The Earl Takes a Lover (4 page)

Robin burst out laughing. “Oh, you're not—” he tried to contain himself and failed “—you're not going to give me a hard time over that, are you? Anyway,” he continued, wiping his streaming eyes, “I haven't been there for years. I just have mistresses now. One at a time, mind you, and I pay them with jewels.”

“Will you help me?” Pen asked.

“Will you tell me?” Robin countered.

Her lush mouth tightened and she stood up. “Is that your price? I tell you how I know Salamandre and you tell me what I want to know?”

A long minute ticked by, unaided by conversation. “No,” he said finally. “Have you considered the possibility that whores do things men like because it puts bread in their mouths? And wives don't do things like that because they don't have to?”

Pen regarded him as one might an idiot, but less kindly. “I'm not insensible to the nature of prostitution, if that's what you're asking.” She walked to the window and turned back. “Have you considered where whores go when they're too old or disease-ridden to be paid for sexual favors?”

His eyebrows rose on two counts: the bluntness of her language, always unnerving, and the question itself. “No,” he answered truthfully. “I haven't.”

Pen folded her arms across her chest. “If you're a woman who works at the Black Swan, you go to a retirement house in Holborn. If you can learn another trade, you ply it. If you're too sick to work, you die there. If you're lucky, you have a few years when life is kind to you.” She spoke quietly. Her tone was not censorious, but her words were weighted nonetheless. “Salamandre pays for it out of her own pocket. And that book—” she glanced at the book lying innocently on Robin's lap “—pays for it. And the next book will pay for it.” She sighed. “If I ever get it written.”

The unusually temperate weather they had enjoyed at Cheyning Court had given way to normal English spring: cool and rainy. The watery light filtered in through the tall windows, highlighting her forehead and cheekbones, leaving the hollows of her face in shadow. Robin spoke quietly as well, but his voice carried easily. “All I really want is you, Penelope. But all I have to offer you is pleasure. You're no whore—it would be an insult to offer you money, an even grosser insult to invite you to be my mistress, and I can't marry you. All I can offer is you and me together in my bed.”

He stopped talking. Pen felt her shoulders slump in defeat. But the time for pretense was past. She went back and sank into her chair. “It's not a bad offer, even so,” she said. “But there's no point in my taking you up on it. The other times…they just happened…and that was so…” She trailed off.

He was staring at her now, all concentration, his brow furrowed. “What are you saying, Pen?”

She looked as though an onerous burden had been placed in her lap, and she had no choice but to do her duty by it. “Mine doesn't work properly. The ladies told me what to do and I did it, and I shared the information with the rest of the world, but mine doesn't work, so there doesn't seem to be much point in going upstairs with you.”

He blinked at this remarkable little speech. He picked up his ale and put it down and picked it up again. “Are you by any chance,” he began carefully, “talking about your—”

“Clitoris,” she supplied helpfully. “Yes, I am.”

He spewed ale over his shirtfront, the chair, and the remains of several morning papers piled in drifts at his feet. He put the ale down and leaned back in his chair. The mobile mouth remained neutral, but his eyes began to gleam and he felt very, very happy. “I don't know about that,” he said casually. “I bet if I came over there and lifted your skirts and touched you there, something would happen. Something good,” he qualified.

Pen's mouth went dry. “And if you lose that bet?” She licked her lips. “What do I win?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, considering. “I'll come up with some bon mots for your notebook.”

Pen felt derailed. The whole point of coming to see him had been to get information for her book and somehow the topic had gotten to be her clitoris, which was really, she thought, absolutely none of his business. Her chin went up. “Fine,” she said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. “Try me.”

“Oh,” he said silkily, standing up and stalking toward her, “I intend to.”

Pen knew she was going to lose; something already was happening, a faint throbbing, a swelling, and he hadn't even touched her yet. But she clung stubbornly to the notebook, as to a talisman. Reaching her, Robin knelt and put his hands up under her skirt, one on each knee, and pushed them wide apart. Then he didn't move. “Shall I tell you what I'm going to do first?” he asked. “Or shall I just do it?”

“Kiss me?” she asked hopelessly.

“No,” he said decisively. “I'm going to win this bet fair and square.” Then he touched her, sliding both hands up her thighs, inside her drawers, past stockings and garters, to the center of her. “If you're not wet right now,” he said conversationally, “you will be soon.”

Pen was in no position to argue. She ground her teeth together in anticipation and forced herself to stay still. Nonetheless, the strong tendons in her thighs began to quiver. He made a soft, murmuring sound and pressed his thumb gently to her clitoris which, given a good enough reason, sprang into full, sensate being. She groaned and her head went back. Just that one, light touch felt so unimaginably good.

Robin wished he could see what he was touching, but watching her face was fine, as well. Her lashes made dark crescents against her skin and her mouth opened on a silent cry of wonder. He pressed again, lightly, and her hips moved in response. Sweat broke out in the hollow of his throat. He moved his thumb down, to where the slick moisture gathered at the entrance of her body. He pulled it up and began to rub the engorged nub in earnest. He wanted, very badly, to put some part of himself inside her, and at the moment he was not going to be picky about what part that might be. She moved more urgently, and it occurred to him, like light breaking through clouds, that he could make her come here, now, with very little effort.

His hand stopped moving. She lifted her head, eyes lidded and glazed. He cupped the heat of her against his palm. “This works,” he said, and she nodded jerkily. “I know you find libraries, um, erotic,” he went on, “but if you come upstairs with me, we could do this properly, in a bed. My bed,” he clarified.

She nodded again. “Hold your skirt up,” he directed, climbing to his feet. He reached down and lifted her, bringing her hips tightly against his. “Put your arms around my neck.” But there was no need; she had already done it. He had gone up and down the same stairs several times that day, but they seemed more numerous now, and it was more arduous to climb them. One arm was lodged under her bum, the other around her waist, but hers were free and she used them to frame his face as she kissed him. He stopped moving, it proving impossible to kiss and walk at the same time. Their mouths fit together, mating perfectly, so he couldn't tell what belonged to whom, or exactly how it was making his knees buckle. “Stop,” he turned his face away and she followed, greedy for more. “Stop it, or this will happen on the stairs.”

“Mmm.” She made a humming sound of approval.

“I'm heavy,” he protested.

She left off trying to recapture his mouth. “I'm not going to be on the bottom. You are.”

At that, he gathered himself up and resumed climbing. “Oh, no, I'm too old for stairs. Stairs are for younger men.” And he distracted her by curling the fingers of one hand into the cleft of her spread buttocks. This had the profoundly satisfying effect of making her jerk her hips forward, enveloping the aching jut of his erection in the wet niche between her thighs. If his breeches had been open, he would have been inside her. Muttering thanks, he pushed open the door of his bedroom. “Now we can kiss.” But it was hard to do with her lower lip so far from her upper one.

“You call that a
bed?
” she asked, her jaw dropping.

He sucked on her tongue instead, stopping only to reply, “Two arm spans of a large man—listen, can we talk about the bed later? Right now I'd like to use it.” So saying, he deposited her on top of it. “I'm going to take off my clothes. You can watch.” Since Pen had been sure he was going to take off hers, this struck her as a reprieve. He noted it, but only said wryly, “You needn't look so relieved.” The pangs of his conscience weren't tolling so loudly. Knowing about her background eased his mind, though not, observably, any other part of his body. It was going to happen. Whatever price there was to pay, he would pay it later. It didn't take him long. The shirt was over his head in a second and the breeches peeled away in a few more and then he was fully naked in front of her. She looked, in small darts and forays, at everything except his now fully aroused cock. “Pen,” he said gently, “look at me.”

Faced with a direct request, she did. Her eyes widened and she scooted a foot or two backward on the bed, which was accommodating in this respect; she could have gone about six more without hitting the edge. “Oh, that is
huge!
”

There were probably no words that could please a man more, and Robin gave a fleeting thought to the little black notebook abandoned on the library carpet. Unfortunately, her words were not laudatory, her tone being one of pure horror. He studied her. He was the one with all the experience. This was supposition, but he'd bet it was correct: if she knew Salamandre, she knew more than the average unmarried woman her age, but she kissed like she hadn't done it before, not that it did a thing to dampen his ardor. She hadn't moved, although she looked as though she might be reconsidering the whole proposition. He walked to the edge of the bed, which still left a gap of at least two feet between them. “You've felt one though, right? Well,” he emended, “you've felt this one. And you liked it?” At her cautious nod, he climbed onto the bed. “It will be like that, but better.” He knelt in front of her and began to dispense with her clothing. She didn't object so much to this, as it kept his hands busy and her eyes free to keep The Member under observation. “Lift your arms,” he said. And then, “Up on your knees.” And while he took her clothes off, item by item with no perceivable rush, her nervousness dissipated, to be replaced by a sudden, brimming joy. She knew this man. It was going to be well. “How much, exactly, do you know about th—” he was asking, when she reached out and wrapped one small, firm hand around his cock.

She'd been in possession of the general idea for some time, but that didn't prepare her for the reality: the burning, satin skin sliding over an unbelievable hardness. He caught her hand and held it there, all between one breath and the next. Robin promptly forgot whatever it was he'd been saying and pushed her down and stretched himself full-length on top of her. She smiled up at him. “Catch on pretty fast, don't you?” he asked softly, and she blushed prettily. He rocked his hips against hers, just once, but with both of them naked, their skin beginning to heat and slide, it was a dangerous thing to do. He could tell from the slight, humming tension in the body beneath his that she was waiting for the volcanic eruptions of their previous encounters. He backed off a little and sat up on his heels. “I want to look at you,” he said to her mystified expression. He looked, and wherever he looked he touched, and wherever he touched he kissed and tongued. Her face and neck he knew, but kissed all over again for good measure. Her shoulders were straight, leading down to full breasts, all exposed for the first time, which he felt as a benefice direct from heaven. A short ribcage—ticklish, she squirmed and tried to kick him when he nibbled there—led to a trim waist flowing into curving hips below. He stroked a quick hand through the curls of her mound and she twisted, away or toward him he wasn't certain, but it didn't matter; he was biting the soft flesh of her inner thighs and he could smell the scent of her arousal, delicate and obvious. All her length was in her legs: white, rounded thighs narrowing into knobby knees; long, calves; thin, elegant feet and, just as it was all getting a bit prehensile, very short toes. He sucked her big toe into his mouth and she jerked in surprise, as if to say, no one told me about
that.
A little wrestling match ensued when she attempted to retrieve her toe and he tried to keep it, but it ended when he flowed back up her body. She was warm and laughing when he kissed her and affairs devolved fairly quickly after that, no matter that he tried to rein them both in. He loved her body, would have happily played with it for hours, but some other imperative took over, urgent and unwavering, and he wanted to open her like a gift, but also like an intrusion: notice me, this is what I am.

Pen felt the change come over him. It scared her a little—he was more intent, harder to dissuade. But her own excitement rose with his and when she felt the tip of his penis against her body she arched, trying to feel more of him. “Slow down,” he advised, though it was the last thing on earth he wanted. He wanted to drive the full-length of himself into her over and over until he shattered, but already he could feel the tight resistance holding him at bay. It didn't worry him. He took a nipple into his mouth and set his thumb against her clit and set up a gentle, rocking rhythm with his mouth, hand and body that made her head turn and turn on the pillows.

Pen was beyond thought, beyond pain. There was only pleasure, not gentle in the least, but driving, almost violent, though Robin wasn't doing anything in the least violent to her. He switched to the other nipple. Her body was stretched and open and she knew his possession of her was hurting, but it did not register as pain. He, too, seemed pushed beyond endurance, the slow, rhythmic movements with which he'd begun deteriorating into deep, strong thrusts, his voice gravelly when he breathed words in her ear: “Take all of me, Pen.” She did. Sweat formed and broke in droplets, rolling into the valley between her breasts. He bent his head and licked it up. She was close, close to letting go and he wanted to make it last forever, to spin out the pleasure until she couldn't take anymore, but the demands of his own body wouldn't let him. He stopped. He flexed his hips, thrusting as deeply into her as he could and held himself there, not moving. She lifted her hips, seeking. “Don't,” he ground out, and she stilled. He looked down at her, face flushed and damp, eyes dark with pupil, lips abraded. “Do you want to come?”