Rose Bride (20 page)

Her green eyes met his. ‘Forgive my intrusion at this late hour, sir, but I am in need of further medicaments. The sleeping draught you gave me . . . My last bottle has run dry.’

‘You are fortunate indeed, then, to have caught me still in my workshop.’

‘I was passing and saw candlelight under the door.’

He raised his eyebrows, for his workshop was quite remote from the women’s quarters. ‘Passing?’

She looked into the room, her gaze darting about the small workshop as though ensuring he was alone. ‘Yes, I often pass this way after my duties are finished for the day.’ She ignored his quiet snort of laughter. ‘Are you alone?’

‘I am,’ he agreed, and stepped politely aside. ‘Would you care to come in and wait, madam, while I prepare another flask of sleeping draught for you?’

‘Thank you, sir, I would.’

Her hands folded meekly before her, Margerie entered the workshop, passing close enough that he could smell her soft perfume, that now familiar scent of roses in the air, and he felt his hand clench into a fist, his desire was so powerful.

Quietly, he closed the door, checking first that no spy had been watching his workshop that evening. Not that it mattered if this meeting was witnessed or not. No one would care that he was bedding a courtesan like Margerie Croft, surely? Still, Virgil disliked the idea that this evening’s visitor might be noted and speculated upon by spies. A man’s bed was his own business, after all.

The door safely bolted, Virgil turned to her and cupped her face in his hands, not wasting any time on speech. Their mouths met and he groaned. His tongue pushed impatiently between her lips, and he tasted her at last. It seemed so long – too long – since they had learned the ways of each other’s bodies in bed together, and he was hungry to touch her again, to remind himself of how strongly she could move him with just the flick of her tongue or the caress of one knowing fingertip.

To bed a courtesan this skilled was an honour, and he knew it. Already his cock was hard, eager for her without any need for potions. He reached down and began to pull up her skirts, not thinking of anything but his desire to drive into her softness and take his pleasure.

‘Master Elton!’ she gasped against his mouth.

He drew back a little, the heavy green taffeta of her court gown still bunched in his hands, and his mouth curved in a smile. ‘Virgil,’ he reminded her softly.

‘Virgil,’ she said, her eyes wide on his face, ‘I only came here to . . . That is, I did not intend you to kiss me.’

‘Liar.’

Her blush deepened. ‘Well, maybe I hoped. But we cannot do more than kiss. Not here.’

Virgil dropped her skirts, seeing at once that she had been startled by his lust. ‘Forgive me, I was too hasty.’

His grip slid to her waist instead, so narrow he could almost encompass it with both hands. Yet she was not dainty; quite the opposite. Trim though, for all her Amazonian height, and pleasing to bed.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, her tone a little sharp, but her gaze did not waver and she did not push him away, still open to his advances.

This was about respect, then. She might be a courtesan, but she preferred to be wooed in a more conventional manner. Well, he would not always be happy to wait for his pleasure. But she did not belong to him, and he should remember that. He was not paying for her body, as he suspected Lord Munro must be. The first coupling between them had been mutually agreed, more like lovers than he was entirely comfortable with. But he owed Margerie Croft the proper respect due to a lady of the court, for all her wantonness.

‘I lost my head,’ he admitted, and put his mouth more cautiously on hers, willing her to take the lead.

Margerie hesitated, as though poised to refuse him, then her lips parted. Her tongue slipped cautiously against his, exploring, teasing. A surge of heat flooded him as they kissed, and he was hard-pressed not to raise her skirts again. Much as he suspected she would submit, and indeed enjoy his dominance, he did not wish to force her. That surprised him, for her submissiveness was part of the reason he found Margerie Croft so attractive. Yet it seemed distasteful to think of this woman merely
enduring
his attentions, rather than welcoming them with pleasure.

He raised his head, determinedly reining in his lust. ‘First, I must examine you,’ he murmured.

She licked her lips, staring at him as though in a daze. ‘Sir?’

‘Before I can allow you to continue taking the sleeping draught, I must ascertain that it has not been harmful to you. I must listen to your heart, madam. So if you could loosen your bodice somewhat . . .’

Her eyes widened, then her lips twitched into a smile. ‘Of course,’ she said, and her fingers went to her bodice at once, loosening the dark green material with difficulty. ‘Forgive me, it is . . . tight.’

‘Allow me, mistress.’

Carefully, trying not to tear the fragile material, he tugged at her bodice, pulling it down another few inches to expose the creamy white mound of her breasts. As the flesh spilled out, her rosy nipples became lodged against the dark green taffeta, half peeping out, half hidden, shown off to perfection. He held his breath, finding it hard to look at her, the desire that had him in its grip was so powerful.

‘Now hold still,’ he said thickly, and lowered his head until his ear lay against her breast.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the erratic thud of her heart. It sounded healthy enough, but fast. As fast as his own, he thought drily. He opened his eyes, not moving, breathing in the sweet feminine scent of her body, and examined at close quarters the rosy whorl of her nipple. He circled the saucy peeping flesh with one finger, then hooked underneath the offending bodice and jerked it down, just far enough to free her nipple.

She had been gripping the side of his workshop table but now one hand came up to touch his head. She pushed off his cap, then stroked her fingers down through his hair, lingering on the back of his neck.

‘Kiss me there,’ she whispered daringly, leaving him in no doubt as to her meaning.

His cock turned to stone.

Slowly, not wanting to scare her off, he nuzzled across her breast until his mouth was almost touching her exposed nipple. Her flesh tautened at his approach, and when he breathed warmly, he watched her skin tighten yet further, drawing up in exquisite folds like a newly budded rose. Then his lips closed over her, and he sucked deep and hard, his cock aching in his codpiece. She hissed, and her fingers tangled in his hair, first dragging him away, then pushing on to suck harder.

‘Sir,’ she cried, ‘sir.’

He dragged on her bodice, and both her breasts were freed, spilling out from the rich green gown in luxurious decadence. He squeezed her other breast, flicking roughly across it with his thumb so that her nipple hardened, then transferred his mouth to that silken point, sucking hungrily on one nipple, then the other, and back again.

Christ, he had to have her. It was sheer agony, this holding back.

Seizing her by the waist, he lifted her easily onto the work table, lay her back and pushed up her skirts. This time she did not protest, but moaned, watching in wordless submission as he parted her thighs – gently, so as not to offend her with his impatience. Her
mons Veneris
looked so beautiful, her secret lips pouting as if in invitation, he knew he must taste her.

Lowering his head, he put his mouth between her legs and felt her jerk in shock at the unexpected intimacy. He had tasted her when they coupled before, but only after taking his own pleasure. No doubt she thought it strange that a man would perform such an act
before
his own satisfaction had been achieved. But he found Margerie Croft fascinating and exciting in her powerful sexual responses; it would only augment his pleasure to put his own needs aside while he assuaged hers instead.

‘You are beautiful,’ he murmured, then slid his tongue over and around the slick dusky pearl above her gleaming slit.

She moaned, and closed her thighs about his head. ‘Virgil,’ she groaned, but with pleasure. ‘Oh sweet Jesu.’

He licked slowly down her secret lips, then pushed a little way inside that inviting darkness, tasting her juice on his tongue. Her breath came pantingly as he continued to lick, up and down, in and out, pleasuring her, pausing two or three times to tug on the sweet pearl, listening to her sighs and whimpers. Then his mouth came back, fastened his mouth on that taut bud, and sucked firmly at last, ignoring her ragged cries.

She reached her peak a few moments later, back arching off the table, buttocks tensing, her long shuddering moan suddenly stifled as though she had put a hand over her own mouth.

Virgil straightened as her climax subsided, ignoring the throbbing pulse at his own groin, and threw open one of the smaller chests on his work table. The chest contained only a few objects, rare and unusual, and he quickly found what he wanted; he returned to her in two swift strides, though in truth he was more than ready to finish these games and take her himself.

But he wanted to give her pleasure first. The kind of pleasure a woman remembers for a very long time, he thought, looking down at her intently.

Dazed, her senses slowly returning to reality after floating in a heaven of physical delight, Margerie opened her eyes to see that Virgil had left her. She wondered what on earth he could be doing, for she had assumed he would enter her as soon as her climax was achieved. Instead, he was returning with . . .

‘What is that?’ she asked, a little shocked, staring at what appeared to be a black leather baton in his hand.

His smile was dark. ‘What does it look like, my sweet wanton?’

She had never seen anything like it before in her life. Yet she guessed its purpose at once. Its end was smoothly rounded, fatter than the long shaft, and the leather exterior had been carefully moulded to give the appearance of a phallus.

Her eyes flew to his face. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Trust me, you will enjoy this. It is meant for your pleasure, not mine.’

‘I cannot . . .’

‘You will obey me in this, if in nothing else.’

She shook her head, staring at the thick leather phallus and trying not to imagine it being introduced inside her.

‘Lie back a little further,’ he ordered her abruptly, ‘and lift your feet onto the table. Keep them well apart. I need to stand between your legs.’

To her horror, the way he had spoken – so terse, so dominating – aroused her. She was excited, both by his command and the instrument in his hand, and could not deny it. Aroused by a thing! It did not seem natural, and yet she could feel her arousal, the heat at her core.

‘Obey me,’ he insisted, and she responded instinctively to his command, pushing herself back down the work table and setting her bare feet on the carved wooden edge, for her shoes had fallen off while he was pleasuring her with his tongue. Her feet were so far apart, her thighs fell open, and he stepped between them, close up to the table.

There was no time to be afraid.

While she had been positioning herself, he had turned away to oil the leather phallus from a small bottle on the workshop shelf. Now he set the cool slick leather against her lips and looked her in the eyes as he pushed, breaching her entrance with the rounded tip, then invading her body inch by shocking inch.

Her belly clenched, and her hands tightened on the rim of the table, her nails digging into the wood. The well-oiled phallus pushed further, filling her more completely than anything had ever done before, so hard and long and thick, she thought she would die from its inexorable invasion.

All the while his dark eyes watched her, glittering in the candlelight, his hand working the phallus gently in until it could go no further, then withdrawing it until the rounded end was touching her lips.

‘Stop fighting it, Margerie, and take your pleasure,’ he told her hoarsely.

She could not reply, but found herself almost panting as he pushed it back inside more forcefully, then withdrew again, beginning to pump in and out of her with a slow, steady, screwing motion.

Oh God, it felt so good!

She moaned, and her legs began to shake. But he had not finished, for even as she grew accustomed to the thick phallus inside her, Virgil bent and placed his mouth on her again.

‘Virgil!’ she gasped, shaking her head.

Paying her no heed, his mouth clamped over her already taut flesh and tormented her, sucking and licking between her legs while he thrust the phallus inside her.

She could not seem to catch her breath. Margerie strained, jerking against him, raising her hips and buttocks for more, for deeper thrusts. Heat pooled between her legs, her flesh so wet and open, sucking him into her, the heavy phallus taking her relentlessly to the top of a high mountain. His mouth refused to stop, suckling her, his tongue lashing the tiny spot that just for that moment seemed to control her entire body.

Margerie cried out, writhing as the most glorious pleasure wracked her, leaving her sobbing for breath. It was too much, her body was on fire, everything was falling apart, tumbling down, even her brain was feverish, for she could no longer tell if she was awake or dreaming . . .