In any event, the fates might favour her and allow her to win all three throws of the dice. She had been lucky tonight, until the last. She might be again. And if she was not? She probed deep, but could find only a strange quiver of excitement at the prospect. What was convention after all, when the stakes were so high?
“Why not, Captain Dalgleish?” she finally said, with a shaky laugh, “I agree to your wager.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, soft against her skin. “Ewan,” he said, “my name is Ewan. And what might yours be, my fair opponent?”
“Belle,” she replied instinctively.
“Belle,” he whispered. “I would not have had you for a Belle, but it describes you well enough.” Now was the time to laugh, to pass it off as a jest. Now was the time to step back. Instead, he kissed her, and in
doing so hurtled both of them irretrievably beyond the point of no return.
Gently, he kissed her, his lips cool against her own, his fingers tangling in her elaborate coiffure to tilt her head up. Isabella stood compliant, her mind numbed, conscious only of his mouth, his fingertips, the nearness and heat of his body. She was alarmed by the power she sensed there, yet reassured by the gentleness of his touch. Strangely, detachedly, exhilarated by the sensations he was arousing in her. A craving for more awoke in her but he stepped abruptly back.
“One thing you must know,” he said, taking her hand, “I will neither harm you nor hurt you. I have already seen enough cruelty to last me a lifetime. Come then, I’ll have them call my carriage.”
What had she done? What on earth had she let herself in for?
Sitting beside Ewan in the carriage as they rattled their way along the cobblestones towards the imposing, recently-built mansions of Cavendish Square, Isabella tried to quell her jangling nerves. Whatever happened now, she reminded herself, she had secured the funds she needed. But it was not this, the much longed for achievement, which caused the fluttering in her stomach.
The carriage lurched over a hole in the road surface, throwing her against Ewan. A strong arm righted her. She could see his eyes glowing in the soft light. Nervousness turned to anticipation. Guiltily, she realised that the prospect of winning was not the only option which held allure. She had the sense to realise she had best keep such thoughts to herself.
An impassive servant opened the door to them. Handing over his hat and sword stick, Ewan gave him his instructions in a soft undertone before leading the way to a small saloon upstairs. Long curtains of heavy green damask were drawn against the night. A fire crackled in the grate, the light from the many candles reflected in the two long mirrors hung on the walls between the windows.
The reality of her situation struck Isabella with the force of a hammer. Whatever happened now, it was irrevocable. She was not sure she could go through with it. She knew she
should
not.
Something of her panic showed in her face. “You do not have to do this,” Ewan said abruptly…“I will understand if you want to reconsider now, before it is
too late.”
“No,” she said with a defiant tilt of her chin, throwing the last seeds of caution to the wind. “I will not renege on our terms—you need have no fear of that.”
“I don’t,” Ewan replied, confident now that the rules of engagement were understood between them.
His touch sent a shiver up her arm. His extraordinary amber eyes glinted down at her. Desire. Confidence. Knowledge. As his gaze flickered over her face down to the neckline of her dress, Isabella flushed. Her breathing quickened.
“Shall we,” he said seductively. “You may have the honour.”
Isabella picked up the dice, running her tongue over her full bottom lip, where traces of rouge lingered. “Five,” she called, throwing a six and a three. Ewan was watching her, catlike. Devoured. She would be devoured, she thought with shocking relish.
“Six”, Ewan called with assurance before he threw. A five and one rolled obligingly onto the table.
Expressing neither surprise nor disappointment Isabella turned towards him, her eyes almost navy blue, dark with the rush of anticipation. “You win.”
Without a word he led her from the room, along the corridor and through a doorway at the end into another room. Candles were lit on the mantel, another branch on the large inlaid chest which stood in the corner. A bottle of champagne and two glasses sat waiting atop a small table as Ewan had requested, so confident had he been of victory. A chair and a chaise-longue sat at
right angles to each other in front of the grate. Crimson hangings covered the windows. The polished floor was strewn with rugs, soft silk and rich wool. The room was dominated by a large four-poster bed, the hangings of silk damask the same colour as the curtains, the counterpane of velvet strewn with tasselled cushions.
Isabella sat on the chaise and took the glass of champagne he poured, her hands trembling.
“Wait here,” Ewan said, opening a door in the panelled wall which presumably led to his dressing room.
She sipped on the ice-cold drink, feeling the bubbles sparkle and burst in her mouth. The unaccustomed alcohol relaxed her. She felt as if she was in a dream, observing herself from a distance. Disconnected. Isabella waiting in the background to see what Belle would do in the fore. She poured herself another glass of champagne, drinking it quickly down.
Ewan returned clad in an exotic banyan of Chinese silk tied loosely around the waist. As he sat down on the chair beside her, she eyed him cautiously. A long muscular leg emerged from the folds. A well-shaped calf. A glimpse of thigh. He was clearly quite naked underneath his robe. Isabella dragged her eyes upwards. A sprinkling of hair at his throat, a darker copper than that on his head. A strong neck. His hair, unfashionably untied, reached his shoulders. It suited him. Like a mane. She tilted back her glass, surprised to find it empty.
Long fingers relieved her of it. “You have a debt of honour to pay. I would have you sober enough to
deliver it properly.”
Beneath the cool tones his rich Scottish timbre served to threaten and entice at the same time. She glared defiantly at him. She was his prey, but she would not be his victim. “I am perfectly aware of my obligations sir. You have me at your disposal.”
Ewan reached out to clasp her hand. Long fingers. Pink nails. Pulse fluttering visibly on her wrist. He kissed it, his tongue touching her flesh. Inhaled the light flowery scent there, feeling his own pulse pick up a beat in response. “Not at my disposal, Belle. At my command.”
For a fleeting moment he thought he detected fear in her expression, then it was gone. “And what would you command me do,” she asked somewhat breathlessly, rising to the challenge as he had known she would.
“Undress for me. But do it slowly, I want to enjoy the spectacle.”
Isabella stared in consternation.
“You cannot deny me. I won, remember.”
That mocking smile of his riled her. So confident he was. Toying with her, she could see that now. It was a game. She could not allow herself to be defeated by her inhibitions.
She would not allow it!
Ewan sprawled back on the chair. The sash on his banyan had loosened. Isabella’s eyes widened as she took in the rapidly hardening length of him nudging against the embroidered silk. He saw her looking. She must not turn away. She tried instead to imagine how it would feel inside her, but could not. A frisson of
almost-fear surged through her.
Slowly, she started to disrobe, embarrassed and self-conscious as she tugged at the lacing behind her dress. The silk gown spilled at her feet, leaving her in her shoes and underclothes. Blushing, she snatched a look at him. Broad shoulders, a muscled torso tapering down to where the belt tied, then up to his unblinking gaze. She heard his breathing, quicker surely than before?
Relief washed over her. He liked what he saw— was anxious to see more.
Slow, she should slow down
. Postpone his pleasure. Delay her own unveiling. Turn it into a performance, a contest.
Belle untied her petticoats and bustle, trying to make a drama of each button and string, stretching and bending to conceal and reveal. Embarrassment dissolved as she gave rein to her instincts, her confidence growing as she watched the effect on her audience through her lashes. Shocking. Her behaviour was outrageous, yet gratifyingly effective.
She stood before him in her stays and chemise, the ribbons of her stockings fluttering against her knees. When he reached for her she stepped back, and knew it for a turning point. She had learned how to tease. Pain and pleasure intermingled. She saw it in his eyes. Felt it take a tentative hold on herself. Ewan was not the only one enjoying her show.
Slowly, she twirled for him, like a dancer on the stage. Posing now as if for a portrait to show off the line of her throat, the curve of her spine, conscious of her breasts rising and falling in the confines of her stays. Discarding her inhibitions with her clothing. A transforming. She was not Isabella stripped. She was
Belle revealed.
In front of her Ewan no longer smiled. His face was a mask, eyes golden slits of light, lids heavy. Belle’s glance flickered down to his manhood. She had never seen a man naked before. It was strangely beautiful, smooth and curving, like a separate being. She wanted to touch it. To run her fingers along its length. To caress it.
Her muscles clenched in anticipation. Her breath came faster. Ewan’s gaze locked onto hers. Watching her watching him. A reflection of desire. And in the reflection a multiplying. Sure of her instincts now, she stepped out of the garments at her feet. Deliberately turning her back to him, she rested her foot on the chaise-longue, provocatively stretching over so that her chemise was pulled tight against her bottom. A shoe removed. Her stocking followed. She could hear Ewan breathing. She could smell her own scent. Salt and spice. Her other foot on the chair. Shoe. Stocking. She turned and walked towards him, the urge to touch was almost irresistible but she managed to restrain herself, presenting her back to him.
His hands on the laces of her stays. His fingers running down her spine, setting every nerve end on fire. She stepped away again. Slowly, she pulled her chemise down. The soft material felt strangely coarse on her nipples. Distracted, she touched one curiously with her finger. It was pebble hard. Amazingly sensitive. She closed her eyes at the spark of feeling. Opened them again as she heard Ewan’s intake of breath.
“Sit down and do that again,” he said, his voice ragged.
Embarrassment briefly flared. Mortification threatened. Then she remembered;
perform.
Belle sat naked on the chaise-longue. Tentatively touched her nipple. That strange feeling again. Abrasive. Pleasure and pain. Like the teasing. She closed her eyes as her untutored touch sparked a connection, from her fingertips to her nipples to the knot in her belly and the heat between her legs. The damask covering of the seat had a deliciously abrasive quality. She writhed against it.
“Lower,” Ewan rasped.
Her eyes flew open, startled. She must be mistaken.
Surely, she was mistaken?
He raised his eyebrows, patiently waiting. The tussle for supremacy was almost tangible between them. She would not surrender so easily. He would not be the only one to exercise control.
She knew with shocking clarity what he wanted of her.
She could not!
But to deny him would be to admit defeat. She would not be defeated. In his eyes she was already a wanton, after all. Why not complete the illusion?
Closing her eyes, Belle sprawled back on the sofa. Released from shame by his command, she touched herself. She was in uncharted waters, navigating by intuition, steered by Ewan’s visceral reaction. Tentatively, she allowed her finger to slide over the most sensitised part of her, dipping down, inside, then back. Slippery. Swollen. A feeling like waves rolling into the shore, like breakers ready to foam. Astonishing and yet somehow completely natural.
Then, a hand on her wrist. Her eyes flew open. Ewan was standing over her, his face hard planes and rigid control. “Not yet,” he said harshly, placing her hand onto his erection.
Belle sat up. Giddy. Disoriented. Edgy. She touched him. Skin like velvet. A pulsing vein running up to a hot tip. She ran her fingers over it, felt him shudder and ran her fingers back down, mimicking the way she had touched herself. Trailing and fluttering. Now cupping. Feeling him contracting against her, feeling the roughness of hair on her palm, enjoying the contrast of his satin smoothness in her other hand.
“Like this,” he said, wrapping her fingers around him.
She watched, fascinated by his response to her touch, and smiled with satisfaction at the pleasure she was giving, for in his pleasure lay her victory. She looked down, lest she give herself away, moving her hand more purposefully. Feeling a shifting response in herself she moved closer, grazing her breasts against him.
Ewan pushed her back onto the chaise-longue. Unresisting, Belle lay waiting for his next move. She did not know, but she knew. He had won the throw, and in the end she must capitulate. She did not care, as long as there was an end, and soon.
He pushed her legs apart to kneel between them. He touched her. A whisper of sensation in the delicate crease at the top of her thigh. The heel of his hand between her legs, cupping her as she had him. She pushed against him. Harder, she wanted to say, but
didn’t. His finger eased her open, as if separating the petals of a flower.
His touch sliding over her, she felt gripped as in a vice. She struggled to breathe. Clenched to resist him. Hold on, she thought desperately, but she wasn’t sure she could. Sparks of heat flickered out from where he touched her. She no longer cared what he did, so long as he did. It was profoundly different from her own caress. A change of tone and note.
Ewan plunged his finger deep into the honeyed flesh spread out in front of him, relishing the way she bucked up against him. Relishing the pleasure he could see etched on her face. Exulting in the knowledge that he caused it, controlled it.
Belle moaned, pushed, writhed. With every stroke she curled tighter into herself. She wanted only to complete this journey, to release the clutching, pleasurable tension between her legs.
Ewan rubbed and dipped and stroked. Faster. Then slower. She could not bear to wait. She reached down to grab a fistful of his hair.
He shook her away with a strange smile on his face. Vaguely, she recognised it as victorious. A sweeping, stroking, pressing movement, and she held it, clutched at it like something which would fall—and then she did, holding tighter, taut, resistant, until she could hold it no more and set it free like a bird soaring from her, flying high with a shattering pleasure, moaning, mindless.
Ewan pulled her onto the floor beneath him and entered her with one hard thrust, pushing into the hot, wet centre of her. So tight. So ready. He paused, his breathing ragged.
Beneath him, Belle said something inarticulate, her muscles gripping, holding, urging. Moving again, he was pushing hard into her, thrusting, a welcome sensation high inside her. So hard, questing, pushing in until she was sure he could not go further, but still he did. Her legs lifted over his shoulders. Pulled tight against him. Thrusting, all of him now, all of him, and she could feel every inch. She tried to hold him, feeling her own excitement build again as he moved. Harder. Higher, until she felt she would die of the tension. She wanted to scream from it, and just as she thought she would, it snapped, different from before, a sheer exhilarating drop.
Ewan could not think, his mind filled with the image of her spread out for him, creamy white thighs, full breasts, the nipples hard and dark, black curls hiding the hot pink centre into which he thrust again, oblivious now of everything save his own pleasure, holding her by the waist to pull her into him. Sharp nails dug into his buttocks, long legs curled round him. His eyes were screwed tight shut as he climaxed, pulsing into her, relishing the feeling of power and pleasure and release all rolled into one. He lay spent, breathing hard against the soft white flesh of her body.