What the Mistress Did Page 14

  Grasping the head of the bed, I conjure acts of unbearable sweetness—of longings denied—and my body responds, feeling stimulation far beyond reality. My innards twist and tighten, my hips writhe beneath the phantom onslaught of those lovers—one with languorous grey-green eyes, the other who pierces me with his ice-blue gaze.

  “Now,” I hear myself gasp. “Oh, please, now.”

  Rolling onto my hands and knees, I keep my eyes tightly closed so as not to disrupt the fantasy by coupling face-to-face. I shudder and quake, feeling the thick invasion of his cock, relishing it, imagining the sensation of a woman beneath me, my mouth finding her engorged clitoris, her cries of bliss filling my head.

  Release comes on a wave of memory, and I muffle my cries in the pillow under my face, just as it catches the tears that leak from beneath my lashes.

  The affair continues, but it is an empty association, spun of lies and shadows, and cannot last for very long. When it ends, I feel nothing but vague relief and continue my cool, disconnected drift, coming alive only at night in the privacy of my room as I dream of lovers left far behind.

  Into the tapestry of every life is woven a thread of irony, often presented as choice. One can follow a pattern for months or years, the yarn never varying in shade or texture, and then, when least expecting it, be forced to pick a new colour.

  Although my sister celebrates Christmas in the traditions of our father, Hogmanay is the true celebration in Edinburgh, and I am swept up in the riotous affair.

  “Oh, Auntie.” My youngest niece hops from one foot to the next, beside herself with excitement. “I cannot wait to see who will be first-foot.”

  She has explained it to me numerous times, and my sister confides her husband always tries to find a tall, dark man to be the first over the doorstep at midnight so as to please the children. They do not, she carefully emphasises, believe in the superstition that such a visitor will bring good luck, but the children expect it, so they follow the tradition.

  As the bells begin to toll the first hour of the New Year and we all assemble in the hallway, there is a loud, almost arrogant rap on the door, and my brother by marriage steps forward to answer it.

  The man who crosses the threshold causes my breath to still and heat to rise, like a sudden force of nature, from my belly into my chest.

  He is as tall and dark as my niece could wish, with broad, powerful shoulders beneath his plain blue coat and a lithe way of moving that makes him appear a great, beautiful beast on the prowl. I have been on the edge of the crowd, as is my wont, but find myself slowly moving closer to where he stands with my sister. When his gaze drifts to me, I pause, caught in the gleam of deep brown eyes, the sudden flash of interest that evolves instantaneously into a strange type of recognition and intent.

  Edmund, I quickly learn, is my brother-by-marriage’s cousin, recently returned from Paris. He is a man of letters, already well known among the intellectual elite of Edinburgh. I find him clever but kind, quick-witted, commanding and more handsome than any man should be. We spar with each other from the beginning, and he draws from me the first genuine amusement I can recall experiencing for a long, long time. When we dance, our bodies following the measures with all propriety, his eyes make promises to me that seem outrageously explicit. I try not to respond, but there is a stirring inside I cannot ignore, and I am forced to look away.

  The first time we are alone together, he cups my chin in his warm, wide palm, tilting my face up to his.

  “You are infuriatingly beautiful and aloof,” he says, tracing the line of my cheekbone with his thumb. “I wonder if it is by will, nature or experience.”

  By the soft, regretful tone of his words I realise he already knows the answer, and flee, not wanting to be near someone who can see so clearly through my mask. He lets me go, but over the next few days, I see by his actions he is not deterred by my broken heart.

  The letter finds me ten days into the New Year, delivered from my sister’s home, to where it was forwarded by my brother. It contains three words, two initials, and tears through my carefully contained world like a razor.

  Come home, please.

  D, A

  For three days, I see no one, go nowhere. Locked in my room, I stare at the missive until my eyes are red and dry. I am conflicted by a heart that does not want to risk, at war with a body that yearns and cries for surcease. Neither wishes to concede the field. I have been torn from my cocoon of complacency and am battered, heart-sore, as all the emotions submerged by icy pain begin welling up to flood my soul.

  I will always be the outsider. No matter what David and Annabelle think, what they believe, I have no place in their lives. Yet it seems they have created a place they wish me to fill, and I know not whether it is done from need or from love. Why this makes a difference, I cannot tell, but it does. Many times I try to reply but find myself crushing the half-finished letters and throwing them aside. Nothing I try to say seems right. No course of action I consider is appropriate.

  Be good to each other, I wrote to them in the letter I sent them upon my departure from London. If there truly is any affection in your hearts for me, give it over to each other.

  I wish I knew whether they had taken my advice.

  On January fifteenth, I am once more alone with Edmund, seated in the small withdrawing room of my townhouse. It is the first time he is visiting me, and he sits in a chair facing mine. More than ever before I am reminded of a great cat, crouched, waiting to pounce.

  “There is a world of infinite adventure to be explored,” he says, continuing our discussion of the Americas and what is occurring there. “But some find it difficult to throw off the shackles of their past, so as to take advantage of their new environs.”

  “And obviously others have no such problems,” I parry, hearing the underlying narrative to our conversation.

  Rising abruptly, he begins to pace. “Everyone must struggle with his or her conscience and courage so as to decide when to hold fast to what is known and when to release it and chance all.” Pausing to face me, he stares directly into my eyes. “There can be great merit, and great pain, with either course.”

  “You know this from experience?”

  He smiles, but the expression touches only the edges of his lips. “Brutal experience, as I am sure you do also.”

  Edmund does not move, but I feel as though he draws closer and can see right through my tattered composure. I want to turn away but cannot. Just as, for that moment of time, trapped by his gaze, I cannot draw a proper breath.

  “How do you decide between head and heart,” I whisper. “Between what is right and what you crave?”

  “With evidence,” he replies. “With the knowledge born of the same brutal experience we spoke of before. Not everything craved will nourish us. Not every right action, no matter how well-intended, will satisfy the soul.”

  Now he does come forward until he stands before me, hand extended. Without thought, I place my fingers across his palm and rise.

  “Promise me one thing, Marianne.”

  The sound of my name from his lips raises a trail of gooseflesh up my spine, and I can only nod in response.

  “Promise you will make no decisions until you have come to my bed, and we have lain together in as many ways as we can imagine.”

  I cannot help the bubble of laughter that rises to my throat, and I place my hand on his chest, feel the strong beat of his heart through the layers of clothing.

  “That may take a very long time.”

  Edmund draws me closer with the pressure of his fingers and a nod. “I know. I count upon it. The one who broke your heart can wait.”

  He believes my mind is already set, that I will go back. I wish I had his certainty, for it all seems a snarl of hopes, fear, memories and dreams. Nothing seems assured—nothing clear. Perhaps Edmund too will break my heart. Or perhaps the lure of forbidden love will inexorably draw me back to London. The strands lie knotted in my palm, waiting to be untangled and appl
ied to the loom.

  And, in that moment of calm between his words and his kiss, I come to a decision.

  But it too can wait.

  Weaving the story of my life will not.

  About the Author

  After living a checkered past, and despite an avowed disinterest in domesticity, multi-published author Anya Delvay settled in Ontario, Canada, with husband, kids and two cats who plot world domination, one food bowl at a time. Writing erotica is a delight, but she writes more romantic, but still steamy, tales under the name of Anya Richards.

  To find out more about her writing, drop by Anya’s website at www.anyarichards.com.

  Look for these titles by Anya Delvay

  Now Available:

  Night of the Cereus

  The Pearl at the Gate

  Breaking Free (writing as Anya Richards)

  Awaken (writing as Anya Richards)

  A passionate education leads to dangerous love…

  Breaking Free

  © 2010 Anya Richards

  For Claire Montjoye, widowhood is no release from scandal. Used as sexual currency by her notoriously libertine husband, she longs for a life of quiet respectability. But the ton’s disapproval ensures she will never be truly accepted—and any man openly seeking her company will be tainted.

  When Xavier Westbourne pulls her away from peril, his touch fills her with yearning for unattainable dreams. Accepting his invitation to the opera is not only unwise for him, it’s dangerous to her lonely heart. Perhaps taking him as a lover will be enough.

  Scion of one of Society’s most upright families, Xavier knows propriety as a cold, brutal master. Having endured one loveless marriage, he refuses to repeat the mistake, even for his motherless son. Yet Claire easily breaks through his wall of reserve, and her offer of private instruction in the sexual arts is irresistible.

  Consumed by passion, overwhelmed by ecstasy, they discover something neither thought existed—the freedom to open their hearts. Yet not all the horrors of the past are content to remain hidden by the mists of time. And suddenly their very survival depends on trusting that love really can conquer all.

  Warning: A Regency hero who can’t keep his hands to himself and a heroine who encourages him in the most shocking, explicit manner. If conflicted heroes, heroines with a past, velvet, mirrors, self-love or the occasional extra pair of feminine legs in the bed offend, this book is not for you.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Breaking Free:

  “What is this room Claire?”

  He did not know why it was important for him to ask, but suddenly it was. He recognized his transience in her life, realized the gift she offered him, yet felt a strange reluctance to share her with the ghosts of her past.

  Claire’s chin rose at an almost combative angle, her eyes shuttered against his intrusion, and he thought she would refuse to answer, or ask him to leave. Then her face softened and one shoulder shrugged in a self-conscious motion.

  “It is a play room, a place where fantasies can come to life. It was here I began to truly understand myself, to learn what I was, and what I could be when necessary.”

  She looked around, as if seeing it for the first time, and smiled.

  “There is nothing to fear here, for it is a different world from that which exists outside the doors. Once it was my world, and now…” she turned in a circle, arms flung wide, “…I give it to you.”

  There was a forced note to her explanation, which did little to soothe the final misgivings he harboured. But somehow they faded when she spoke again, an odd mixture of confidence and hesitancy in her voice.

  “I promise, if you decide to return after tonight, this room will be completely ready for you. I will see to it tomorrow, but tonight…” she shrugged and smiled, “…tonight the bed cannot be slept in and I am not in the mood to wait. There is something I long to do, something perhaps selfish, although I hope it will be pleasurable for you. Will you indulge me, Xavier?”

  Her low voice, flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes begged for his trust. Wordless, rooted to the spot, he found the strength to nod, once, and her smile lit up the room.

  Time fractured, stretched and contracted in turns, each movement of her approach taking a year, but each touch of her fingers far too fleeting.

  Caresses flowed from her naturally. The soft stroke of his cheek with the back of her hand, his lower lip with the pad of her thumb, were as inevitable as sunlight, or rain. The passage of her hands down his neck to his chest left a river of heat in their wake. Sensitized to the lightest contact, even her easing of the evening coat and waistcoat off his shoulders and releasing his suspenders caused spasms of desire. When she found his nipples through the thin lawn shirt, made a sound of pleasure at the back of her throat as they hardened beneath her fingers, it was as intimate as a kiss.

  Pushing him back against the wall, her fingers cupped the length of his erection. The heat of her palm penetrated through the fabric. Arching into her hand, desperate for more, he moaned.

  Claire laughed then. A sultry, siren’s laugh, filled with joy, captivating. He reached for her, wanting to touch her as intimately as she touched him, but she grasped his hands, raising them to place a soft kiss on each before tugging them down to his sides.

  “Tonight, just let me touch you, Xavier.”

  The muscles in his legs quivered, threatening to give way, forcing him to brace against the wall, fingers convulsively curled for purchase.

  She pulled his shirt free and pushed it up, bending to place a swirling, open-mouthed kiss on the shuddering skin of his stomach. Sublime sensation, almost painful in its intensity, had him arcing away from her lips. The motion served only to draw her closer. Holding his shirt above her head, she plunged the wet heat of her tongue into his navel, trailed down to outline the top of his breeches. And her hand, oh God, her hand, measured and pressed and squeezed his prick, taking him to the edge of sanity.

  He wanted her hands on his naked flesh, the craving for it pulsing through every vein. Pushing away from the wall, he pulled off both his cravat and shirt, tearing the latter’s cuff in his haste.

  Claire stood, her face flushed and intent and, as though hearing his desire, used both hands to open his breeches. Teasingly, slowly, she pushed them down his hips, hesitating for an eon, until finally, with a sudden rapid motion of her wrists, they fell to the floor.

  For a moment, she just looked at his straining erection, and he began to tremble, a pulse travelling the length of his engorged flesh. Claire made a soft sound in the back of her throat and licked her lips. His trembles turned to shudders, and Xavier thought he would explode right then and there.

  A wicked little smile playing about her lips, she whispered, “How long has it been, since you have been with a woman?”

  “Almost two years.”

  The smile widened into a grin. “Ah, Xavier, I will make it up to you for the lack.” She grew serious for a moment, her gaze locking with his as she asked, “Will you trust me? Let me show you prolonging the pleasure can only make it better?” She rested her hands on his stomach, fingers lightly stroking, down and around, making his skin shiver as though each separate inch had developed a thousand more nerve endings. “There may come a moment when you want me to stop what I am doing, when all you want is for me to let you have your climax, but bear it, just this once. If it is not to your taste, we will never do it again. But tonight…” she rested her head on his chest, fitting into his arms as though made just for them, “…tonight I want to have you, in my mouth, for as long as possible.”

  Those softly spoken words drove a shock of desire through every vein and sinew in his body.

  “Do what you will, Claire.” He could hardly speak through the need clawing at his chest. “I surrender to your desires.”

  The shudder wracking her at his words took Claire by surprise. Power, potent and sweet, leapt in her belly and increased her own arousal. All she had learned, all she had experienced, seemed suddenly to have meanin
g. If for this one night she could give this one man pleasure, everything, everything, would be worthwhile.

  Sinking to her knees, Claire reached for Xavier’s straining cock, marvelling at its perfection, lightly skimming her fingers over the velvet hardness. It pointed straight up towards his belly, the veins standing out in bold relief, the end mushroomed into a darker knob, and the sensitive little tendon just below the slit begged for special attention. His ballocks, already tight, waited to pump his release.

  It had been a long time since she had felt like this, eager and needy, yet also wanting to give. For two years she had been without a man, two years during which fantasies had sustained her. But dreams, no matter how graphic they might be, could not compare with reality.

  She lowered her head, hands caressing up and down his thighs, savouring the sensation of firm musculature, hair-roughened skin so completely different from her own. He was trembling, and the sensation seemed to travel through his flesh and into hers, until they were joined by the same aching desire.

  Lowering her head further, she touched his testicles lightly, using just the tip of her tongue, running it from side to side, barely letting him feel the contact. Gently she increasing the pressure until, suddenly, she curled her entire tongue under the sac to explore the soft, firm skin behind. As he gasped, she withdrew slowly, letting his flesh slide off her tongue.

  Looking up, she shuddered at the raw passion on his face. His eyes were closed and his neck arched back. Strong hands clutched the wall as though for support. Her heart ached for him, this passionate man whose passion had been squelched until he doubted its veracity. She bent back to her task, determined to make this a night he would remember until his dying day.

  Sucking slowly on one side of his sac brought a heartfelt groan, and the sound drove her on. She let it almost slip free before increasing the pressure and drawing it back in, swirling her tongue over the tight flesh constantly. An abrupt switch to the other side, and he jerked in reaction. Reaching up to take his cock in her right hand, she found the tip wet, moaned into his flesh as she spread the moisture and used it to lubricate a slow, steady pumping. His ballocks contracted even more and she raised herself up onto her toes, releasing him from her hand, from her mouth, waiting without touching.