Portia Da Costa (5 page)

Why had she ever come in here in the first place? She had no need of Lord Rayworth’s erotic treasures to inspire her; her imagination was sufficient. And her memory. Her mind was like a photographic plate, and she could develop anything she wanted on it. The ability to conjure images out of air was her great artistic gift.

Adela looked at Wilson’s mouth, knowing she was lost. He was a blackguard, but he excited her more than any other man ever had or probably ever could do. She wanted those lips on hers again, and in other places, too. Zones they’d never actually explored in real life, but which cried out for him now. His eyes didn’t look quite so silver currently; the pupils were huge, dark as a thunderhead, with a lightning-crack of promise in their depths, an intensity of desire that matched her own.

“What dalliance? What do you mean?” Oh, she was such a fool....

“Don’t fret. Nothing too compromising, Della. Just a few pleasant moments, I promise...pleasure I
owe
you.” He smiled at her, a very imp of mischief and devilment, exotic yet familiar.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust him. He’d been incorrigible seven years ago, and she had no reason to believe from their brief social meetings in the interim that he’d reformed even in the slightest degree.

“I don’t believe you, Wilson. You’ll take liberties. It’s what you do.” She tried to tug away, but couldn’t. His knowledge of Oriental fighting arts meant he knew special arcane grips that were light yet unyielding. And even without them, his eyes would still have held her.

“But you liked liberties once, Della. In fact, you invited them.” It was his turn to tug now, and as if drugged, she moved toward him. “Surely you’ve not forgotten what we shared? I promise I’ll honor your secrets.” He glanced at the portfolio, and the fingers of his free hand flexed. “All of them.”

“You’re a devious and manipulative man, Wilson,” she hissed, and then flung herself at him, grabbing his warm face between her hands and kissing him hard on the lips.

Well, that’s one way to distract him,
the rational part of her brain observed coolly, while all the rest of her reveled in his taste.

But Wilson’s soft grunt of triumph as she opened her mouth to him almost made her retreat again. She’d got him right where
he
wanted to be, and before she could react, his hands slid around her, gripping her tight. He was still scheming, but at least for the moment his hands were on her, not the portfolio. She let her own arms slide right around him, clinging close, her blood pounding and racing in her veins.

Oh, Lord, this is Wilson.... Wilson...

Everything always circled back to him. He’d made her what she was, a sensual woman with turbulent erotic appetites. Seven years ago, he’d turned a lever and set lust in motion, and even though they’d fallen out again almost as quickly as they’d clung together, she hadn’t given up on the pleasures of the flesh.

Wilson Ruffington was the author, albeit unwitting, of a wicked secret life.

4

More Wicked than you Could Possibly Imagine

But there was no time to think of that moment of transformation now. In the perilous present, Wilson’s tongue probed her mouth just as it had during their first hot kiss, the wicked muscular thrust aping that other thrust, that other wonderful hot, wet, hard intrusion. The possession she still wanted, and still wanted from
him.
Ignoring the murmuring voices of reason and tediously pervasive doubts about her reputation, she pressed her body against him as hard as she could, rocking her pelvis against his in a primal rhythm.

He was still hard, unyielding as the oak of the door and the desk and the mighty trees in the park beyond the window. She could feel the heat of him through all their layers of clothing.

“Oh, Della, my Della, how you still rouse me,” he growled against her neck, his lips nibbling her skin just above the little collar of her gown. With one hand still gripping her bottom through her skirt and petticoats, he set the other to the task of unfastening the row of jet buttons down the front of her bodice. As ever, he was quicker and defter than any man had a right to be, but his manual dexterity had always matched his rare intelligence.

Adela tried not to think, because if she did, she’d deem herself too idiotic to be allowed to live. All that mattered was to feel and savor experience while she could. Her own hands ranged over what parts of Wilson she could reach, diving into his tousled, silky hair and stroking his strong back beneath the patterned fabric of his eccentric dressing gown. It was only fair that he should be revealed, just as she was, and as he rested her on the edge of the desk while he attacked her bodice, she snatched at his shirt and wrenched and pulled at his buttons.

“Yes!” Wilson paused in his efforts, dashed her hands away and ripped at his shirt himself, rending it open. It was a buttoned garment, unfastening all the way down in the new American style, and the little discs flew everywhere as he bared himself almost to the waist. Conveying her hand to his body, he pressed it against his skin and the wispy peppering of dark hair across the center of his chest.

When Adela dug her nails in, he laughed.

“You’re a wicked woman, Della, though no doubt I deserve the punishment.” Dashing her hand away again, he returned his attention to the front of her gown.

You do not know the half of it, cousin dear. I’m more wicked than you could possibly imagine.
For a moment, Adela thought of other men, other chests.

Manipulating ribbons and buttons and hooks, Wilson managed to get at what he sought. She groaned when he wedged a hand inside the top of her corset by force and cupped her breast. She was slightly formed, and he cradled the entire curve, his thumb settling on her nipple as if he owned her very flesh. It might have been only yesterday when he’d last rubbed her this way and made her squirm. Instead of seven long years, during which lately she’d been compelled to seek other hands.

“You’re beautiful...so beautiful.” Given the length of the statement, and the long burning look he gave her, Adela almost believed him. Then reality returned, bringing with it her harsh little laugh. She
wasn’t
beautiful, and he was a liar, an unrepentant sweet-talker of women. No doubt
that woman
demanded the tribute of pretty words and compliments as a right, but Adela Ruffington preferred the truth, unadorned.

“Don’t insult me.” She narrowed her eyes at him, even while she closed her hand over his. She wasn’t lovely. She was flawed. But she still had needs, and as Wilson had stirred them, both then and now, it was his responsibility to assuage them.

“Don’t start that again.” He tightened his hand on her breast, his fingers and thumb ruthless. He trapped her nipple between them, creating a twinge of pain among the pleasure, a bright, intense shard that darted instantly from her breast to her belly. Between her legs, her sex pulsed in a warm ripple.

“Start what?”

His fingers twisted, lightly pinching. Pleasure-pain.

“Denying your beauty. I won’t have it. You
are
lovely, and I’ll punish you if you persist in denying it, believe me.”

Adela could barely breathe. A threshold loomed before her, a line beyond which lay a delicious peril, the dark, sensual play only hinted at by the brash lovers in the praxinoscope reel. It wasn’t an entirely unknown country to her, but she was almost certain Wilson wouldn’t realize that.

The frolicsome pair in the moving pictures were far from the first she’d seen engage in a spanking game. She’d seen it in the flesh...and felt it, too.

“You can’t order me what to feel, Wilson. Even if we’d been the most intimate of friends for the last seven years, I still wouldn’t obey you.”

They were a pair of mythical beasts head to head in a battle. Adela wouldn’t give in, and she knew Wilson wouldn’t, either. He had the upper hand at present, though—and it was on her breast, squeezing and plying wicked pleasure.

“Liars should be punished.” His low, menacing voice made her wriggle just as much as his tormenting fingertips did. “And when you say you’re not beautiful, you
are
lying.”

“I’m not!”

“You are to me, and to any right-thinking man with even a scrap of discernment.” He shot forward, grabbing the back of her neck with his free hand and jamming his mouth down on hers, tongue stabbing again for entrance. At the same time he pinched her nipple hard, making her gasp, and allowing him access between her lips.

Wilson kissed like a marauder, like a brigand, forcing her back against the edge of the desk, tweaking her nipple, plucking at it repeatedly as he thrust over and over with his tongue. Adela felt pins slipping from her half-collapsed chignon as his fingers held her head unrelentingly.

You’re an animal, Wilson. A pirate. A wicked despoiler of women... Please don’t stop.

Her jaw ached by the time he freed her and gazed into her eyes from the closest of quarters. His own eyes were as pale and silvery as ever around the periphery, but at the center his pupils were black and dilated with lust. “I’m going to punish you, Della,” he breathed, the exhalation sweet and spicy against her face. “Just like that naughty little girlie in the praxinoscope reel. I’m going to smack your gorgeous bottom and make you squeal. And then you’re going to damn well admit that you’re lovely, do you hear me?”

“Do what the devil you want, Wilson, but I won’t lie.” She held his gaze, the pit of her belly trembling. Wicked urges rattled around inside her, wild and uncontained, despite his hold on her. She wanted to haul up her skirts and bare herself to him, challenging him to do his worst, inviting him to plunge into her as he’d once done, taking her breath away.

“Oh, I’ll do what I want, don’t you worry. But you
are
a liar.”

Pausing only to give her tender nipple one last twist, he dragged his hand out of her bodice and grabbed hold of her skirts without further ado. Taking the voluminous layers of bombazine and flannel and cambric in an untidy grip, he hauled them up, tugging and bunching until he’d exposed her stockings and her garters and her drawers. The latter were old-fashioned; Adela had other calls upon her funds than the latest styles in pretty new unmentionables, and precious little to spend on presentable gowns to go over them. Wilson uttered a happy grunt when he discovered the split that gave him access to her body.

“Oh, I love these. All women should wear these convenient old things. It makes a man’s job so much easier, especially when he’s in a hurry.”

Convenient or no, Adela was glad of her old split drawers when Wilson’s fingertips reached their moist and trembling goal.

“I...I don’t care. I don’t dress for men,” she gasped, “especially crude, grabbing ones like you.” It was difficult to breathe, even to think. Unerringly, Wilson settled his middle finger on her clitoris and rolled it slowly and unctuously, like an oiled ball bearing. “I...oh, dear Lord...I thought you might have cultivated more sophisticated carnal manners by now, Wilson, but you dive straight in and paw madly, just the way you did at nineteen.”

It was impossible not to squirm. Impossible not to rock on his hand, inciting more pleasure. Had he forgotten his threat to spank her? Adela hardly cared, as long as he caressed her like this first.

“More insults, eh, Della? On top of everything else. Time to spank you for disrespect and downright wickedness.” There was laughter in his voice, but the needs of her body were Adela’s one priority. All else fell by the wayside. Nothing mattered but Wilson holding her, and his finger flicking and circling. If he stopped, she might die, or at least scream blue murder.

Wilson stopped as if he’d heard her thoughts. He withdrew the divine finger. Adela let out a strangled cry and tried to jam her puss back onto his hand.

“Greedy Della. You like being toyed with, don’t you? You like having me play with your plump little clitty, don’t you?” His breath was hot against her neck, his whisper a zephyr drifting down over her throat and her exposed cleavage. Adela bit her lip, commanding herself not to speak or move, but a moan of need slipped the leash and her hips jerked.

“Answer me, Della. You like being played with, don’t you? Just like some randy little maid in the pantry being interfered with by an importunate footman?” Wilson’s mouth settled on her neck, in the hollow beneath her jaw, and he nipped her, his teeth sharp, the pressure measured to a fine degree. “Admit it, and when I’ve spanked your bottom, I’ll fondle you between your legs until you spend.”

“I don’t need
you
for that, Wilson!” she hissed, every muscle straining with the effort of not reacting. “I’m perfectly capable of attending to myself, thank you. Every woman is.”

“But not every woman has the wits or the sensuality to do it, Della. Most are too God-fearing or too afraid their mamas will find out that they’re impure and degenerate.”

“Well, I’m...I’m sorry for them, and I don’t care two pins for what my mother thinks.”

“Wicked, wicked Della. Lack of filial respect now. Whatever am I going to do with you?” His palm settled on her breast through her bodice again and gave it a quick, rough squeeze. “Come along, time to deal with your sins now.”

Wilson Ruffington, you are the most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!

He was far more the sinner than she, despite her secret erotic life. He was self-indulgent and selfish. He cared nothing for the feelings of others, or for the observance of any kind of good or moral behavior. And yet right at this moment, she would allow him any liberty, anything at all, to assuage her needs.

“Lean over the desk. Show me your bottom.”

Easier said than done. How typical of a man to forget about her corset only moments after he’d criticized her for wearing it. How would he like to wear it for a day, in the interests of scientific inquiry?

But one look in Wilson’s eyes told her he’d not forgotten at all. He was an encyclopedia, all facts retained, and he was no doubt gauging how much the unremitting undergarment restricted her, and how its pressures might come to bear upon her body. A slight smile curved his lips, and when he maneuvered her into position, the lower edge of the stiffened garment dug into the pit of her belly, making her grunt aloud.

Wilson made a sound, too. A masculine purr of satisfaction.

The sensations were abominable. Wicked. Wonderful.

The lower border of her corset poked her in a sensitive zone, like an etheric hand bearing down on the very root of her clitoris. It made her want to sob, gasp for breath and wriggle against the desk—not to mention ignore every last atom of her pride, reach down to diddle herself and continue doing so until she had a shuddering, towering orgasm.

“Now then, let’s see you.” With cheerful efficiency, Wilson attacked her skirts again, dragging the whole lot of them upward, petticoats and all, in one haphazard mass. “Oh, very nice,” he murmured, slipping a fingertip under her garter and the top of her stocking, and running it along the bare skin above.

Adela gnawed her knuckle. How much more of this could she stand? The pressure in her belly, and the dreadful tension in her sex, were playing havoc with her decorum. Not that she’d ever had much of that in the first place. Slowly, slipping into a sensual reverie, she began moving her hips rhythmically, and clenching her inner muscles. Perhaps she could trigger a crisis for herself and cheat her wicked cousin at his own game?

Deft fingers grasped the edges of the vent in her drawers and dragged it wide-open. The room was warm, but the cooler draft across her hindquarters made them quiver and flex. Adela let out a sob. She was exposed, ignominiously uncovered.

Adela Ruffington, you are the second most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!

The voice inside her, the spokesperson of her senses and her deepest urges, remonstrated with her. The exposure was intoxicating, her bare bottom a potent source of feminine power. She could almost taste Wilson’s lust even without feeling the pressure of his cock. Her exposed rump was an object of veneration to him. He was no different from any other man in that respect. The professional boys at Sofia Chamfleur’s house of pleasure all enjoyed ogling their clients’ buttocks, even hers, which weren’t particularly ample. With a secret grin, Adela clenched her interior muscles, both for her own pleasure and to make her flesh dance.

What do you think of that, dear cousin?

“Della! You wicked vixen,” Wilson growled, laying his hands upon her bare behind like a greedy boy grabbing a brace of muffins. “You’re sublime. You know that, don’t you? So delectable, I’ve really got to punish you.”

“Well, get on with it, then. Don’t shilly-shally.” Resting on her elbows, Adela twisted around and glared at him, challenging him with her eyes, and with the smooth nakedness of her flesh.

“Very well. As you command, milady.” The cry was hoarse as his hand came up in readiness.

Adela looked away again, bracing herself.

Wilson’s palm crashed down on her left buttock, swift and hard.