In the Flesh (17 page)

Beatrice thrashed her head on the pillow, grabbed knots of the bedding and twisted them, her hips lifting in silent plea for touch, for contact. But still Ritchie held back, concentrating on her breasts, his hand still and tantalizing on her abdomen.

“What do you want, Beatrice? Tell me what you want.”

“I…I want you to touch me.” Her pelvis lifted and rocked, lifting his hand with it. She imagined some kind of arcane machine inside her, working her muscles and sinews without her control.

“Where? Tell me where?”

“You know where!” she cried, compelled to assert herself, an incomplete submissive, “You’re a very perverse man, Ritchie, and you ask the most foolish questions.”

He laughed, his voice light and untrammeled, perfectly happy as he slid his fingers into her sex.

She couldn’t hold back any longer; couldn’t just lie there and accept. Grabbing his head, she dove her fingers into his thick, fair hair and below, squashed her hand over his where he touched her. She felt him laughing again, right against the skin of her breast, but he complied, pressing more firmly against her clitoris with his fingers and circling wickedly in the way now so familiar.

Beatrice thrashed and squirmed, gripping on hard, not caring if her nails dug into his scalp or the back of his hand. The things he did, with tongue and finger, made a madwoman of her, bent only on taking as fully as he was giving. She let out a harsh cry as her body clenched, and clenched again in surging waves. Pleasure seemed to make every hair on her head stand on end as the crisis took her and shook her.

Ritchie, as she might have expected, was relentless. He gave no quarter, driving her to peak after peak with his artistry. Only when she could take no more did he seem to sense that, and let her catch her breath. A gentle kiss replaced his sucking and licking at her breast, and between her legs his fingers relaxed, leaving his hand cupped around her in a featherlight hold.

In a daze, Beatrice almost laughed herself. Absurd thoughts filled her mind, floating on a wave of Ritchie’s cologne.

How can I be an insatiable voluptuary and still a virgin? And if I were a rich, rich woman, how much would I pay for Ritchie if he was one of Sofia’s “gentlemen”?

“Thirty thousand at least…” she murmured, and then it was her turn to laugh, “Maybe sixty…”

“What are you burbling about, my siren? What’s so amusing to you?” Ritchie sat up and stared down at her, grinning and curious. He reached out and tenderly brushed back wayward tendrils of red hair from her brow. The gesture was so gracious and natural that Beatrice almost grabbed his hand and kissed it.

“I was just thinking… If you were one of Sofia’s stallions, how much would I pay you for
your
services?” She sat up, very aware that she was still naked and he clothed. She wasn’t afraid or embarrassed—never that, now, with him—but the contrast of skin and cloth remained. “You give so much, you’re worth a princely sum.”

His smile broadened. “I’ll bear that in mind, Bea. One never knows when one might fall on hard times, and if one has assets, one should employ them.”

“Indeed.” A cool realization drenched Beatrice’s happy glow. Hard times had driven her to exploiting her assets. It was too easy, lost in a haze of sensuality and pleasure, to forget that she and Ritchie were not engaged in a romance, but a business deal of flesh for hire.

“Now don’t look like that,” he said. His uncanny senses had detected her sudden dark thoughts. “Yes, we’ve been brought together in unusual circumstances. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy our time together as more conventional lovers would.” He took both her hands, and held them firmly. “It’ll be a much pleasanter experience for us both.”

“Yes, of course. But…well… It’s all been a little bit one-sided thus far. I’m not exactly giving you what you paid for, Ritchie.”

Ritchie shook his head, the lamplight glinting on his curls and making a halo of them. “Ah, that,” he intoned. “The carnal act. The coup de grâce. The fuck.” He raised one of her hands to his lips and dusted a kiss on its back. “It’s not the be-all and end-all of sensuality, my darling.”

“But it does seem rather important. Most men set the greatest store by it, and you barely seem interested.”

“Oh, I am interested. Believe me, I am. But there are certain considerations to be borne in mind.” His blue eyes bored into her like darts of midnight.

Beatrice ground her teeth. Her girlhood riding habits might have made things somewhat easier for her than for many women, but the…the actual ingress was still going to come as a shock and perhaps it was better to admit to the fact before the critical moment.

“And what might those considerations be? Do tell,” she prevaricated.

“The fact that you’re a virgin, my dearest Beatrice, and you’ve never fucked a man before.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Those Considerations

THERE, IT WAS OUT.
But how did one tell a man that your virginity didn’t matter that much to you? Except that you were quite glad he was the one to take it.

“So what if I am?”

Ritchie’s face was a picture. A masterpiece of amusement, mild exasperation and a dozen other emotions, some not quite so easily deciphered.

“Well, the surrender of her virginity is generally considered to be a major event in a woman’s life, and usually reserved for marriage.” For the very tiniest part of a second he glanced away, as if hiding himself from her. “And as our arrangement is not of the marrying variety, the disposal of your virginity
raises questions.”

Oh
, for heaven’s sake, not a debate!

Beatrice wished her robe was in easy reach. She didn’t wish to enter into a great big discussion regarding virginity while she was bare naked and Ritchie wore the shield and armor of his Savile Row tailoring.

Still, what could she do? “It’s mine to dispose of, Ritchie.” She matched his steady stare with one of her own. “And I choose to dispose of it with you. Shouldn’t you be pleased about that?”

“I am, Beatrice, I am.” His hands tightened around hers as if he sensed she might try and shake herself free. “But that doesn’t stop me being concerned about you. I’m not sure you should waste such a precious gem on a man like me. When I saw the photographs, I believed that you were experienced. They are the very acme of sensual beauty. They suggest abandonment. Satiation. A familiarity with fleshly pleasures.”

“Appearances can be deceptive.” Yes, not least of all those of Eustace, who had seemed a sincere admirer and a decent man.

“Not entirely,” countered Ritchie, his thumbs smoothing across her knuckles as if to calm her. “You
are
an exquisitely sensual and responsive woman, Beatrice, a natural libertine… But you do still have your maidenhead; you can’t ignore that.”

“Well, it’s a damned nuisance to me now, and I want rid of it,” she said, speaking the utter truth. “Since my reputation is sullied beyond repair, and nobody would ever believe I was untouched even if I am, what’s the use of hanging on to something that’s meaningless.” His piercing gaze bored into her, almost emitting light yet as dark as it was brilliant. “I thought you would have been glad to oblige me, Ritchie, really I did.”

Especially as I’m sitting here naked and you have sight of all my charms.

“I shall oblige, my dear. But I must be sure that you don’t want to save it for your husband, as his natural entitlement.”

“Fiddlesticks! No man is entitled to anything in that fashion. A woman’s body is hers to dispose of.”

“Ah, what a radical you are, Bea. A veritable suffragist. Would you laugh in my face if I told you I’m in favor of your views?”

It didn’t surprise her at all. Ritchie was an unusual man, and though she barely knew him, he seemed forward thinking. That he should espouse the rights of women was
exactly
what she might have expected of him.

She smiled rather than laughed. “No, your views don’t surprise me, Ritchie. I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that you’re a very rare and rum sort of fellow, as my brother would say.”

Ritchie made a soft, wry sound. “Indeed I am, Beatrice. Indeed I am.” He drew her hands to his lips again and kissed the back of each one in a swift, decisive gesture. “And I shall be happy and honored to be your first lover.”

Beatrice opened her mouth to remind him he’d paid for that honor, but held back. He’d paid for a month of sensual pleasure and indulgence, not a month of somebody constantly
reminding
him he’d paid.

“Shall we do it now then?” she suggested, shocked at how exciting the mere suggestion was. Just when she’d thought he’d sated her, the hunger boiled again.

“Let’s work up to it, Bea. There’s no rush, and the more gradual the approach, the sweeter the prize. I don’t want to…to sour your memories.” He frowned again, and Beatrice sensed him going away from her somehow, as if revisiting dark anguish. If he hadn’t been holding her hands, she would have reached out and smoothed his pleated brow with her fingertips.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be perfectly all right. Perhaps I could have a glass of Madeira, to relax me?”

“Yes, that’s a capital idea. You’re a very sensible girl.” He released her and padded over to the side table where the decanter stood. “A very beautiful and naked sensible girl,” he added, returning and putting the glass into her hand and conducting it to her lips. “But you need to trust me completely in this. A roundabout approach will be the gentlest and least painful, believe me.”

What on earth did he mean? Beatrice sipped a little wine as Ritchie turned from her, rifling amongst the contents of the intaglio-work box still strewn across the bed.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be painful. I’m probably not an actual virgin anyway. I used to ride astride as a girl, wearing a pair of Charlie’s breeches. Mama had the vapors when she first found out, but she knew she couldn’t stop me.” Watching Ritchie, she nearly choked on her Madeira when he retrieved the ivory
godemiche
from the haul and ran his fingers over it again.

“I think we’ll employ this fellow in the first instance,” he announced, looking at her from beneath his lush lashes. “He’s much easier to control than the somewhat intractable male appendage. That organ has a mind of its own, especially when gloved in the silky heat of a beautiful woman’s puss.”

“But what about you? Shouldn’t your…um…appendage be in receipt of some pleasure, too?” She swigged down a little more wine, then set the glass aside firmly to stop herself downing the whole lot in one. “Speaking of which, I should like to examine yours before too long.”

Ritchie barked with laughter. “And so you shall, so you shall. But first let’s introduce you to our thoughtfully designed ivory friend, shall we?” His thumb moved provocatively along the ivory length, invoking the same shivers of fascination as before. “Lie back, Beatrice. Relax and let us pleasure you.”

Beatrice slid onto her back, shuffling along the counterpane, unsure how to dispose of her limbs, until Ritchie dropped the ivory phallus and laid his hands upon her. Grasping her by the hips, he edged her down further, then slid the palms of his hands flat against her inner thighs and parted them.

It was impossible to look. She closed her eyes, turned her head on the pillow. Restless, she laid her arms back and grasped the bars of the brass bedstead, bracing herself.

“Relax, my darling. You’re as stiff as a wooden doll. Let your limbs go loose. Don’t be afraid.”

Difficult. But then Ritchie leaned over her, and she could feel the brush of his waistcoat against her breasts as he placed his face against her ear and murmured sweet nothings into it. She couldn’t have said what they were, but the words were mellifluous and soothing, nonsense talk about how beautiful and clever she was. The syllables flowed from Ritchie’s lips like a honeyed elixir and propelled Beatrice into exactly the state of relaxation he’d prescribed.

As her body followed her consciousness, all tension ebbed away and she felt light and completely at her ease.

Ritchie’s hand slid along her arm where it lay on the pillow, her own hand no longer clinging to the bedstead for dear life. His fingertips hovered at her wrist, light as the kiss of a exotic hummingbird. How bizarre, was he taking her pulse?

She could almost believe he might have hypnotized her, her state was so euphoric. And even more so when he kissed first her brow, then her cheekbone, then the corner of her mouth.

Lulled and dreamy, she felt the touch of something firm and slightly cool against the skin of her belly. The
godemiche.
Ritchie circled it lightly over her abdomen, dipping it into her navel and making her giggle it felt so strange and so provocative. Then, gradually, it began to move, and the circles to migrate downward until they were brushing against her mons.

Slowly, slowly, he approached the heart of the matter, sweeping the ivory phallus over the insides of her thighs and the creases of her groin. Beatrice gave a little squeak of surprise when he slipped it into her cleft and let it rest on her clitoris. She could almost imagine it was Ritchie’s own cock now that it was warmed by her skin.

Like a mermaid floating in a warm, benevolent ocean, she felt completely calm, utterly at home. Even when Ritchie began circling the tip of the phallus very concertedly around her clitoris, she still felt only a delicious, harmonious gathering of desire and pleasure. When a crisis came, it was almost gentle, like a breaking wave in a lake of warm syrup.

“Lovely…lovely…” he murmured, letting the
godemiche
rest between the lips of her sex while he turned away for a moment. Instinct told Beatrice what he was about, and her suspicions were confirmed when she heard a soft, liquid, slicking sound.

He was heating the
Lubrifiant de Cythère
with his fingers. He’d dipped them in the jar and caught up some of the potion. And now he was about to apply it to her flesh…or to the phallus…probably both.

A long ripple swept the entire length of her body, and even the tips of her hair seemed to flutter.

Ritchie leaned over her again, nudging aside the phallus to anoint her. The silken gelée was at skin heat now, blood heat, and it felt delicious where he painted it on her sex with generous strokes. He slid it over her clitoris, and her swollen folds, then down deeper, circling her entrance. When he’d done that, he repeated the process, warming more of the clear, slippery ointment and rubbing it lightly again and again where a man would enter. Where
he
would enter…in his own good time.

Coasting on the pleasure still glowing there, Beatrice lifted her hips, pushed against him, impatient now. Eager to feel what possession was like, whether it be his fingers or the
godemiche
or him.

“I wish you wouldn’t keep me waiting,” she murmured, reaching down and pressing on his hand. “I want to know what all the fuss is about.” Her eyes flashed open and met Ritchie’s staring down at her. He was smiling, but he looked impressed.

“Very well then, courtesan, so you shall.” He leaned forward and kissed her lips, then spoke against them, his breath warm on her face. “But if it hurts…if you don’t like it…stop me. No suffering nobly in silence, promise me.”

“Promise,” she replied, shuddering in anticipation as his middle finger pressed lightly at her entrance. “Believe me, if I want you to stop I’ll tell you so in no uncertain terms, Mr. Ritchie.”

“That, I can believe.”

He pressed firmly and his finger slid with ease, skating on the
lubrifiant
and her own silkiness, right up to the knuckle.

“Ooh!”

What a strange sensation. Particular, yet exciting. Two bodies joined. Not congress yet, but still intimate. Beatrice wriggled, pressing her hand over Ritchie’s.

“How does that feel, Bea?” he whispered. “Not unpleasant, I hope?”

“No, not in the slightest… It’s…it’s unusual. I don’t know what to say.”

Ritchie kissed the corner of her mouth and crooked his finger inside her.

Beatrice squeaked and thrashed, shocked by an intense bolt of pleasure as the pad of his fingertip found a sensitive spot she’d had no idea even existed. He was stroking inside her, yet she felt it in her clitoris, and it was so astonishing she almost spent again.

“Hush…hush…” His words flowed over her, a gentle balm while down below he tantalized her with lush new sensations. Within a heartbeat, he was pressing again, massaging and making her squirm. Her own silky moisture flowed and blended with the
lubrifiant
and before she had time to think about it, Ritchie withdrew his finger, only to press again…with
two.

This was different. There was tension, more pressure, some accommodation required. Beatrice gasped, finding herself suddenly panting. The stretching sensation taxed her but still felt good. Better than good.

“Beatrice? Am I hurting you?” Concern roughened Ritchie’s voice. But why so? He must have caressed dozens of women this way, maybe even other virgins.

“No! A little…maybe…I don’t know…” She drew in a deep breath, arched up, her senses on fire from the strangeness of it all. It was wonderful and dangerous and heady. “Please don’t stop!”

Urges, intense and shocking, raced through her body, making her want to do things. Things that the feel of his fingers pressed inside her seemed to demand. She wanted to touch herself as well as be touched, and she plucked at her nipples, as if driven by an arcane instinct. Wriggling her bottom against the counterpane, she was just about to move one hand lower, to join Ritchie’s in her cleft, when he did it for her, pressing the tiny bud of her clitoris with the flat of his thumb.

“Ah! Oh my goodness!”

Pleasure came again in an enormous burst, and she bent like a bow, up from the bed, almost lifted by Ritchie’s hand at her sex. Her heels gouged the coverlet and she tugged at her nipples, the tiny pain there a counterpoint to the sweet sensations in her belly.

“My dear, beautiful Beatrice,” said Ritchie, his voice broken as if awed.