The tiny shoulder straps parted with ease, sending the silky chemise floating down to gather at her slender waist. Her breasts, large, round and capped with delectable berry-colored nipples, filled his hands as if they were made just for him.
He listened to her moan, felt her arch to press herself more firmly into his fingers. He couldn't help but wonder if the reaction was contrived. Was this a ploy to earn the ruby and diamond bracelet she was going on and on about earlier? Were her mewlings a bit overdone, her ardor a smidgeon too zealous?
He tried to concentrate, to lose himself in the luscious form she was so proud of, and rightly so. She was a catch to have as a mistress. He'd been lucky to find her between protectors and snatch her up so handily. She was the beauty of the season, incomparable to those giggling debutantes that were being thrown at him at every ball and gala he attended.
****
Long blonde tresses curled artfully, spilling over her strawberries and cream complexion. Huge blue eyes stared dreamily at him from a small heart-shaped face with lush lips and a classical nose, thin with just a touch of an upturn at the tip to make it precocious. She was petite, as was the fashion, but her body curved splendidly, designed as if by the heavens to prey upon the lusts of men.
Her name was Abigail Worth. Once a governess, she'd been taken by the master of the house, the father of the children she'd been hired to teach. He'd snuck into her room, shutting the connecting door to the children's nursery. With his hand over her mouth he'd thrown up her night rail, plunging into her with no soft kisses or caresses, rutting on her like an animal.
Since that night, she'd used what God had given her to carve out her own place; her beauty, her intelligence, and her womanly wiles. She'd gone from being the governess to being the mistress and then onward, earning her own house and shelves of jewels, wardrobes of gowns. She was coveted by many, able to choose who she wanted.
Now she sat across his loins, staring down into his handsome dark face. His hair was mussed from her hands, cut in flyaway fashion, soft black locks that felt like pure sin between her fingers. His mouth was firm but could be soft and sensuous and could turn a woman's mind to mush when he wanted. Blue eyes stared up at her, the blue of clear summer sky; but when his passions were roused, they turned dark like the cool depths of a lazy river.
That was the color she wanted to see them at now, not slightly mocking and cold as they were. Her hands stroked across his chest, her nails racking over his flat male nipples with deliberate taunting. They hardened under her fingers. Abigail leaned over, allowing her long hair to play across his neck and chest, her mouth moving with skilled ease, finding his lips and kissing him deeply.
She'd been after him since the first time she'd seen him, staring out the windows of one of the many galas that she'd finally talked her last protector into attending. It was a masked event, which allowed mistresses to sneak in undiscovered and she'd been anxious to go. He'd been at the window over looking the gardens, his dark hair uncovered, his handsome face unmasked. She'd asked another woman his name, her eyes hardening with lustful ponderings. Lord Jason Ashington, Duke of Clarington, was his name; a bachelor with a love of fine woman, fine horses and fine brandy. She hadn't been able to get him off her mind.
Abigail had contrived the break up with her current lover after a single dance with Lord Jason. A dance she had spent flirting shamelessly and setting up an assignation with the handsome duke. That little tryst had gone splendidly, and she had allowed him to know that she was seeking a new protector, the blush having faded from the rose of her last benefactor.
They'd been together for almost four months now, and she was beginning to feel as if he were pulling away from her, as if she bored him in some way, a possibility too ridiculous to consider. Recently, his visits had gone from three times a week to two and this week? This was his first visit and it was already Friday!
"Jason," she moaned, against his warm lips. "I love the way your hands feel on me."
****
He rolled with her, pushing her under him, his hands coming out to rip her shift away.
Her laugh was soft and seductive, with just the right note to make it a sensual delight to the male senses. It irritated him.
He kissed her neck, letting the scent of her perfume envelope his senses. It was an expensive scent; a heady aroma that she'd had made just for her. His lips slid to her breasts, finding a plump nipple and taking it and rolling it with his tongue. He suckled as she writhed under his mouth, her hands stroking his back and neck, sliding over the long muscles in his arms, her moans reaching his ears.
Were they fake? Did she actually feel desire? He took her nipple between his teeth, pulling on it lightly. If she were enjoying him, wouldn't these pink tips be hard? He suckled again, plying the flat of his tongue and sweeping it over her breast.
With a sigh, he sat up, staring down at the picture she made in her dishabille. She was lovely, there was no doubting that. He had enjoyed every aspect of her slender body, from the sweet pink of her cunny to the lusciousness of her mouth and even that tiny pink rosebud that she'd tried so hard to stop him from taking the first time.
Now she begged for it when he took her, wanting to be taken hard like the beasts in the field.
All he could think now was that he wanted something else. What? He didn't know.
He did know that he was bored with Abby, through no fault of her own. She tried, he
would give her that.
"What is it?" she asked, her breath rushed, her hands reaching out to him. "Are you all right, Jason?"
He smiled distractedly, pushing his hand through his hair and not understanding his own mood. Any other man would have her flat on her back, her heels in the air as he plowed into her sweet little cunt. But when she tried to touch him, he almost leapt from the bed, anxious now to get away.
"It is nothing, my dear. A forgotten appointment is all." The lies tripped from his lips easily. He felt guilty, though he knew he shouldn't. He paid her well for her time; this house, a coach and four for her own use plus the endless trinkets that the woman was always demanding. He had no reason for guilt. But he felt it, for he knew he would be ending their arrangement. If not today, than the next time he visited.
"But you said you had all afternoon when you arrived, Jason. I was hoping you'd stay for dinner and then perhaps we could discuss Lady Emily Trent's ball." She moved to sit on the side of the bed, pushing her golden locks behind her shoulders so to allow him to fully gaze on her assets.
"Lady Emily's ball is for the nobles, my dear, of which it is sad to say, you aren't." He reached for his shirt, pulling it on quickly, pushing her hands away as she rose to play with the buttons he'd already done up, slowly undoing them again.
"I could be a noble, Jason. If you would but marry me, I could be your wife and a Lady in my own right." The words were out before she could stop them, but once they were, she couldn't regret them. Abigail had been thinking this for a while now, how to stop having to depend upon a man's lust for her very existence. It was easy, marry one of them. And which one would suit her more admirably than this handsome duke?
Jason tried to control the laughter that burst out of him, coughing into his hand before he allowed himself to look at her.
"You are serious?" he asked, his voice rising in disbelief that she could aspire to such. "Abby, you were nothing but a lowly governess, a school teacher's daughter who managed to get an education. Half the lords in London have been between your thighs, my dear. You can't possible think that I could marry you. Even if I were in the market to get married, which I am not, my position requires that I marry someone of equal status. I could never marry my mistress."
She narrowed her eyes at him, her mouth thinning to a straight line as she sulked. "It isn't ridiculous and it is done. Many men marry their mistresses."
"Abigail, most men who have mistresses have them because their wives won't open their legs in the marital bed anymore. But most importantly, a fact that you might have missed in what I just said, I'm not interested in being leg shackled yet. I'm enjoying my life just fine right now, without a wife to whine and pout and wheedle her way into things." He reached for his cravat, looping it over his shoulders as he pushed his shirt tails into the fine lawn breeches he hadn't bothered removing before.
"Jason, you aren't getting any younger, and you will need a wife to gain heirs from. You need to be able to pass the title along. I could bear those children for you, care for your home, and be hostess at your parties. And you know we deal well with each other in bed. What more could you want?"
"Oh yes, that would go over smashingly. You sitting at the foot of my table with half of the men present already having had a go at your soft cunt." He laughed. "Abigail, you must get this out of your mind or else I will have no choice but to end our arrangement here and now." He waited to hear her answer, wondering which he actually wanted. It would be so convenient if she would keep at him, now after his warning. He could walk away with it being her fault. It would absolve his conscience nicely.
She pouted, her pink lips pursed, her eyes downcast as she showed her disappointment and ire at his attitude. "I cannot believe that you think so little of me as to end our love over a small disagreement, Jason. I thought you cared more for me than that."
"I care about you, Abby," he said, pulling on the gray and silver waistcoat that went under the dark gray of his coat. "But I don't love you. I have never uttered those words to a woman, and I won't. That mythical emotion will never foul my thoughts. It is only women who believe in love." He finished buttoning his waistcoat, turning to the mirror over her dressing table to tie his cravat, the limp material producing a completely unsatisfying knot.
