He fondled her at the spot where his phallus had her stretched wide. She was slick, her sexual juice oozing from her core.
"You're so ready." He thumbed her clit, making her tense and strain. "Should I let you come?"
"Yes ... please." She tried to flex, to enforce the motion that would cede ecstasy, but he wouldn't assent, pressuring her thighs and holding her in place.
"Not just yet."
"Gabriel!" It was a plea, as well as a command. He scooted away, his cock sliding out of her saturated pussy, making her pout and scowl. Chafing, she pronounced, "I hate it when you play these games!"
"And I love it when you're so unsettled." He rolled her onto her side, then stood, and she was sprawled on the sofa by herself. "You're so cute when you're angry."
"You can't mean to leave me like this!"
"Just for a few minutes, my little wanton."
"Beast!"
He fluffed the pillows behind her, chuckling as she grumbled and complained about his baser tendencies, but there was a fire in her eye, and a constriction in her anatomy, that he'd never recorded before. He'd never depicted her when she was this close to the precipice of desire; he'd never drawn her when
he
was so discomfited by passion. His elevated disposition would bring an intensity and depth to his creativity that he'd previously attained only on the rarest occasions.
As he arranged her, she looked so appetizing, so enticing, and he stroked his exposed cock, then stuffed it into his pants as she greedily watched.
"Would you like me to tend that for you?" She licked her lips, vividly reminding him of what she'd just affected, of how he'd landed in such a throbbing predicament.
"Eventually." He answered casually, though he was nearly ready to toss the vixen onto her back and finish what he'd started. "Stick your finger in your mouth."
"Like this?"
"Yes. Now rub it across your nipples."
They were thoroughly stimulated, but the excess dampness contracted them further, and his lust peaked as he beheld her fondling herself. He didn't often solicit it for the concept made her uncomfortable, but he was sensing such urgency as to the finite duration of their relationship, and lie wanted to push her as far as he could.
"Squeeze your nipple."
Glowering, she contemplated refusal, but then she did as he'd demanded. She was so aroused that the procedure had an instant effect; she groaned and hunched against the pillows, arching her pelvis.
"Do you touch yourself like this in the night, when you're alone?"
"No."
"I want you to. Tonight. When you're in your bed, snuggled in the dark under the covers, stroke your breasts and think of me."
"And how about you?" she caustically queried. "Will
you
touch yourself in the dark and think of me?"
"As I do every night"
Skeptical, she stared at him. "Why would you?"
"So that I can achieve carnal pleasure, even when you're not with me. My desire for you never wanes, so in your absence, I close my eyes and imagine you sucking me off, and I come in my hand."
"And it gives you relief from these ... terrible bodily urges?"
'Temporarily. I'm assuaged until I can be with you once more." He nodded to her chest 'Touch yourself again." She submitted more willingly, and he dictated, "Don't move."
He sat on his stool, snatched up his sketching pad, and began. Her head was tipped back, her hair flowing across her shoulders, her legs widened so that he could make out the dusting of curly hair shielding her mound. Cupping her breast, she cradled it in her palm, the nipple directed toward him as though she was offering herself. She was a fey nymph, an erotic sprite, a beautiful mermaid, her siren song luring him to his doom.
Craving a naughtier vantage point, he abandoned the stool and stationed himself between her legs, so that his vista was of her pussy, her inner thighs, her stomach and cleavage. He portrayed her from the lewd angle, the decadent arrangement thrilling as he strove to chronicle a glimpse of her that no one had ever witnessed but himself.
Desperate to document this dramatic alteration he'd wrought in her character, his hand flew over the page.
"Done," he finally murmured, more to himself than to her.
He scrutinized his work, his critical appraisal roving over it, and a smile crept across his face. It was extraordinary; he'd exactly caught her sense of expectation and excitement She was ravishing, primed and prepared for loving.
The representation was sensational, enormously sensual, and he wished he had the low scruples that would allow him to sell it into the prurient art market He could
transform it into a full-sized painting, and make a bloody fortune, but he never would. He had many faults, but such depravation was beyond him.
"Let me see." She held out her hand, but he pitched the illustration on tile floor. She was so damned seductive, he could no longer resist.
"Give me that!" she complained, but he cut off her protest by leaning in, opening her. Breathing deep, inhaling her scent, he inspected her core, then he licked her cleft, piercing her with his tongue, implanting her taste. Moving to her clit, he laved across it, and within moments, her passion peaked and she was writhing beneath him. He gripped her nipples, rubbing furiously, and she started to come.
His original intent had been to ride out the storm with her, but she had driven him far past delay. He could only pursue his own end, seeking ultimate gratification.
While she was still in the throes of her orgasm, he whirled her to her stomach. Dragging her to him, he entered her pussy from behind and initiated a savage thrusting. He worked against her, her shapely ass slapping his crotch. Inspiring himself to the limit, then beyond, his body spasmed and his seed surged from his loins.
Frantically, he clasped at her, endeavoring to withdraw and spew himself over her back, but in me confined space, their positions were awkward, and he couldn't retreat.
Plus, she bore down on him, pressing her hips into his groin, and he tried to halt his emission, but he was incapable of restraint.
With a ferocious gush, he came inside her, planting his very essence, and he couldn't remember when he'd ever spilled himself in a woman's body. While his lovers generally took him to the end with their mouths, he was never so reckless as to ejaculate between their legs, even when they begged him to. The danger of siring a child had always been too great.
The indiscretion of his act was profound, yet he was delirious. Even the prospect that his carelessness might result in a babe had no effect on diminishing his exultation. He'd now made her
his
in every way that truly counted.
Later on, there would be plenty of opportunity for recrimination and regret, but with his cock still rock-hard, and her internal muscles clenched around him, he was too overcome to worry about some nebulous circumstance that might—or might not—come to pass.
The jarring effects subsided, and he held her close, sitting on his haunches, and bringing her with him, so that they were kneeling on the sofa. He was embedded inside her, her backside nestled to his front, and she stretched lazily.
"You never came inside me before," she tentatively said. "Might we have—"
"No"—he briskly cut her off—"not from a single time."
Though he knew his statement to be false, he declined to speculate on the forbidden potentiality when he was so pleased, and he forced down words of joy as to how amazing the experience had been. He could never say. What good would it do?
Shifting, she peered at him over her shoulder. "I liked it. Very much."
"So did I."
She was studying him strangely, as if she, too, had been acutely moved by what had just happened, but her silence was as incisive as his own. Moving off his lap, she turned so that they were facing one another, and she wrapped her arms around him and initiated a heavenly kiss that went on and on, and when they parted, he couldn't meet her gaze. He was seized by an upwelling of pure melancholy so potent that it yielded an incredulous sting of tears.
"Have you completed my portrait?" she queried.
"No. But soon."
Doggedly, she tried to impel him to look at her, but he couldn't permit her to ascertain how acutely disturbed he was.
"Do you ever wish—"
She halted in mid-sentence, leaving him to stew over what she might have said, and he inquired, "Wish what?"
He located the courage to stare her down, but he carefully masked his careening emotions, and she shook her head as though she hadn't intended to pose the question.
"Nothing," she grumbled on a sigh. "Nothing at all. Do you have any idea when you'll be done?"
"No, although I must confess that my father asked me to terminate at once—as a favor to my new mother."
"Mary?"
"Yes. On their wedding day, she beseeched him to intervene and convince me to desist."
"They're both aware of what we've been doing?"
"Aye."
"How did your father—"
"He's always known,
bella,"
he said kindly, hoping she wouldn't probe as to how, dreading that he might ever have to explain that she had started out as one in a long line.
She blushed prettily. "And he told Mary?"
"No. She guessed."
"Will you do as they've requested?"
"I told them I'd think about it"—he lifted her hand and kissed the middle of her palm—"but I'm in no hurry."
"What about your other painting
contracts?”
She flushed a deeper shade of red. "Will you discontinue them, as well? As a favor to Mary? Or is mine the only one to go?"
He couldn't fathom why she supposed there were other women with whom he was currently consorting, but then, she'd ceaselessly been too astute. For once, he was relieved to confess the truth. "I have no other contracts. I haven't worked on any other portraits since I met you."
"Swear it," she fervently entreated.
"I swear."
With his vow, she snuggled against him, burrowing her nose into the hair on his chest. "I'm glad."
"I promised her you'd be the last." He kissed the top of her head. "She's thoroughly determined to find me a lucrative method of earning my living. But for now"—he tipped her onto her back and followed her down, stretching out and covering her with his body—"there's no rush. We have all the time in the world.”
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte banged the knocker, her third attempt, and she was impatient for footsteps to sound. None came winging in her direction, which she couldn't understand. Elizabeth had insisted that Gabriel Cristofore was a man of some means, and from the house and neighborhood, he certainly seemed to be. While his residence wasn't situated on the grandest lane in London, it assuredly wasn't the stews, either. He had some sort of decent income.
Surely such a famous artist didn't live alone and would have his own set of retainers!
Sensing a need for stealth in her journey, she'd traveled without her maid, and she bristled irritably as a few drops of rain splatted on me brim of her hat and pelted her shoulders.
"Doesn't the blasted gentleman have any servants?” she griped to herself.
She studied the windows facing the street, hoping she might see activity, a curtain fall, but no one appeared to be at home. Yet, Elizabeth had to be inside. Her carriage was parked down the block, her slovenly driver hanging about on the corner and neglecting his duties by vigorously flirting with a pretty girl who'd walked past. He was so busy with his mischief that he hadn't noted the rented hansom that had pulled in behind him.
A fourth time, she tried the knocker then gave up and retreated from the stoop. Tapping her toe with displeasure, she assessed the dwelling, the yard that was shielded from
prying pedestrians by its wrought-iron fence, and she wondered about the fellow who inhabited the property, as well as Elizabeth's odd and growing attachment to him.
Since Elizabeth had met Mr. Cristofore, she'd become a different person, and Charlotte couldn't stop speculating as to what part he'd played in effecting the alterations. While Elizabeth contended that her visits were solely for the purpose of her portrait being painted, Charlotte was dubious.
For an artist to render such modifications merely by touching brush to canvas, he'd have to be a sorcerer.
Without a doubt, she shouldn't have followed Elizabeth, chasing after her like a pet lapdog, but she'd been so annoyingly curious as to Elizabeth's comportment.
The other woman's clamoring—that she'd crossed paths -with an artistic genius—rang false. Her disposition was too changed, her attitudes too varied, from how she'd been in the months Charlotte had known her, and Charlotte was convinced that Elizabeth was up to no good.
Even if, in the end, she learned that Elizabeth had been telling the truth as to her goings-on, Charlotte would be satisfied with her day's work. Pitifully, she couldn't put any of it to rest until she found out what was transpiring.
She abhorred that Elizabeth was keeping secrets, that she had events occupying her that didn't involve Charlotte. Anymore, Elizabeth acted so utterly happy, as though Charlotte had no business being appraised of her whereabouts. Charlotte was incredibly jealous about whatever transformations had occurred to have brought about Elizabeth's radical reformation, and she was fit to be tied that she had ceased to be a controlling factor in Elizabeth's life.
When Charlotte had married the earl, Elizabeth had been beside herself, regularly complaining to her father about how Charlotte's command of the house had left her with nothing to do. Now, Elizabeth was totally removed from the worries that had previously absorbed her.
Where formerly, she'd hated that Charlotte had usurped her position, suddenly Elizabeth couldn't care less. She had no interest in their stifling domicile, or the horrid home life they endured, and she scarcely noticed Charlotte's handling of the servants. Her behavior was so out of character! Why?
Obviously, no one was available to answer the door, and she knew she should depart, but she couldn't withdraw until she discovered concrete information. There was something fishy about Elizabeth's coming here so often, especially now that Charlotte had tried to gain entry with no success.
She cast about, searching for an explanation, when she noted the garden path leading around the side of the house. Without pondering the proprieties of strolling about uninvited, or how it would look should the Countess of Norwich he caught snooping, she strolled down the path as it disappeared into the rear yard.
Surprisingly, a tiny cottage was located in the back, and from the smoke curling out of the chimney, it was apparent that someone was on the premises. She glanced over her shoulder toward the main dwelling, but nobody stared back at her, or rushed out to question her presence, so she walked over and peeked in the window.
On witnessing the sordid scene inside, she sucked in a stunned breath.
Elizabeth was kneeling on a sofa, naked as the day she was born! An incredibly handsome man—Gabriel Cristofore; it had to be!—was crouched behind her. He was naked, as well. One of his large hands cupped her breast, the other reached to the front of her torso and touched her...
there!...
between her legs.
From their bodily configuration, Charlotte was sure that the knave had impaled his masculine rod, Elizabeth spread wide that he might enjoy his disgusting pleasure at her expense.
Charlotte's initial reaction was one of horror. Had the artist forced himself on Elizabeth? Was she being ravished, even as Charlotte watched? Why didn't she cry out in alarm? Or scream for help?
Despite how little Charlotte liked Elizabeth personally, she lurched back, ready to pound on the door and rush in, where she would save the woman by rescuing her from the ultimate disgrace. But just as she would have initiated Elizabeth's emancipation, Elizabeth arched her back, a sly smile crossed her lips.
Why ... Elizabeth was participating voluntarily!
Charlotte shuddered with derision and repugnance. Had the strumpet no morals? No principles to guide her conduct? What type of gentlewoman would willingly submit to such a foul, wicked procedure? How could she allow such odious liberties?
The scandal! The shame! Elizabeth was no better than a whore!
Narrowing her focus, she scrutinized the nuances of the spectacle. Cristofore leaned nearer, whispering into Elizabeth's ear while nipping and biting her neck. She murmured in response, then spun into his arms. As she did, Charlotte managed a swift, unimpeded glimpse of the man's phallus. It was cocked as a pole, wet and slick from being lanced in Elizabeth's body.
Brazenly, Elizabeth instituted a long, ardent kiss, and Cristofore lustily joined in, his tongue in her mouth, his erection pressed against her belly. His hands were everywhere, at her nipples, on her bottom.
Charlotte covertly spied on them, and as the lovers concluded their impassioned kiss, her heart was pounding. Seeing them together was obscene, yet at the same juncture, she was thoroughly mesmerized. Their physical exploits were revolting but fascinating, their gestures strangely elegant in a manner that was puzzling and enthralling.
The gentleman, in particular, vexed her. With his slender, graceful physique, and his undivided attention focused on Elizabeth, Charlotte was transfixed, amazed that the vile deed could evolve so tenderly. Perplexingly, her own body reacted to his maneuvers.
She hadn't known that the male anatomy could be so magnificent, that viewing it could incite a woman's baser instincts. Distasteful as it was to admit, her nipples responded to what he was doing, and she shifted, uncomfortable with her corporeal reaction, with her state of mind.
They were conversing, and Charlotte edged to the window, wishing she could decipher their comments, but she couldn't hear a word, so instead, she analyzed their demeanor, the tip of a head- the stroke of a hand, the penetration of a gaze.
Whatever the topic, they were immersed in an urgent, serious discussion. Their devotion and blatant affection was provoking and irksome, and Charlotte was astounded to have stumbled upon Elizabeth's delicious, decadent secret.
Cristofore laid Elizabeth down, distended her legs and, with no consideration for her feminine condition, brutally entered her with his loathsome staff. Elizabeth was such a harlot that she didn't even flinch. If anything, she opened further, allowing him greater access. Nauseatingly, the man began to thrust, as he sought his filthy conclusion, and Charlotte whirled away, incapable of additional observation.
Repulsed and unexplainably titillated, she ran to her rented carriage, not concerned if anyone had witnessed her indecorous, hasty flight The driver helped her in, and she was so distressed that she couldn't speak, not even to deliver the simple command to depart
Her thoughts were in chaos, and she blindly stared out at me passing streets. She'd prayed for a method by which she could revenge herself for the slights and insults Elizabeth had heaped upon her since her marriage. Likewise, she longed to prove to her pompous, cruel, elderly husband that she was a force with which to be reckoned. That she wasn't a child, as he'd callously described to his despicable paramour, but an adult whom he'd underestimated.
The ruthless remarks he'd uttered to Mary Smith continued to stab like a dagger, and the animosity he'd generated through his betrayal festered like an infected wound. She would never forgive him, and she wanted to hurt him as badly as he'd hurt her, but he seemed so powerful, so omnipotent, and she so insignificant to him, that she hadn't been able to conceive of a single retaliation she might perform that would affect him in any manner.
Clearly, Elizabeth's ruination provided Charlotte with the tools she needed to wreak havoc. The earl thought Elizabeth was perfect and held her up as the model to which Charlotte should aspire. Wouldn't he be crushed to be apprised of how wrong he'd been?
Many scenarios were feasible, numerous courses of action warranted. But which would be most beneficial? And in what fashion should she implement them?
The earl had to be enlightened as to what a jezebel he'd raised, but how best to utilize the knowledge she'd gleaned? What would be the most precipitous finale? How could Charlotte garner the maximum advantage?
The carriage rumbled to a stop just down from the Norwich town house, but she was only vaguely aware of her arrival. Once again, the driver assisted her with the steps, and she floundered, blindly heading into the house, then up the stairs to her room, where she locked the door so that she would have privacy while she contemplated her next move.
Findley Harcourt sat at the head of the family dining table, swirling the last of his wine in his goblet as he glared at his plate, not entirely positive what he'd just been served. He was frightfully glad it was just the three of them— himself, Elizabeth and Charlotte—and that there were no guests to whom they'd presented the terrifying repast.
After the second course, he'd deigned to question Charlotte, to which she'd replied that Cook—their eighth since his marriage—had walked out in a snit for no reason
at all the day after Mary left. Charlotte claimed to be in the process of interviewing for another, her workload apparently compounded by the fact that, after Mary's abandonment, she was also currently endeavoring to locate the ideal housekeeper.
His temper boiled anew over Mary's rejection. She was the most disloyal, perfidious, treacherous of women! How dare she desert him! For that roué, John Preston! What was the world coming to?
After all he’d done for her, she repaid him by walking out with barely a good-bye. If she'd still been at her post— where she belonged—he wouldn't be starving at his own supper table! He was wretched without her! Absolutely wretched!
As if Charlotte could find someone to take her place! She wouldn't recognize a suitable housekeeper if the best candidate bit her on the ass!
He snorted into his cup, both women glancing at him, inducing him to realize that he’d probably had too much to drink. No surprise there! He certainly hadn't filled his belly with food! Red wine had had to suffice.
After his criticism of the poor quality of the cuisine, he hadn't probed further into the fiasco. Charlotte would have sworn that nothing was her fault, that the mistakes were beyond her control, that every member of the staff was an imbecile.
He couldn't abide her justifications. Besides breeding an heir, she had one job and one job only: to supervise the house. He'd scolded her on numerous occasions, but with his latest culinary disaster, he'd been too angry to civilly address the recurrent situation. Perhaps it was the wine making him more irascible than usual, but if a man couldn't return home after long hours of commerce and politics to enjoy a pleasant, appetizing meal, what was the purpose of coming home at all?
Before their betrothal, he'd extensively interrogated her mother as to the instruction and grooming that had been done to prepare Charlotte to assume the varied, exhaustive role of countess. Her mother had insisted that the girl had received the finest tutelage in the land, but as he perused her over the rim of his glass, he was compelled to concede that her mother's assurances as to her fitness might have been an out-and-out lie meant to marry her off in a hurry to the first man stupid enough to ask.
Well, he had no one to blame but himself. Once he'd decided to tie the knot, he'd forged ahead with his customary intensity, much like a bull in a china shop. After he'd set eyes on Charlotte, the choice had seemed easy. He'd been in such a dither to finalize the contracts, and Charlotte's parents had been so amenable, that he'd scarcely checked into her background or habits.
Clearly, he should have been more judicious and circumspect, but who could have imagined that such a slip of a girl could perpetrate such discord?