The Courtesan's Bed (21 page)

“Then you'll hear it again until it sinks in.”

Darius stifled a casual yawn that would annoy his father with its lack of heat. “I'm only twenty-seven. Still a young pup. I have plenty of time to find a wife.”

“Not if you're wasting it whoring around Paris.”

Darius wished his coffee were a tall glass of whiskey. “You can't wait to get me out of the way, can you? Well, what makes you think Régine would have you even if I were out of the picture?”

His father lifted one shoulder. “You mistake my motives, son. I have only your best interests at heart.”

“You're a terrible liar, Blackwall.” Darius stared idly out the window at the sidewalk beyond, where Parisians hurried by. “She threw away your pitiful white roses, you know, just as you threw her away.”

A deep red flush stained the other man's face, the anger reaching his eyes and blazing like hot coals. “For God's sake, I made one damned stupid mistake! Are you going to keep throwing that back in my face at every opportunity?”

“As often as I can, because you obviously haven't learned your lesson and need a frequent reminder.” Darius smiled slightly. “You'd like nothing better than for Régine to overlook what you did and let bygones be bygones. But some transgressions are unforgivable. So even if you did succeed in separating us—which you won't—she'll never be yours. Never.”

He rose, thanked his father for the coffee, and left.

Darius hailed a cab to take him to Régine's.

He had to see her, hold her and make passionate love to her as he had last night. If he didn't, he feared she'd disappear like an autumn mist in sunlight, as if his father were some powerful magician who had the power to snatch her away.

His scheming, manipulative, infuriating father… He wished their relationship were black and white, and lacking such irritating ambivalence. But though they often fought verbally and sometimes physically, Darius loved him. If anyone threatened his sire, Darius would defend him with his life without thinking twice. But he didn't particularly like him, especially his consummate arrogance and all-consuming selfishness.

“Poor deluded bastard,” he muttered to himself as the cab rolled along. “Régine wouldn't have you if you were the last man on earth.”

He rubbed his jaw, still irritated with his father's reminders for him to perform his familial duty.

Darius was a nobleman by birth and moved in the most exalted social circles. He also possessed a deeply ingrained sense of
noblesse oblige
. The expectations of past and future generations of Grangers rested squarely and heavily on his shoulders.

A woman like Régine would never be accepted by his peers. Never. She could enter a convent and devote her chaste life to good works, but her profligate past would cling to her like mud after a flood. He would face a life of social isolation. Darius wondered if he was strong enough to withstand such pressure.

Régine was not the sort of woman a duchess received for high tea. Not the sort one marries. Not the sort good enough to bear the requisite heir.

His hand absently rubbed his chest, for he felt an ache forming there.

His father had caught him off guard with his revelation that his own wife—Darius's mother—had taken many lovers. She'd died when he was only thirteen, so he had been oblivious to the adults' sexual undercurrents swirling around him. He hoped she'd found some joy in those lovers' arms, joy her arrogant, selfish husband didn't provide.

But he couldn't help wondering, what was the difference between his adulterous mother and Régine?

Of course he knew.

Noblewomen could sleep with whomever they pleased and their sexual exploits were socially acceptable, whereas Régine's use of her sexuality to make her way in a harsh, unforgiving world was not.

Darius banished all thoughts of familial duty from his mind. Since he had no intention of returning to London in the near future, no matter how much his father badgered him to do so, he could stay with Régine for as long as she would have him.

This was one time his father was not going to get what he wanted at Darius's expense.

Finding Régine waiting for him in the foyer the minute he walked through the door was like coming inside wet and half frozen from a cold, snowy winter day and finding a roaring fire awaiting him, the leaping, crackling flames warming him all the way down to his bones.

“I thought you'd never get here.” She took his hat and set it on the hall table. “This afternoon, I thought we'd—” She paused and stared at him out of wise, narrowed eyes. Then she cupped his face in her hands. “What's wrong, Darius? You look troubled.”

He placed his hands over hers and pressed them to his cheeks, craving the warmth of her silken healing touch. He inhaled her light, fresh scent. “I just had a rather unpleasant encounter with my father, that's all.”

She asked no questions and demanded no answers. All she did was roll her lovely eyes. “I do sympathize, truly.” She kissed him, and when he released her hands, she dropped hers. “Let's go upstairs.”

“Don't you have plans for us this afternoon?”

She took his hand. “They can wait.”

Once upstairs they undressed, and Régine drew back the coverlet. “Lie on your stomach.”

He watched her cross the boudoir, the white cheeks of her trim backside bobbing provocatively with every step, making him want to cup the sweet flesh in his hands. She disappeared into her dressing room. Then he lay on his stomach as she commanded, arranging his penis so he wouldn't crush it. He rested his chin on his upraised arms, wondering what libidinous afternoon delight she had planned. When she emerged, she was carrying a stoppered bottle filled with clear liquid.

“What's that?” he asked, turning his head so he could watch her crawl atop the sheets.

“The most soothing, fragrant oil,” she replied. “Your mistress is going to give you a massage, so spread your legs, please.”

His mistress… The warmth of possessiveness filled him as he spread his legs, and she seated herself between them.

“Now close your eyes and relax.”

He closed them and listened. He heard the raspy whisper of the ground glass stopper as it was removed, then the slick slap of her rubbing the oil on her hands, followed by the sweet scent of almonds and a faint touch of mint.

“Smells good enough to eat,” he murmured.

“It feels even better on the skin,” she replied. “Soothing and refreshing.”

As was her voice.

She positioned herself over him and began kneading the base of his neck with surprisingly strong thumbs. The tension left his muscles as she worked her way across his shoulders, first pressing lightly, then deeper and harder.

He groaned. “God, you have such magic fingers.”

“I'm just getting started, monsieur.”

Oddly enough, as her fingers traveled their way down both sides of his spine simultaneously, every angry and resentful thought about his father that clogged his mind broke into pieces and washed away, leaving a clear, refreshed mind.

His eyes flew open and he gasped in surprise when she reached the sensitive base of his tailbone and proceeded to rub in sensuous circles, her touch light and feathery. His thighs tightened protectively, and he would've clamped his legs together if Régine hadn't been sitting between them, keeping them open by her very presence.

When her questing thumb slipped between his cleft cheeks and rubbed the sensitive area above his hidden orifice, he jumped. “What are you doing?”

“Last night, you did agree to allow me to make love to you in any manner I choose, did you not?” Laughter lit her voice's deep, silken purr that made him shiver.

He sighed. “That I did, mademoiselle
.
And since I'm a man of my word, do your worst.”

“Oh, I will.” She kissed one ass cheek, then nipped the other so he winced. “And I promise you will enjoy every delightful minute.” She slapped his backside lightly. “On your knees, and rest your weight on your forearms.”

He did as she wished and felt his face grow hot with embarrassment as he moved into the position she desired. “I feel ridiculous sticking my arse in the air.”

She laughed. “There is no one else to see you but me, and I rather enjoy the view. Besides, the pleasure will be worth any shame, I promise.”

What did she intend to do to him?

He could hear her spread more oil on her hands, and flinched when she smeared the cool liquid on his sensitive area.

“Has a lover never pleasured your backside, as I am about to do?” she whispered.

Her boldness and shamelessness actually shocked him. Was she really intending to perform an intimacy his schoolmasters warned would make him crave other men and damn him in the eyes of God and country? Even though he considered himself an experienced lover, none of his bed partners had ever suggested this particular intimacy. Shock turned to anticipation. His gut clenched in eagerness to experience the forbidden, and the heat pooled between his vulnerable spread legs. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his heart thudding faster. “You are the first.”

“Then you are a back-door virgin.”

Darius chuckled in spite of himself, for he had never heard such a lewd term, even among his Oxford friends who knew enough to fill a dictionary. “One could say that.”

“I don't want to hurt you, so it's very important that you relax. And if at any time you wish me to stop, say your father's name and I will stop immediately.”

He suspected that once she started, he wouldn't want her to stop, not if the house were burning down around them.

The minute he relaxed, he felt something hard touch the opening's sensitive pucker, accommodating it to the imminent invasion. She must've retrieved the device along with the oil from her dressing room. He gasped aloud when his muscles greedily pulled in the intruder. Since he felt no stretching or pain, the wicked device must be thinner than a man's organ, and for that he was profoundly grateful. To his amazement and rising excitement, a searing, shameful heat tightened his balls and turned his penis rock hard.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting himself get used to the powerful, unfamiliar sensations creeping along each sensitive nerve ending within his body. “Dear God,” he groaned. “I never dreamed—”

His words died in a strangled gasp as Régine slowly slid the device deeper, then drew it in and out, in an out, mimicking the movement of his own penis in her vagina when he took her. With every slow, slick stroke, the pleasure grew so intense he feared his poor balls would explode. His thighs trembled from the effort of staying spread apart, and he shuddered.

Régine slipped her free hand between his legs and grabbed his rigid member, squeezing and pumping in time with the dildo's smooth in-and-out motion. He was so hot, he'd surely died and gone to Hell as his schoolmasters warned, but the sweat rising on his skin smelled of almonds and mint, not brimstone. In the delirium of rising sexual ecstasy, his mind shut down and his lips couldn't form words, just utter a stream of helpless, guttural groans.

Régine kissed his backside's cheeks. “Do you wish me to stop?”

The very thought made his eyes cross. “God help you if you do.”

“I'm so delighted you're enjoying my little surprise.” So she made him suffer by increasing the tempo.

“More! Now!”

Suddenly, the physical bliss grew so intense he'd never survive the rush. He screamed out Régine's name again and again as he lifted himself off his forearms and a powerful climax roared through him. Every muscle tensed and trembled under the onslaught of sensation. His cock bucked furiously like a live creature and spilled his hot seed into Régine's waiting hand. Darius was too far gone to realize that she'd pulled out the device.

Finally spent, he collapsed on his side, not even having the strength to raise his hand and wipe the stinging sweat out of his eyes. He was panting so hard, he could barely speak, but he managed a wheezing, “Am I still alive?”

She laughed in delight as she rose and disappeared into the bathroom to wash the massage lotion and his sticky come from her hands. When she returned, she carried a warm, wet cloth to cleanse him gently and carefully. “You are very much alive, Darius, and looking far less troubled.”

“Thanks to you.”

When she finished ministering to him, she set the cloth aside and lay across from him, face to face.

He found the strength to lift his arm and run his fingertips along her jaw. “I was right.”

Those expressive eyes widened. “Right about what?”

“You do know more ways to please a man than I could ever imagine.”

She smiled thoughtfully. “The French have perfected the art of making love, and I have been an apt pupil. I've had to be, because Paris is filled with beautiful, clever women, and I have to be better. I do have boundaries I never cross, but very few acts of intimacy repulse me, and as long as both parties are in agreement, and no one is hurt…”

“You are a very complex woman, Régine,” he said softly. He could spend a lifetime exploring each new facet of her complex personality.

Drowsiness gradually sapped the remaining strength from his limbs, and his hand flopped back onto the bed. “That was wonderful, but I'm exhausted.”

She touched the tip of her nose to his. “Then sleep. And when you awaken, you may tie me to the bed again and have your way with me. I find I quite enjoy it.”

As he drifted off, sated and complete, he felt her sweet, soft lips briefly touch his. He thought he heard her whisper, “I'm glad you found me, Darius Granger,” but then the oblivion of sleep claimed him and erased her words from his memory.

Chapter Seventeen

The Marquess of Blackwall strode out of Madame Soubrise's exclusive bordello, the black whore's heavy patchouli perfume clinging to his skin like an irritating rash. The minute he returned to his hotel, he'd take a hot bath and scrub off every lingering trace of her.