Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was delicious to watch Alastair Eden fall in love with sex.
He was like a little boy who’d just discovered sweets and didn’t want to eat his supper.
They fucked four times that day, until they were both sore. He lasted longer with each session, needing to stop less frequently.
She put on a great show to encourage him. The orgasms were fake, but the pleasure she took wasn’t an act.
She could have peaked if she let herself.
But she was becoming too attached to him. She had to keep reminding herself it wasn’t real.
In the next few days, she began to teach him other postures. She got on top. She knelt so he could take her from behind. They did it standing up and sitting down—on the desk in his study, on the dining table, on the floor. The night before, when Alastair was certain they wouldn’t be spotted by a neighbor, they did it in the garden. It rained just as they were finishing, and she got soaked down to her bones, but it was worth it to see him in the moonlight, taking rapture in her body.
He was exploring what his body was capable of—what he was capable of.
And he was becoming very capable, indeed.
He wanted her all the time. She was happy that he’d found this part of himself. That he was feeling confident in his skills in bed.
The trouble was that she wanted him all the time too. She no longer minded her early morning wake-ups, as they meant there was ample time to be with Alastair in bed before Hattie arrived. She joined him in the kitchen while he cooked, so that they could steal kisses—or more. She liked watching the stack of letters on his desk grow taller every day, because he was ignoring everything but her.
It was nice to be the center of his life.
It was nice to know he craved her body the way that she craved his.
She wished she could fully give herself to him—to take pleasure in him the way that he took it in her. But she knew the truth: she was his mistress. And soon, he would replace her with his wife.
She wondered if he would let himself behave this way with the woman he would give himself to permanently. Would he spend the first weeks of their marriage besotted? Learning her body and teaching her his own? Would he fuck her in his garden by moonlight?
Tha?s began to hate this phantom woman. He did not read her more reports on girls—perhaps because he hadn’t opened them, or perhaps because discussing them ruined the fantasy of their own closeness. Reminded him that soon, they would both go home, never to be with each other this way again.
They had seven days left, and her heart was already breaking at the thought of their goodbye.
But today she would not think of that. Today was about Alastair.
It was his birthday.
He’d made no mention of it since he’d let slip that it was coming, but she’d not forgotten. Forty years alive was something to celebrate, and he was here without Anna or his friends. She had no gift to give him, and she doubted there was anything he’d want in town even if she snuck off to go.
But she had another idea.
Granted, it would require her to make a sacrifice not unlike that made by the Lord himself in healing the world’s sins. But for Alastair, she’d do it anyway.
When Hattie left, she told Eden they would not be practicing this afternoon.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you kept me up all night rutting in the rain, and I’m tired.”
He looked disturbed. “Oh, of course. My God, I’ve been awful. Yes, you should rest. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes,” she said, “you can take one of your walks. A big, bloody long one. Leave me in the house alone to get some peace.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry, Tha?s—”
She did not want him so lit up with guilt he backslid, so she put her finger over his lips. “None of that. Let’s not flagellate ourselves unless it’s for fun, aye? You haven’t injured me, and a little waiting can make things sweeter later. A lesson for you to remember.”
“I’ve been meaning to walk over and ask Mr. Fellowes about his flock. Hattie brought that cheese from his ewes’ milk, and it had an exceptional flavor. I’d like to see what grasses—”
“Yes. What fun. You do that. I don’t need to know the sordid details.”
He laughed. “I’ll take a book and do some reading by the lake. You can have the whole day to yourself.”
“Good boy. Now, arse off.”
She made a show of taking herself up to bed and put an eye mask on. She waited until long after she’d heard the front door close, then went down to the kitchen.
An apron hung there, like a red shirt waving at a bull.
“Don’t get bloody used to this,” she said to the garment as she grabbed it off the hook. “Once-in-a-lifetime occasion.”
She had watched Alastair in the kitchen enough times that she knew where he kept all the ingredients. She gathered them onto the table—flour, butter, honey, salt—and of course, the dreaded eggs. She knew that he liked fruit, so she went outside and plucked some peaches off a tree.
And then she went to war.
When she was done, both of her arms throbbed from fingertips to shoulders. She was so tired she felt like she was getting ill.
But it wasn’t fever that ailed her.
It was baking.
For her efforts, a cake sat on the windowsill, cooling. It was not as pretty as the one Alastair had made, and when she flipped it to remove it from the pan, it came out in four clumps with burned chunks on the bottom. This was why she was a harlot, not a cook.
She arranged the pieces like a puzzle on a plate, smooshed them together until they passed for something edible, and covered the cake with enough peach slices that you couldn’t see the cracks.
Then she hid it in the sideboard in the parlor and set about her next great tragedy of the afternoon: cleaning the kitchen.
By the time she had it back to rights, she really did need a nap and took herself upstairs to bed. By the time she awoke the light was fading, and she smelled roasting meat.
Alastair was in the kitchen stirring something in a pot.
“Smells good,” she said.
“There you are. Feeling any better? You look flushed.”
She yawned. “Just my coloring improving from my little nap. How were the sheep?”
She let him prattle on about grass seeds and litter sizes while she nursed the glass of wine he poured for her. When the roast was ready, they ate it in the parlor with a sauce he made from Mr. Fellowes’ plums.
The delectability of the food made her nervous. It was one thing to make a man a cake, but to make Alastair Eden a cake was like a seaman warbling an old fishing ballad to an opera singer.
“You still look tired,” Alastair said. “Why don’t you go to bed while I clean up. We needn’t make love tonight.”
“Of course we’ll be making love,” she said. “But first, I’m in the mood for something sweet.”
“Oh. I didn’t make dessert, but there’s fresh cream I brought back from the Fellowes’ that will be delicious with the rest of the strawberries. I’ll just go—” He rose but she shot up and stopped him.
“You sit down. I have a surprise for you.”
He sat, looking perplexed, as she knelt down and retrieved her cake from the sideboard. It was sunken, and the peaches had dried out more than she liked.
It was a bit pitiful.
Well, nothing she could do about that now.
She stood up and held it out to him.
“Happy birthday, Alastair.”
His mouth fell open.
“How did you know?”
“You said last week it was coming. The girl may not be a genius, but she can count to six.”
“You baked?”
She looked down at the atrocious cake. “Can’t you tell?”
He was up on his feet, laughing and beaming. He took the cake from her hands and put his arms around her tight.
“I cannot believe you.”
“The cake’s not that bad.”
He pulled back and looked at her in wonder. “Thank you. I’m—” he cleared his throat “—touched, Tha?s.”
Good God. He was laughing, but his eyes were also misting over.
“Eden!” she squawked. “At least try the damn thing before you cry over it.”
He wiped his eyes, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “This is just... incredibly sweet. And also very funny. The idea of you in there all day, whipping butter and beating eggs...”
She swatted his shoulder and he caught her hand and pulled her close and gave her the longest, deepest hug.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. “This is the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.”
“Unless I poisoned it.”
“Did you?”
“Not intentionally.”
They took the cake out onto the terrace with two forks and sat in the fading light. Eden speared a bite and put it in his mouth.
He chewed for a suspiciously long time.
“Delicious,” he pronounced.
He was obviously lying.
She tasted her own slice.
She immediately spit it back out. “It tastes like a burned omelet.”
Eden took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Yes. But with peaches.”
She snorted and grabbed his fork. “Don’t eat that.”
He snatched the fork back and plunged it into the cake. “Is that...” he said, pulling up a hunk “...a peach stone?”
She put her head in her hands.
“You can choke on these, you know. Were you hoping my fortieth year would be my last?”
She giggled. “Didn’t mean to put that in there.”
“I think it complements the texture.”
“Don’t clown on me.”
“Oh, she can mock him all she wants for weeks, but he must solemnly respect her sacred baking skills?”
“I have other skills,” she said.
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “That, my girl, you do.”
She took him by the hips and pressed him closer. “Care to sample them?”
“I do. But first, I want to thank you.”
“You already did.”
“No, not enough,” he said, moving apart from her. “And not just for tonight. For this month. For being such delightful company. And so, so very kind.”
It was almost... romantic, the husky way he was talking. The earnest look in his eyes.
Like they were two old lovers laughing on a special night, holding each other as they began to think of making love.
It felt real.
And the first rule of mistressing was remembering what was fake.
She was Eden’s paid performer, not his lover.
She could flatter and flirt and beguile and seduce. She could writhe and moan and contort herself in ways he would remember on his deathbed. She could feign raptures of pleasure.
And the act of pretending made her safe. It reminded her this was her job.
It was time to remind Eden of that too.
“We should start practicing for you to take your wife’s virginity.”
He looked at her oddly. “Tonight?”
“We only have a week.”
He shook his head and took her hands. “Let’s do it tomorrow. Right now I don’t want to pretend. I want you, Tha?s.”
How could she resist that?
And what would one more day hurt? It was his birthday, and if he wanted to spend it in this fantasy, well—he was paying for that too.
They went upstairs and got in bed and didn’t bother with undressing.
He pinned her on the bed and kissed her hungrily, already hard. She loved how vast his appetite for her was.
“I need to be inside you,” he said raggedly. “Can I—” He took her legs and pulled them open and slid into her, all the way. He fit her perfectly. So perfectly that it was torture not to simply give in to the pleasure of him and let herself fall apart.
She wanted to. She had to dig her nails into the bed to resist it, she wanted to so badly.
He cupped her arse and lifted her up to get even deeper.
Once there, he stopped moving.
“I love this,” he said. “It’s the best feeling in the world.”
And it was, it was.
With him, it was.
He reached down to her cunt. “I want to touch you while I fuck you. Is that done?”
She was grateful for the question, as it gave her a moment to get her senses back.
“Anything can be done if you have a mind to try it,” she said, ignoring how good his thickness felt, pulsing at her core.
“Then can I try it on you?”
“Of course.”
“I need a better angle. Here.” He rolled off her and got on his side. “Lie next to me.”
She pressed her back against his front, so she was embraced by his whole body, and helped guide him back inside her pussy.
She’d never done it this way before. Shocking, given she’d had sex on horseback, on a ship’s bow, and on a swing made for fucking by an enterprising glass merchant.
It was sweet, this position. Like being in one of Alastair’s perfect hugs.
He kissed her neck and put his fingers over her cunt. “That’s better,” he said. “Now I can touch you and fuck you at the same time.”
And he did. Achingly slowly, while fingering her just the way she liked it best. She tried to distract herself from the heady pleasure by saying filthy things to him, but she kept getting too distracted to talk. His arms around her, his cock inside her, his hands driving her insane, his lips kissing her neck in a way she knew would leave marks.
She should stop him, as she’d have to wear scarves to hide herself from Hattie, and because it was blinding her and making her tremble, but she wanted just another moment of it, just another taste.
She closed her eyes, just for a second, to let all of it wash over her. To really feel it.
All of a sudden, she was blind.
Alastair was pounding into her while his fingers stroked urgently on her pearl, and the world was rolling, just the two of them in it, and she couldn’t help it, it was all too late, because he had her. He had her.
She spasmed around his cock as liquid squirted out of her.
Wave after wave came, and she soaked the sheets, gasping and shaking, as fervid with pleasure as she was, already, with regret.
When it was over, she and Alastair were both completely still.
He pulled out of her without finishing and stared at her in wonder.
“What just happened?” he asked.
“I... uh... spent.”
She did not like her lovers to know her body did this, because then they’d be suspicious when it didn’t happen.
“I didn’t know women did that,” he said.
“Some do, some don’t. It doesn’t happen every time.”
“But you never have before. Not once.”
She shrugged.
“Tha?s, look at me.”
Reluctantly, she met his eyes.
“That was different, wasn’t it? For you.”
She nodded. She couldn’t deny it, lying in wet sheets.
“Have you been holding back? Pretending?”
She sighed. “I... don’t usually let myself get so carried away.”
He looked hurt. “So all these nights, when you told me I was giving you pleasure, you were lying?”
“No. You were giving me a great deal of pleasure. You always do. But it’s not my job to take it.”
“You’re here to let me learn to pleasure a woman. If you’re not being honest about what brings you to bliss, how will I learn?”
He had a point. “I’m sorry, Alastair. If you truly wish for me to let go, I will.”
But even as she said it, she was vowing never to let it happen again.
“I do wish for that,” he said. “I wish for it most fervently.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Tell me what you like. Be honest.”
“I like it all,” she said, truthfully. It was not a problem to like what she did. It was a problem to let herself relax. When you did—especially if you also liked the person in your bed—you were in danger of believing it was real.
And she already liked Alastair Eden far too much.
“Let me change the sheets,” she said. “They’re damp.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I want to make you do that again. Tonight. Right now. Tell me what to do.”
She held back a sigh. Now she would have to let herself get lost in it, just to please him. She would have to hold back in her mind, without holding back in her body.
And so, quickly as she could, she invented a scheme so far outside of how she pictured Alastair that she couldn’t possibly confuse the acts with those they practiced honestly.
“I like to be tied up,” she said. “Blindfolded. Spanked. Called filthy names.”
He looked at her with deep concern. “That doesn’t sound very nice for you.”
“When a lady tells you what she likes, believe her.”
He nodded slowly. “So I’ll tie you up. If that’s truly what you wish for.”
“Alastair, if you don’t like it, then we won’t. It’s important for both people to like what they do.”
“I can try it. Perhaps I will like it.”
At first he was tentative, as he used corset strings to bind her wrists to the bedposts and a scarf to blind her. But then he found his domineering side—the lordly aspect of his personality.
When he was like this, it was easier to picture him as another of her other clients. As someone like Camberwell, who saw sex as a game.
Her want for Eden did not diminish, and she let herself orgasm when he took her. But she insisted on the blindfold. It was easier to keep herself safe when she could not see the genuine care and hunger in his eyes.
And when he held her afterward, she kept her eyes clamped shut.