why on earth he chose to be friends with the sullen Mister Corey.

Ellen lifted a hand to shade her eyes and said, “Tell me, Ricky, how have you been entertaining yourself these past five days at sea?”

Ricky’s broad grin grew broader still. “Oh, it has been easy. There is so much to do and see. So many delicious meals.” He winked at her and added, “So many pretty women on this ship, Ellen.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she said dryly. “Anyone in particular that you—”

“No, oh, no,” he said emphatically, shaking his dark head for emphasis. “I love all women.” He flung his long arms out in an encompassing gesture. “I could never love only one.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I am very sure. I will never marry. It wouldn’t be fair, since I could never be a faithful husband.”

“No, no, it wouldn’t,” Ellen said. “At least you know yourself and admit it.”

“Yes, I do. I have never been in love,” he stated, then reasoned, “I am thirty-four. If it hasn’t happened to me by now, it never will.” Laughing then, he touched Ellen’s hand where it gripped the railing and said, “What about you, Ellen? You are Mrs. Cornelius, so you must have been in love once. Will you fall in love again?”

She answered quickly. “Never in a million years.”

She laughed then and Ricky laughed with her. They fell silent for a moment, then Ricky needlessly cleared his throat and said, “Ellen, I know that you do not approve of me, of us, but—”

“I really don’t want to discuss it, Ricky,” she stopped him. “Whether I approve or not is unimportant. You were contracted by my aunt, not by me. My opinion, as usual, is of no value. So, you’d be wasting your time trying to convince me that this upcoming excursion is on the up-and-up.”

“But it is,” he said, his expression earnest. “Padjan knows where—”

“Ricky,” she interrupted, “please. Let’s change the subject.”

Ricky wisely heeded her advice. The disarming smile back on his lips, he said, “You know something? I like you, Ellen Cornelius.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow at him. His flashy grin suggested both his amusement with the world and his fondness for it. And for himself. But on him the expression was somehow boyishly charming.

“I like you too, Ricky.”

In the following days—and nights—Ellen saw Mister Corey and Mademoiselle de Puisaye together regularly. Bristling each time she spotted the laughing French beauty seated beside Mister Corey at dinner, or at a gaming table, or on a railside bench in the moonlight, Ellen reminded herself she was far too sensible to care.

While there was no denying that Mister Corey had a certain menacing charm, Ellen knew instinctively that he had found the kind of woman he preferred in the bold French beauty. The kind of woman he deserved. A woman who was much like himself. A woman who shared his values—or lack thereof. The counterpart to his toughness and vulgarity and sensuality.

They were, Ellen decided, a perfect pair and they had her blessing!

After ten full days at sea, the SS White Star slowly entered the New York harbor. Ellen hadn’t realized how homesick she’d been until she saw the imposing Statue of Liberty rising to meet the clear New York sky.

Once again, Ricky O’Mara stood beside her at the railing. “Glad to be home?” he asked, his dark-eyed gaze on the Manhattan skyline.

“You have no idea,” Ellen said.

“Ah, but I do,” said the smiling man who had been away from his beloved America for more than a year.

Still in her stateroom, Alexandra was giving Mister Corey instructions as the ship inched its cautious way toward the dock, several tugs urging it into its proper berth.

“I will be ready to leave for the West in ten days,” Alexandra told him. “You are to make all the traveling arrangements for the journey. I own a private rail car, but there’s only enough room for Ellen and me, so you will engage additional cars to transport your group.”