Chapter Nine
Adrian had ignored the Blackbird’s first request—he’d never been particularly good at obedience—but, alternating with his own, her fingers were now gripping him where she could do real harm.
Compliance seemed in his best interest.
What was more, her gently scolding tone and perfect, governess-y accent had caused an involuntary clench in his lower body. As she’d noted, he already had a glistening tip. He was dripping now.
Mortifying.
He groaned beneath his breath.
Mortifying, yes.
And yet, with the feel of her breasts against his side, her long hair wafting willy-nilly, tickling his torso, and her hot breath fanning his aching member as she asked questions in that refined voice, and his own, practiced stroking, he was in a state of fevered longing like he’d never felt before.
The heavy, burning sensation spread to his thighs. Heat radiated up into his abdomen. Tiny, urgent zings left him panting. Honor and instinct were at war within. With little effort, he could rip of his blindfold, flip her onto her back, and do as he wished.
Take her now. She wants it. She’ll like it.
Lies, his better self answered.
He forced himself to breathe, to observe, to assess.
His body was now demanding release at any cost—he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth—but a moment, a moment just after she’d fallen to pieces in his arms branded his soul. He’d been overwhelmed with warmth.
Her eager forays into pleasure left him feeling tender toward her.
Protective.
Her impassioned, unselfconscious cries had given him the insensible urge to hold her until her shivers subsided and her breath returned to normal. Hold her as if she were someone important to him. Before she’d skewered him with the word tolerable.
Devil take it, he’d almost told her he didn’t wish to seek his own satisfaction.
Which was made no sense.
They were barely acquainted. She’d was using him for education, just as he’d used her and the others for distraction.
Used. He frowned.
Perhaps, even with the care he’d taken, he did have reason to be ashamed.
Gently, she squeezed his intimate parts. “Blackbird,” he groaned.
“Does that hurt?” she asked, her voice husky with curiosity.
“Not in a bad way.” Especially not now that her fingers were circling the lower half of his cock.
He forced himself to concentrate—to give her the education she’d come to his bed receive. “To answer your earlier question, to be aroused and not find release is uncomfortable, but not as bad as some men would have you believe.”
“Men lie? I’m all astonishment.”
Her sarcastic tone made him snort. On occasion, she could be an unexpected delight.
She trailed her fingers lightly along the shaft. Those fingers, he remembered. Long and delicate. Lady soft.
“I wouldn’t worry if you were in pain,” she continued. “You seem to know how to take care of yourself.”
“Fair point. Have you ever”—he cleared his throat—“taken care of yourself?”
“Oh!” She sounded shocked. “I hadn’t thought…but of course I could, couldn’t I?”
He nodded.
“A bit difficult, however, since I share a bed with—”
“With?” He could have sworn she said she would never be unfaithful. He’d thought her a widow.
Was she still married, then?
“None of your concern.”
Her movement caused a stab of pleasure-pain that left him groaning.
“Am I doing this correctly?” she asked.
Well, his manhood was weeping, so yes. But she didn’t need to know how thoroughly she’d broken his customary control.
“If I’d brought oil, this would be so much better.”
“Better?” she queried.
“Everything feels better wet.”
“You didn’t use oil on me.”
Proper, inquisitive governess. “A woman’s body makes its own lubrication—”
She released him.
“No, don’t stop. I-I can take the pain. Just—go lightly.”
“Please?”
“Go lightly,” he gritted. “Please.”
“I will proceed”—she resumed stroking him—“out of curiosity, you understand. Not because you asked.”
He snorted. “I suspect you are punishing me.”
“Not punishing, per se. But you did call me a witch.”
“Witch,” he groaned again as she attended him in intimate places. “As in Siren, not hag.” Damnation, her hand felt good.
“Siren,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I’d like to be a Siren.”
“Would you sing me to my death?”
“What an excellent idea.”
“What have I ever done to you?”
She was silent for a moment and then sighed.
He tried to gather his thoughts, regain the offensive. But he’d become nothing more than a string she was lightly strumming. A out-of-tune string desperate to be tightened.
“Would you like me to suck your nipples?”
His startled response ended in a chuckle.
Her hand stilled. “Is that funny?”
“An unexpected change of topic, you must admit. And not the first time you’ve used the trick to shy away from answering my questions.”
“Well, you just refused to answer mine.”
“Did I? I suppose I did.” A novel experience, having this frank a discussion with a woman. “The answer is, I don’t know how I’d feel if you mouthed my nipples.”
“No one ever has?”
“No, and stop trying to get me to break my word. I told you I won’t speak of other bed partners. However”—he smiled slowly—“if you’re in the mood to be accommodating…”
He described, in vivid detail, exactly what he wanted. She stopped breathing.
“…If you did that,” he finished, “I’d feel beholden. Indebted.”
“Beholden?” Her hair passed like a curtain over his lower belly. “I’m intrigued.”
Yes. A bit further down, now. Almost. And there. A long, inarticulate sound tore from his throat. For the second time in the evening, he forgot how to inhale.
She was using her mouth on him…her mouth and both of her hands. The Blackbird—his Blackbird—learned quickly.
And then he lost the ability to form a coherent thought.
Who could think with a lady’s knees pressing into the side of his waist? With her hair tickling his stomach? With his tip engulfed in the softness of her mouth? With the lower part of his shaft being gently, repeatedly stroked?
Without warning—and just as he was about enter a state of pure bliss—she stopped.
“Dammit,” he rasped.
“Poor lordling,” she whispered against his ear. “So uncomfortable.”
He recognized the bastardization of his own words.
“Unlike you, I won’t promise to help. Not unless…”
“Unless?”
She hummed. He could almost hear her smiling. His head swam with disbelief. With need. Devil take her. He’d finish himself.
She caught his hand as he was reaching down. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“The question is,” she purred, “what do you want?”
“I want you to finish what you started.”
“Do you? I might oblige…” her voice trailed.
“If?” he prompted.
“—if you beg me to do so.”
“Pardon?” He attempted to sit up.
She shoved him back down. Her fingernails bit into his wrist. Five tiny points of pain drawing his focus. He was furious. He was equally thrilled. Fascinated.
He dropped his head back into the pillow.
Behind the blindfold, all was darkness. But he pictured her there, kneeling at his side with her thick hair falling past her breasts. He pictured her there, a half-smile on the face he’d never even seen, waiting for his answer.
Well, hell.
His surge of anger disappeared beneath his body’s demands for more.
“Please,” he whispered. “I am begging.”
“Remember this,” she whispered. “Remember me.”
He wasn’t bloody likely to forget, was he?
She shifted her body. For a wild, frantic moment, he thought she’d leave him like this. Then, she resumed her attention.
His mind became as blessedly blank as the darkness behind his blindfold as he fell into the deep. He’d begged for this. Begged.
No indignation flared. Why? Because he would have suffered any humiliation for her sweet attention?
Yes, he would, he decided. Then, he was lost to an undertow he couldn’t control.
He’d no time to warn her before he shattered, instantly insensible to everything but the powerful spasms of pleasure. Only after the last, vibrating pulse did he realize she hadn’t pulled away.
His breath came deep. His whole body flooded with warmth.
With disbelief.
Who was this strange mix of innocence and confidence? Of saucy impertinence and sensual abandon? What was her game? To humiliate him? To attach him?
Whomever she was, she’d made cannon fodder of his mind.
She resettled against his chest and laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh.
His mind blanked, and he drifted off to sleep with the word blackbird on his lips.
Adrian stirred when the mattress protested the loss of the Blackbird’s weight. Briefly, he returned to consciousness with the vague thought that a gentleman would rouse himself and help see to his lover’s needs.
A second, hazy thought challenged his first.
Why should he inquire how she was? She’d made her disdain for him plain enough with her final demand.
What they’d done had been a transaction. A distraction. Nothing more.
Besides, she’d absolutely exhausted him. He was never exhausted. And he never begged. And he never wasted this much thought on a mere lover.
He gave into the darkness, the softness of the pillow, and the call of oblivion.
When he finally came back to the world—a matter of a half an hour more at most—he didn’t have to remove his blindfold to know that the room was empty.
Why should he feel a pang of panic?
A transaction. A distraction.
He yanked off his blindfold.
Witch.
He’d agreed to this meeting fully confident he’d succeed, if not in discovering her name, then in searing her mind, convincing her they must meet again.
He wasn’t sure he’d accomplished the latter.
If he’d roused any sentiment besides lustful scorn, she’d concealed that sentiment behind bold impudence.
And he certainly hadn’t learned her name.
What about her had he uncovered?
Not much. She learned quickly. She’d a wicked wit. She had white slippers with diamond buckles he glimpsed when he first entered the room—before he donned the blindfold. She had a place just below her ear that made her wild.
Oh yes—and she’d a nightly bed partner who prevented her from touching herself.
A fine investigative talent he turned out to have. She was more a mystery than she’d been when she fled the room.
At least the sheet was still tangled beneath his hips. For all that she’d done to humble him, she could not have, at least, seen the welts he’d carved into his skin in a fruitless attempt to stop the itching.
He ran his hand lightly over one, tender scab.
Odd. He hadn’t felt the urge to scratch since drinking Bessie’s tisane. But the tisane’s effects couldn’t have lasted all night, could they? Possibly. Then again, as in his childhood, the torment was not consistent.
The itch came and went, much of the time without obvious provocation. And while a vigorous coupling did bring temporary relief, tonight had been…different.
She’d engaged his mind and his body.
She’d asked questions. She’d made demands. In response, he’d come undone.
Talking in bed wasn’t something he usually indulged. Then again, he’d never been blindfolded before, either. He’d needed to follow the sound of her voice to enjoy her body. Only he hadn’t simply enjoyed her body, had he?
He’d enjoyed…her. Matching wits had been invigorating.
Novelty? Or something more? Perhaps his heart had been right all along. Perhaps she would become vital to him.
He’d need to see her again to be sure.
He finished dressing and then removed a fresh cravat hidden in the pocket of his coattails. Using the mirror, he folded it into a simple knot. Not daylight perfect, but sufficient to get himself home without causing excessive comment.
But first, he took himself below stairs.
The Black Widow, of course, made him wait. What the hell could she have to occupy her at—he glanced at the long clock—at the tender hour of four in the morning?
Suddenly, he realized he was scratching his thigh.
He folded his arms behind his back and stood at attention.
Distract. Distract. Distract.
He remembered the way she had touched his lip and murmured. He tasted the salty sweetness of her skin. By the time Bessie summoned him to her office he was half-hard with wanting. A pain better by far than the itch.
“I must see her again,” he demanded.
“I’m not surprised you would wish to see her again,” she answered dryly. “But I told you this arrangement was likely to be only for one night.”
“What’s her price?” He leaned over the table. “I’ll pay anything within reason. Anything.”
“I believe you. But…” The Black Widow let the silence string out long enough for discomfort before saying, “Hers is a price you cannot pay.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“She came to me seeking marriage.”
He slammed the table. “I knew you were trying to trap me.”
“So theatrical this evening. Again, why should I wish to trap you?”
“You said nothing to me about marriage. She said nothing to me about marriage.” He scowled. “In fact, she implied she was a widow.”
“Did she?”
He flattened his lips. “Yes, or perhaps I just assumed.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever warned you that assumptions can be dangerous? In any case, being a widow does not preclude her from seeking a husband.”
He leveled her a look. “How can I know if I wish to marry her based on only one meeting?”
Bessie laughed. “I said her price was marriage. I did not say she wished to marry you.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” he countered. “My title, tarnished though it is, is still an old one. My fortune, well-established.”
“Yes—although I’m surprised to hear you argue in favor of your title and standing when you rejected similar arguments earlier in the evening. Have you changed your mind? Do you also agree it is high time you settled down?”
“Bessie.”
“In this case, your opinion doesn’t matter anyway. She knows your title. She’s aware of your fortune. She’s seen you about town and finds you to be aloof, arrogant, and not at all suitable as a husband.”
His jaw dropped.
“She does not want you. I inquired on your behalf before sending her home in my carriage. Do try and console yourself.”
“What the devil, Bessie?”
The Black Widow shrugged. “She used you for her comfort and convenience and wants nothing more. You should be well acquainted with the concept.”
“Bessie—?”
“Did the tisane help?” she interrupted.
He crossed his arms. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it did.”
“Good.” She retrieved a bag from her desk drawer. “Take some with you. And have your housekeeper apply to me for the recipe.”
He scowled down at the package as she placed it on top of his forearms.
“You deliberately set out to hurt me.”
“Not hurt, Adrian. Help. You’ve been lost inside your head for far too long.” Her voice grew hard. “Now pull yourself together and go home. In the unlikely event she wishes to see you again, I will inform you when next we meet.”
Heat radiated up Adrian’s neck. Embarrassment, frustration, and disbelief followed. Bessie thought she could teach him a lesson, did she? Thought he would be waiting around on tenterhooks for her summons?
“No. You won’t be informing me of anything,” he replied. “Because I won’t be back.”