Chapter Eleven #2
Her chemise clung to her body, revealing its softly rounded shape—the shapely legs, the flare of her hips. His gaze wandered along her form, taking in the delicate waist, her chest, and…
Oh Lord!
His mouth watered at the outline of her breasts and their little buds at the center that poked at the fabric. Would they be as gloriously pink as he imagined?
He reached for the hem of her chemise and she inhaled sharply. Then her lips lifted in a smile and she nodded encouragement, though the fear remained in her eyes.
Brave little flower.
Then he lifted her chemise to reveal her naked form, and almost spent at the sight.
Sweet heaven—they’re as pink as I hoped.
“My lord?”
He glanced up to see her watching him as he licked his lips.
“May I?” he whispered.
“You have no need to ask.”
“But I do ask.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them again, and he caught, once more, a flicker of sorrow in them.
“Yes, you may.”
He dipped his head and placed a kiss on her breast, relishing the soft scent of her skin—sweet floral notes mingled with a deeper, sharper fragrance. Her chest rose and fell with each breath as he peppered her skin with kisses, then her nipple hardened as he nudged it with his nose.
Emboldened, he flicked his tongue out, then curled it around the little peak. It hardened further against his tongue, and, compelled by a hunger that demanded to be satisfied, he clamped his mouth over her nipple and sucked, hard, drawing it into his mouth.
“Oh, sweet heaven—my James!”
Her body bucked as she cried out. Grasping her arms, he continued to suckle her breast while she writhed beneath him, until her cries subsided to whimpers.
My James…
What a sweet song for a man to hear—his name on a woman’s lips while she cried out in pleasure!
His Dahlia had taught him well.
When his bride relaxed, he continued a path of kisses along her stomach, until he reached the dark curls at her center, where the sharp scent intensified.
He slipped his hand between her thighs, where her skin had turned a delicious shade of pink.
Relishing the heat on her skin, he caressed her thighs with his fingers before slipping them into the nest of curls to the sweet flesh within.
How smooth and slick she was! Was that what his schoolfellows had spoken of when they boasted of how wet they made a woman’s cunny?
He winced at the crude term. Such thoughts had no place either in his mind or on his lips when his beautiful, innocent bride was before him.
Hs cock fit to burst, James gritted his teeth to fight the urge to plunge inside her.
He coaxed her thighs apart, gently but firmly, and her breathing deepened.
He glanced up to see her chest rising and falling rapidly, her breasts shifting with each movement, their delicious nipples still hard and erect.
Her eyes were closed, head back against the pillows, mouth open as if she were awaiting entry into heaven.
There was no doubt about it. She was ready.
For me.
He settled himself on top of her, his manhood pulsing against her thigh, and she let out a long, low groan.
Drawing in a deep breath, he shifted position until the tip of him slid into her curls.
“James…”
She whimpered and tilted her hips until his tip met her entrance. He began to ease into her and looked down, relishing the wicked image of his manhood half buried in her curls.
Then he froze.
On her right thigh was a tiny pink mark on her skin, in the shape of a flower.
A unique mark. A mole.
The same mole that he’d kissed only a fortnight ago in this very building.
He withdrew and sat back, drawing in a sharp breath.
“Dear Lord, no,” he whispered. “It cannot be!”
“James?”
He glanced up to see his bride staring at him. At last, he understood the apprehension in her eyes. She was not fearful of the wedding night.
She was fearful of being found out.
She sat up, her cheeks coloring. The fear in her eyes turned into shame.
“James, what’s the matter?”
Did she still seek to deceive him?
“Why do you ask…Dahlia?”
She flinched. “Wh-what did you call me?”
She wrapped her arms around herself, and he gestured toward her.
“Why do you cover yourself?” he said. “After all, it’s a body I have seen many times—as have countless other men.”
“I-I don’t understand what you’re—”
“Do not play me for a fool!” he snarled. “Forgive me, madam, for not recognizing you without your red mask and blonde wig.”
She lowered her head and her shoulders slumped. Then she wiped her eyes and shook her head.
“James, I didn’t intend to…”
“Didn’t intend to what?” he said. “Play me for a simpleton? Is your name really Cordelia Flowers?”
She nodded.
“I mean,” he continued, “a whore uses many names, does she not, when she’s servicing her clients? Dahlia was the name you gave me, but perhaps the other men who fucked you called you Rose, or Daisy, or perhaps—”
“Stop!” she cried. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Like what?” he said. “Did you not sell your body in this very building?”
She wiped her eyes and nodded.
“Then what, madam, have I said that’s wrong?”
“I-it wasn’t like that…with you. It meant nothing with the others.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Is that not what a whore says to every man she spreads her legs for if she wishes to secure an extra coin or two—a woman whose only love is for coin?”
“James, I…”
Her lips moved, but the blood pounding in his ears obliterated her words, together with the sounds of the building—the ticking of the clock, the crackle of the fire, and the distant laughter coming, no doubt, from the company mocking the man who’d been duped into marrying a whore.
“What did you say?” he asked, at length.
She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, before exhaling.
“It matters not,” she said quietly. “You’ve resolved to think the worst of me, so I’ll spare you words that mean nothing to you.”
She wrapped her arms around her breasts, shivering before him. In her state of distress, an aura of defenselessness surrounding her form, James’s heart almost surrendered. She had looked innocent before. But now…
He’d never seen a creature so vulnerable—like a field mouse caught in the jaws of a cat, knowing that her predator meant to toy with her before tearing her to pieces.
“Did you plan this, Dahlia?”
She flinched and, for a moment, looked completely cowed. Then her body seemed to solidify and she straightened her posture, as if her backbone were forged from steel.
“No, Lord Bedford,” she said, her voice hardening. “I did not plan”—she gestured between them—“this.”
“Explain.”
She met his gaze, the silver in her eyes turning to steel—to match the edge to her voice.
“I, like so many women before me, had a contractual arrangement with Mrs. Dove-Lyon to secure a husband.” She tilted her head to one side. “As did you, to find a wife, I assume?”
His resolve almost faltering at the intensity in her eyes, he nodded.
“I merely agreed to the nature of the game, and chose the appropriate suitor based solely on the gift presented. Had I known it was you, I…”
“You what?” he said. “You would have chosen the townhouse instead? Or the diamond necklace?”
“No, I would have voided the game by choosing none of the suitors.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want a man who believed that a woman was a commodity to be purchased!”
“But is that not what you were…” he began, but she raised her hand.
“Do not say it.” Though she almost whispered, anger simmered beneath the quietness of her voice.
“The woman you paid for her services was a very different woman to the one you have married. Whores only exist because men wish to satisfy their base needs on women who would not suffer their attentions without payment.”
Her arrow hit home and he looked away, raking a hand through his hair.