Bellissima (14 page)

If he were willing to do that, to take such a chance, just to be with her…

Jane’s feet began to move slowly, each step filled with intent. And they didn’t stop until she stood before him.

The tenderness and joy in his eyes made all her fears melt away, and she smiled through burgeoning tears. His family seemed to press a little closer, and she was aware of their curiosity, every gaze on her, but she couldn’t look away from Sergio’s face. She placed her hand in his, realized she was shaking when his firm grip closed on her fingers and immediately steadied her with their strength.

Bending, he touched his lips softly to her cheeks, first one and then the other, pausing after the second sweet salute, his face still next to hers.

“Il mio cuore batte solo per te,”
he whispered, emotion roughening the words to a gentle growl of possession.

She had spent hours rereading his letter, had laboriously sounded out the Italian words, wanting to be able to imagine them said in Sergio’s voice, not allowing herself to think she’d ever hear them in person. Now she recognized them, repeated them in English so he knew she had—and she felt exactly the same.

“My heart beats only for you.” she whispered. And, knowing she’d never said it, that he must need to hear the words from her lips, she added, “Oh, how I love you, Sergio.”

His fingers tightened, and although he straightened, it was as if he actually drew closer to her and they were already one. As he turned to introduce her to his family, her hand still firmly clasped in his, she knew the dance of her life had truly begun, with her very own master to lead them through whatever may come.

About the Author

After living a checkered past, and despite an avowed disinterest in domesticity, multi-published erotic romance author Anya Richards settled in Ontario, Canada, with husband, kids, an adorable pup and two cats that plots world domination, one food bowl at a time. Her slightly darker alter-ego, Anya Delvay, emerges occasionally to write erotica.

Interested in all things historical and hysterical, Anya describes herself as intensely curious, (although the word “nosy” has been bandied about) and a life-long people-watcher. Using what she’s discovered about people, places and various weird and wonderful things, Anya has written contemporary, historical and paranormal/fantasy romance novels, novellas and short stories.

To find out more, please drop by Anya’s website at
www.anyarichards.com
, follow her on
Twitter
@AnyaRwrites
or check out her blog
anyarichards.blogspot.ca
.

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Look for these titles by Anya Richards/Anya Delvay

Now Available:

Night of the Cereus

The Pearl at the Gate

Awaken

Breaking Free

What the Mistress DidOh, the delicious peril of deception…

What the Mistress Did

© 2011 Anya Delvay

Lady Marianne Gillingham has no intention of ending her affair with David Dunscombe, Earl Harrington, despite his pending nuptials. She craves his attentions, and he satisfies her deepest yearnings.

Yet, when his fiancée, the sweet, innocent and oh-so-very young Annabelle Frazier, appears on her doorstep to demand the end of the association, Marianne realizes she does not wish to be second in David’s affections. She also cannot resist issuing a warning. The earl will bed his wife with tedious regularity, but never reveal his more
unusual
desires.

To Marianne’s amusement, her prediction comes true, with a surprising twist. The countess is back with a new demand: repair the problem her prophetic words created. Taking pleasure in imagining the other woman’s fear and horror, Marianne rekindles the affair to demonstrate exactly how to fulfill David’s lascivious desires—while Annabelle secretly watches from the shadows.

She never expected Annabelle to prove so resilient and surprisingly easy—not to mention delicious—to corrupt. Or that the ensuing erotic tangle would be impossible to put right without heartbreak.

Warning: Loosen your stays and have your fan at hand. Plumes and floggers, along with some other leather devices, were employed in the creating of this erotic tangle. Contains Georgian ladies behaving badly, often with each other. M/F/F, M/F, F/F action herein.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
What the Mistress Did:

Sanity has returned by the time Lincoln ushers my visitor into my boudoir that night, and so I am able to watch with some amusement as, with a flourish, Lady Harrington tosses back the thick veil she has swathed about her head. I am sure my lack of astonishment comes as a shock to her, just as my ability to stand with aplomb and acknowledge her curtsy must also be. It is she who pauses infinitesimally before coming forward to offer a greeting.

“I was wondering who would appear at my door this evening,” I say, sinking back into my chair, arranging the folds of my diaphanous robe around my legs. “Did you think I would not be able to discern that the author of the note I received was not your husband?”

For a moment, she makes no response. It was a credible effort at copying her husband’s writing, but I have seen it too often to be completely fooled. Once the initial burst of excitement had waned, I realised the letter could not be from David. Perhaps she thought I would be deceived and, having rehearsed in her mind the way this scene is to unfold, now knows not how to proceed.

“I had to see you,” she eventually replies in her cool, clear tones. “Signing the note as I did seemed the best way to ensure you would capitulate.”

My gesture for her to take a seat goes ignored, so I wait, eyebrows raised in question for her to continue. Her poise is impressive, until I realise it to be superficial, much as is mine. Although she has not moved forward, her skirts rustle softly, obviously from the agitated stirring of her hands, hidden in their folds.

The silence lengthens, and as I begin to wonder if she will ever speak, Lady Harrington says in a rush, “You have ruined my marriage.”

I had no expectations for this visit, could see no good reason for it at all, and no amount of speculation could have led me to this moment. An instinctive rush of rage makes my blood heat, and I am forced to mask it with a laugh.

“I do not see how,” I respond, fighting the urge to rise and slap her face. “You desired me to leave your husband alone, and I have. How does that constitute impeding your marriage in any way?”

She takes a step forward, hands emerging, fingers curled into claws, but stops beyond striking range. Her breath comes in sharp gusts now, and her cheeks are flushed, all evidence of poise having vanished.

“It was what you said, the curse you laid upon me before I had the sense to know what it meant. How could you be so cruel?”

Has the strain of her changed life turned her mind? “I have no idea of what you speak.”

“Bitch,” she cries. “Whore. You have stolen the pleasure from my marriage bed with your words.”

It is all she will say, pausing as though I should understand. Our prior conversation replays in my mind as I search for the answer, and when it comes, another harsh laugh escapes.

“Do you mean when I said you will be bored? That he will fuck you the same way each night and neither of you will find true pleasure in the coupling?”

Her face contorts, and I rise in time to grab her wrists before she can gouge at my face. Annabelle Dunscombe is strong, but I am taller and stronger yet. Forcing her arms behind her, I hold her until she ceases to struggle. We stand, locked together, as she glares up at me.

“If you had said nothing, I would never know or care.” She spits the words at me, but her eyes are filled with tears. Only pride, I suspect, stops them from falling. “Each night when he comes to me, I wait. Wait for him to do something different, to teach me what he wants me to learn. But nothing changes. How can I bear to know he will not seek true pleasure with me but save it for someone like you?”

“Poor little bird,” I coo, rage making the mocking words a blade to slash at her already lacerated heart. “Do you feel bereft, angry, alone?”

Annabelle Dunscombe growls, begins to struggle once more, and she does not stop until we are on the ground and I straddle her waist, her wrists trapped beneath my knees. She has lost her veil and wig, and her short dark hair is dishevelled. The mass of her skirts and pannier bunch against my back. My robe is in disarray, caught on the tips of my breasts, barely meeting at my waist but open below to expose my belly and the curls between my thighs.

Beneath me, my captor’s chest heaves with each gasping breath, nipples almost escaping her low-cut bodice. Flushed with rage and perspiration, she is truly, absolutely glorious. If David could see her thus, he would be upon her like a ravenous beast. More likely she greets him in the dark with a cool, compliant air instead of this fire.

My ire redoubles, and I hear myself snarl, “It is one of life’s ironies that we never appreciate what we have. I gave you what you desired, but it is not enough for you, is it? You possess all I could ever dream of having, and yet greed brings you here to demand even more.”

“I want nothing from you—nothing!”

I laugh at her rejoinder, pressing my knees harder into her arms. “Liar! If you wanted nothing from me, you would never have come.”

She bites her lip, obviously at a loss for words, and swallows deeply, the hectic colour draining from her face. Unable to hold my gaze, she lowers her eyes.

I recognise the exact moment she realises I am all but naked. Her eyes widen, dart away from my breasts but just as swiftly return—linger. A blush floods her cheeks, and her gaze drops to the junction of my thighs.

Now she cannot suppress her gasp of shock, nor stop herself from staring.

Imogene teases me that my clitoris is larger than one any delicately bred woman should possess, and sucking it is almost akin to performing fellatio. Keeping my pubic hair neatly trimmed emphasizes its size, for it is always visible between my cunt lips. With my legs spread wide to immobilize the little harridan, I know she can see it clearly and do nothing to hinder her view.

The silk of her gown is slick beneath my arse, heated from the tussle. The scent of lilacs, mingled with a light hint of perspiration and my own unique odour, rises to my nostrils. I am aroused by the physicality of our encounter, my anger and her naiveté. I have the urge to slide forward, to cover her face with my quim, to force her to please me, since she has stolen the greatest of pleasures from my life.

This is shocking, even to me.

“What do you want from me, Lady Harrington?”

Harsh, commanding, my voice seems to wake her from her trancelike state, but when she raises her eyes, they are glazed, confused.

“I…” She falters, swallows again, shakes her head, and as I watch, the tears she has held in finally overwhelm her and roll from her eyes. “I want you to tell me how to win his love.”

“How?” I will not relent, for the sight of her tears moves me not at all. I have cried enough to fill the Thames to overflowing. It is her turn now to weep.

“Tell me what to do, how to fulfill the needs you say he has.” Rushing, forestalling any reply I might make, she continues. “You know my husband better than I. Teach me how to…”

Such is her innocence, she cannot even articulate what it is she wishes to learn.

“You are a young, silly fool who has given no thought to anything other than her own selfish wishes. You have no concern for my feelings; why should I care about yours?”

“Because you love David.” Suddenly her voice is strong, even though her tears continue to fall. “I have seen it in your eyes, although you try to hide it, even from him. You would want him to be happy. Teach me how to do it.”

*IDS@DPGroup*

Desire as essential as breath…deception as fragile as sanity.

Beauty and the Earl

© 2014 Jess Michaels

The Pleasure Wars, Book 3

Liam, the Earl of Windbury, had everything when he held his secret lover in his arms. Until a feud between their families left her dead, his body broken, and his sister married to his bitterest enemy.

Wracked with guilt, simmering with rage, he’s spent a year in seclusion, seeing no one except a few servants as he does his best to forget the past and patently refuses to think about any kind of future.

When courtesan Violet Milford enters Liam’s lair, she’s on a secret mission to gather information for Liam’s desperate sister, who fears for his sanity, even his life. What she finds is a man scarred inside and out, whose dark, controlling sensuality hides the kind, wounded man within.

Violet awakens a sexual desire more powerful than Liam has ever known, and her stories weave a spell that begins to work its way past his defenses. But when the truth inevitably comes out, it could well destroy the love that is saving them both.

Warning: This book features a sexually experienced woman who will use every trick in her book to save a man from himself.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Beauty and the Earl:

Liam sank up to his chin in the steaming waters, letting the supposedly healing waters of Bath seep into his injured shoulder. The warmth of the natural spring helped, but he wasn’t certain he retained any miracle cures beyond the few moments of pleasure in the water.

And yet here he was, thanks in great part to the insistence of his…well, what would he call Malcolm Graham anyway? Assistant, sometime secretary, occasional estate manager…
friend
. Possibly the only one he had left, and that was likely due in large part to the fact that Mal was on his payroll.

But whatever Mal’s motivation, he had dragged Liam here to “take the waters” and take the waters he would.

He measured his breaths, trying desperately to empty his head of all thoughts. It was a nearly impossible task, it seemed, for his mind was always filled with memories he didn’t want to consider and guilt he refused to acknowledge.