Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (24 page)

To be sure, he asked, “Are we alone?”

No answer. Perhaps the woman did not wish
her voice to betray her identity.

“Strike my left thigh if yes, the right if
no,” he suggested.

The crop fell against his left thigh.

“Do the Wendlessons know I am
indisposed?”

The crop fell against his right thigh.

“Will you not send word to them?”

The right thigh.

“Why not?” he demanded, then rephrased the
question to one she could answer. “You intend they should
wait?”

The right thigh. Had she struck the wrong
leg?

“Will they have to wait for me long?”

She struck his right inner thigh, close to
his cods. He tried to understand how this was possible, provided
she told the truth, but was soon distracted when she pushed his
forehead back, forcing his chin up. Something smothered his mouth.
Her mouth. Her nearness made the perfume flood his nose. She kissed
him ravenously through the linen, found his bottom lip, and bit and
pulled. His head swam and the blood coursed, unwanted, down his
lower body.

“Surely Joan—Does Madame Devereux condone
this?” he asked when she released his lips.

To no surprise, she slapped his right
thigh.

“Then this is solely your doing?”

She slapped his left thigh. He thought of
Mistress Brownwen. She did not patronize the Red Chrysanthemum with
any frequency nowadays, but she would have the interest to see a
man at her mercy. He would not have expected her to have the nerve
to assault him without his permission, however.

“What do you intend with me?” he asked.

A hand grasped him between the thighs. He
grunted as the padded part of the palm rubbed against his cock.

“May I be relieved of the hood?” he
tried.

The right thigh. There was one other likely
possibility, he contemplated to himself.

“Free only the mouth, that I may feel your
kiss upon my lips.”

She seemed to consider his request, then
rolled the bottom of the linen up to his nose. He breathed in the
relief of cooler air. He sensed she stood straddled with legs on
either side of him, but he could not feel nor hear the rustle of
skirts. She ran a thumb across his lips, then covered his mouth
with her own, gently kissing this time.

He felt plump, soft lips, a tongue that
enticed his into a hot, wet dance. She held his head still with her
hands as the kiss deepened. Her mouth became more demanding, her
tongue plunging deeper. Tension coiled in his pelvis.

When at last she released his mouth for
breath, he said, “I think we may dispense with the hood and the leg
tapping, Miss Terrell.”

He sensed her stiffen, but then the hood was
torn from his head. Miss Terrell stood over his lap, her curls
falling past her shoulders. She wore a corset with a high back and
a low scooped front, an article from the mid-18th century when a
nipple might peek from a woman’s décolletage. The garment forced
her breasts to swell upward. They gleamed before him. She wore no
shift, nor, as his gaze went lower, any petticoats. Instead, she
had on a…loincloth. No, it was merely a scarf tied round the hips
and knotted in front to cover the most intimate parts of the
pelvis. The crop was tucked into the scarf at her hip. Her legs
were completely bare. Upon noting the lush thighs, he tried to stay
his cock from hardening.

“Where are the Wendlessons?” he
demanded.

“They are unable to come tonight,” she
replied as she played with tendrils of his hair. “The countess was
unwell, and Miss Katherine attends her at bedside.”

He jerked his head from her hand. “Why did
you not tell me this before?”

“You did not ask.”

She began unbuttoning his coat.

“Untie me,” he directed, wishing he could
stop her hands, which went to his cravat next.

“Why? You are free of engagements this
evening.”

The devilish minx.

“You knew the Wendlessons would be absent,”
he said.

“I came upon the note from them.”

“Came upon or intercepted?”

“Does it matter?”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Untie me
now.”

“Tonight I am
Mistress
Terrell, and
you would do well to cooperate.”

What in damnation…

His cravat undone, she began to unbutton his
waistcoat. He strained against his bonds and earned the back of her
hand against his cheek. Though he did not often curse before the
fair sex, he emitted a resounding oath.

“This is an outrage,” he said. “If Madame
did not approve—”

She slapped him across the other cheek.
Hard.

But her gall stunned more than the blow. Who
did this chit think she was? What submissive in her right mind
would dare treat a dominant in such fashion?

He gave her a stern stare. “Take care, Miss
Terrell. You do not wish for me to take matters to Joan.”

She finished unbuttoning his waistcoat. “You
will think differently when I am done. You will wish an encore of
tonight.”

In an instant, he recalled his dream from
the other night. His cock perked in response, and he forced himself
to think only on his indignation.

“It is against the rules to coerce a member
against his or her will. It will result in prompt expulsion from
the Red Chrysanthemum.”

Brushing aside his waistcoat, she undid his
braces and slowly pulled his shirt from his trousers. The placement
of her hand so near to his crotch made him stiffen.

“If, in five minutes time,” she said, “you
truly and fully have no desire to be fucked, I will release
you.”

Bloody hell.
He knew not he could
last five minutes. What was it she intended? Whatever it was, he
wanted no part.

Or did he?

“I warn you, Miss Terrell.”

Ignoring him, she straddled his thighs and
pushed his shirt all the way up his chest. The weight of her
derriere on his legs set his whole body aflame. He stared with
widened eyes at the swell of her hips, more dramatic than those of
most women her size, and that part covered yet underscored by the
knot of the scarf.

Lowering her head, she licked at a
nipple.

“Miss Terrell!”

She closed her succulent lips about the bud
and sucked. The sensation tickled and electrified.

“Desist!” he commanded.

But she only sucked harder. This was
intolerable. Yet what could he do? He wanted to consider all that
he might say to intimidate, cajole or entice the impudent doxy to
stop, but forming complete thoughts was no easy feat when his
nipples were on fire.

“You wish for me to take you as my
submissive,” he managed, “but this behavior hardly aids your
case.”

“I think it does,” she murmured against him
before biting his nipple.

He grunted through gritted teeth. She
swirled her tongue around his other nipple. He felt the sensation
in the tip of his penis. He had to do something. But his threats
had had little effect on her. He refused to bribe her. He would not
reward such unacceptable conduct.

“Miss Terrell! You place your membership
here in jeopardy,” he tried once more.

She intensified her licking and sucking.
“You are worth the risk, Master Gallant.”

He gasped at the sensations assaulting his
body. “Your conduct is utterly reckless!”

She covered his midsection with kisses. Heat
churned in his groin. He closed his eyes, wishing for a way to
transport himself from his body that he might not succumb to her
delicious caresses. Those lips of hers…

“If Madame should discover your devilry—are
you willing to imperil your arrangement with Sir Arthur?”

She grasped him by the chin. “Do not fear
me, my pet. Take pleasure in your submission. I give it to you
gratis.”

He resorted to bribery. “I would sooner pay
you to leave me be.”

“It is not coin but cock I wish from
you.”

His ears burned. The brazen jade. He was
torn, furious at his helplessness yet oddly
aroused
as well.
Was his vanity to blame? He had declined overtures before but never
came across a member of the Red Chrysanthemum who desired him with
such intensity that she would resort to such drastic measures. He
watched as her hands dropped to his trousers and began to undo his
fall.

“Miss Terrell, you will stop this
foolishness!”

His temples throbbed, feeling his last
defenses were about to be breached. She drew back his fall. To his
relief, his cock was only partially hard. He prayed it would go no
further, but, deep down, he knew the odds were against him.

She slid off his thighs and, kneeling upon
the ground, positioned herself between them. With his ankles and
calves tied to the legs of the chair, he could not close his knees.
He tried to block the effect of seeing Miss Terrell between his
legs, but she had only to touch his cock, which lengthened toward
her in an instant. She stroked his shaft softly with her fingers.
He stymied any reaction—the desire to moan, grunt or sigh—and
stilled his body as if nothing were happening. But his cock
hardened with every second.

“I think I begin to convince you, Master
Gallant.”

“Do not credit yourself so quickly. It is
merely a reflex. The touch of a vile beast might elicit the same
response.”

She stopped, and her countenance grew
grave.

“And is a blackamoor comparable to a vile
beast?”

“No,” he protested, baffled by her
statement. “I merely meant the desire to spend is a weakness in my
sex. A woman might be foul, old, and homely. She may be covered in
warts and reek of odors too ghastly to name, but a man will find a
way to spend if her cunnie is forced upon him.”

The look in her eyes only hardened. Surely
she knew he did not mean to accuse her of being foul, old, and
homely. She seemed to recall herself and closed her hand about his
shaft, and it took all of him not to groan. The sensation of her
fingers wrapped about him was exquisite.

He was damned.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A
vile beast? Foul, old,
and homely? Did he suggest she was no more desirable to him than
these?

Tempering her indignation, she stroked his
shaft delicately. He betrayed no emotion. But she had heard the
desperation in his voice, and she would turn his resistance into
craving before night’s end. He would beg for her to fuck him. He
would beg a
blackamoor
to fuck him.

“What are your intentions?” he asked
hoarsely.

In response, she licked at the tip of his
cock. He inhaled sharply. She pressed her tongue at the underside
of his shaft and dragged up its length. She closed her mouth over
the top and sucked. She drew back and allowed his cock to pop out
of her hot, wet orifice.

“Miss Terrell…”

His member tasted as fine as she had
imagined it would. She took him into her mouth once more, deeper. A
low groan escaped his lips. Gradually, she withdrew completely and,
for a moment, refrained from touching him, that he might mourn the
absence of her mouth. She stared at his lovely Thomas, admiring its
shape and how it stood at proud attention. She licked over his
pisshole, then lapped at the underside of the crown.

Looking up, she found him staring at her,
his jaw clenched, eyes widened. She felt a heady surge. He was not
the first man she had bound. She once had a patron who insisted on
being rendered helpless, asked to be beaten, and begged her to
torment his cock without allowing him to spend. Master Gallant did
not appear so inclined. The touch of anger had not left his eyes.
She began to doubt herself. Perhaps she had been mistaken, and he
and Mistress Scarlet did not exchange roles. Though she would never
have thought the staunch Mistress would submit to any man, she had
witnessed the woman’s surrender to Master Gallant. It had amazed
her then that anyone could conquer Mistress Scarlet.

And now she held captive the man who had
slain the dragon that none before him could. Her pulse raced, and
her hand nearly trembled. She had rendered this mighty man
powerless. To see such a man of strength and forbearance at her
mercy both frightened and excited. He was hers. Hers to toy with.
Heat flared in her loins at the sudden rush of power. It was not
often she held dominion over a white man. His kind had controlled
her life since birth. Even though she had had her freedom these
past few years, she yet depended upon them, relied upon them for
her livelihood. In that, she was not wholly free.

Realizing she had done and said nothing for
some time, she suppressed the conflict and unease raging inside
her. She could not let him witness her uncertainty. She had gone
down a path and would take it to its end. It was too late to turn
back.

“Do you require a safety word, Master
Gallant?”

“Impudent chit,” he replied.

“I would recommend a word with but one
syllable, preferably something simple and boring.”

But he paid little heed to her prattle.
“What do you hope to accomplish with all this?”

“Your pleasure. Does it gall you to realize
you can be aroused by a blackamoor?”

Again, he appeared confounded. “You wish to
prove something with all this mischief, Miss Terrell?”

She paused.
Yes
, she was inclined to
answer. She wanted to prove him false, that her qualities did
compel him, at least in the venereal sense, and that a Negress
could be desired by a man like him. She wanted him to recant his
statement, that far from being the last member of the Red
Chrysanthemum he would wish to be with, she might be the first. All
manner of men have desired her. Men of standing. Men of wealth. Why
not Charles Gallant?

Because he was better than all those men
who had desired her.
Because he was
good
and
decent
, and good decent gentlemen did not desire blackamoors
like her. A peculiar pain reared itself once more. He thought
himself better than her. Well, if she could not prove herself to be
worthy of his regard, she would prove that she could make him spend
as well as—better than—anyone he would consider over her.