The Virgin's Auction (8 page)

She didn’t recognise it, but when she obediently wrapped her fingers round it he jerked and cursed softly under his breath. She snatched her hand away, frightened she’d done something wrong. But he caught her hand and brought it back.

“Shhh. You are doing splendidly. This is nothing to be afraid of either; just a tool to delight you; and eager to do so.”

At that moment she realised what she was holding, her eyes widening in horror as she connected that solid shaft with the pressure still burning away between her legs. He let her hand escape a second time, releasing it so he could put his own fingers on her, so intimately she wanted to shriek and scream.

“See, you are wet here. Very wet. Gloriously wet, which will make it easy for you. Your body likes this. It likes what we are doing. It will be very happy to have me inside it. You’ll see.” He undulated minutely against her, his fingertips brushing back and forth over her there.

She couldn’t sort out the feelings, her overburdened nerve endings trying to interpret information sent from a part of her she barely knew. Flashes of pleasure merged with heat and that unrelenting pressure. She closed her eyes, shutting him out, shutting herself in. She wanted to . . .
wanted to . . .

Without her mind making a decision, her body moved reflexively, instinctively, pushing back against him. It was only a small movement, but he perceived it.

“Yes, yes, like that. God,
yes
.” And he bore down on her. The pressure increased, then increased again into pain. He slid further into her, giving a stifled groan. Suddenly, with a sense of tearing, the pressure was gone, the pain absent. He was deeply, deeply inside her and she felt stretched, full to overflowing; but no longer hurting.

From behind her closed eyelids a single weak tear leaked out and ran down her cheek.

He was motionless, his breath heavy and fast against her neck. Other than that, and the faint snapping of the fire, there was silence.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the tension that had filled her body began to dissipate. Her small fingers fluttered against his hard shoulder. He was trembling in fine, light shudders, his skin slippery with sweat as he held his weight off her but their bodies aligned.

She opened her eyes and narrowed them as she looked up at the ceiling, considering. That was it. She was a maiden no longer. Ruined. Lost to polite society forever.

Such a small difference, to mean so much.

And painful, yes. But she had experienced much greater pain than that before. She felt very small, dominated by him, helpless beneath him. But she was not afraid. Not afraid of the man who had brought her such boundless pleasure. Who trembled atop her.

A very peculiar thing, to have part of a man’s body resting inside her.
A thousand men she had passed on the street and never known this could be done with one. Not exactly.

Was this all, then? All there was to this congress?

And the other things he had done to her with his mouth and fingers, what of that? Why had he done it? It had pleased her body beyond anything she had ever felt. Is that why he had done it? Was this a kindness done to please her?

She couldn’t credit it. No man had ever done anything just to please her
; except Peter, and he was her brother.

Could he really have paid a huge sum to get something he wanted from her, and th
en given her even more? Bizarre. Quite outside her experience. A generosity then.

She did not want to owe him anything. But he hadn’t asked or demanded more of her. He might still. But she would be gone soon.

Soon, but not yet.

And this was the one time in all her life she would
lie like this with a man. She had not imagined what a loss that could be until tonight. And her body wanted more of it. She could feel that peculiar . . . hunger; an urge to stretch, to grind against him.

Experimentally she shifted just a little.

“Don’t move!” he commanded.

She considered her promise to herself to be obedient, made out of fear of the consequences and how he might hurt her. She measured that fear against the reality she had discovered lying in his arms. Then she disobeyed him, drawing her legs up so the soles of her feet rested on the bedcover. That did hurt, and her eyes flew wide open as she felt him slide even further into her.

He groaned loudly into her ear, shuddering, and she waited to see what would happen next.

Nothing did. She remained covered by his still body, with a hot pulsing between her legs, deep within her. She was firmly impaled.

And all over her his warm skin lay against hers, a thousand points of contact, brought alive and singing with a single motion. How could she have lived a whole lifetime and never known the wonder of skin touching skin like this? It was a powerful thing that caught her unaware, the tender intimacy of it.

It began to feel very good, suddenly. She wanted to rub up to him, push closer. Boldly she reached down and put her hands on his firm buttocks. They curved under her palms, rich with muscle.

She squeezed, then pulled them towards her. It seemed right to strive against him. Like a stretch, to tense and strain then soften and relax, a subtle rocking.

He did sink deeper, and there was a faint pain, but less than last time. Still, that motion seemed to break his control. With a wordless exclamation he began to draw out and away from her. Then he slid back in, aided by her tugging hands. The sensation of renewed fullness hurt and yet was exquisitely
right
.

He did not stop moving, sliding smoothly into her again and again. The pain faded slowly away, overcome by a delight, a growing need that already felt familiar to her. He kissed her deeply, passionately, and her mouth welcomed him as her body did, sucking on him.

He rolled them both over so that she lay on top of him. Startled, she gazed down at him from her altered position.

His hands massaged the length of her flanks as he pulled her down firmly onto his body, raising himself at the same time. He grasped her by the hips and lifted her slightly clear of him, before driving smoothly up into her again. Then he stopped and cupped her breasts, flicking the nipples lightly. She gasped and clenched. He must have felt the working of her inner muscles, because he drew in a suddenly laboured breath.

She liked that.

She liked the power of it, to take the cool and collected man she had first seen and bring him to this moment, naked and undefended, on a quest for
sensation together. In all her fear of this encounter she had never imagined she might be given dominion over a man. Yet here it was, handed to her.

The motion of her body could stir him, move him.

She squirmed on him, and he shut his eyes and moaned silently.

Yet as quickly as he had flipped them before, he did so again.

“Not a good idea, little one,” he said with a smile, eyelids drooping over a hot stare. “You take away my control. We must be gentle with you tonight.”

Before she could be disappointed he was moving within her again, his face intent on hers. She spun away into that feeling, closing her eyes and gripping his waist, his shoulders, his buttocks, her roaming hands searching for some place that would steady her, let her centre herself and draw a breath. There was no such place.

Smoothly, gently he pumped. Again there was that growing tension, winding her tighter and tighter. His hand went between them, finding a space, to discover her sensitive folds and that one excruciating spot that made her want to scream and wail and thrash.

It was a mystery to her what he did there, but it drove her from all thought and reason.

In a white frenzy she felt those hot, spreading ripples of pleasure move through her, as she shuddered and dig her fingernails into him. She cried out softly.

At the sound, it was if he released something inside himself. Suddenly he moved more urgently, his breath hissing through his teeth. Only for a moment though, before he thrust into her one last time, hard and deep. She cried out at the force of it and he did too, his back arched and his head thrown back.

Wonderingly she looked up at him in the candlelight. His features looked golden, and it was hard to tell if he were experiencing pleasure or pain. But surely it must be pleasure.

She felt the relaxation sweep over his body. He rolled his weight off her to one side, throwing out a languid arm to pull her close.

“Come here, sweetness,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

She did not resist;
did not quite want to resist, the separation of their flesh feeling new and wrong in contrast to the hours of contact.

How very peculiar, she mused, tucked in close to his broad, hard chest. He was asleep almost instantly, his breathing deepening. Utterly peculiar to lie like this, held casually. She, who had barely been touched in years, was now pressed tightly against a virile man.

If he had been awake she must surely have felt overwhelmed with embarrassment. And yet with him oblivious to her there seemed no reason to feel such a thing.

For a few short minutes she
lay breathing in the scent of him, looking up at his face. He looked somehow younger that way; younger and more vulnerable.

The room was well lit, peaceful, the fire crackling merrily.

She took stock of the situation. She was no longer a virgin. Most assuredly not a virgin. He had taken possession of her body most thoroughly. It had not even felt like her lying there in his arms, writhing and moaning.

How had he known? Who had taught him to touch like that, stroke like that, so that her mind departed and her body happily did things she had never dreamed could be done?

She did not feel it could truly have been her, that wanton and lusting creature who had wrapped herself so closely in a stranger’s arms.

And maybe
. . . maybe that was for the best. To imagine that it had not been her. Not really, in any true way that counted. He had owned her body briefly, for one night, and she had been a stranger to herself for that same night. She would never see him again, never be that wild, odd person again.

Now she was herself. And
herself did not lie about naked in bed with strange men!

Carefully, so carefully
, she eased away, inch by inch until their skin no longer touched.

Silently she slid across the mattress and off the far side, anxious not to disturb the covers that lay across him. With the softest of rustling she gathered up her discarded dress, s
eeing the multitude of wrinkles; nothing to be done about that now.

Her undergarments were there too, and her stockings and shoes she found tossed aside. She could not quite reme
mber when they had been removed . . . but then it hardly mattered. She took a branching candlestick and closed herself in the small dressing room off the bedroom so she would not wake him.

It was the work of short minutes to throw her clothes on. Her hair was a different story, mussed and wild. She used the brush she found in the dressing table, pulling it through savagely and tying it back with a ribbon tugged out of the eyelets of her undergarments.

In the mirror she looked wide-eyed, flushed and tousled. Little enough change really, to have now become a fallen woman.

With her shoes held in one hand she let herself quietly out into the silent hall and fled down the stairs. Leaning against the front door, she paused to put her shoes on. Then she let herself out, the grand door swinging smoothly open on well oiled hinges.

Mr Tell was huddled at the bottom of the stairs. As he heard the door open, he swivelled around, looking cold and miserable.

“Why, Mr Tell!” Melissa exclaimed in astonishment, coming swiftly down the stairs towards him. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I’m here to make sure you get home safely, Miss. Wasn’t sure as you’d know the way.” She was touched by his unexpected vigil, and she dreaded that he might say something about the few hours since he had seen her. But he scanned her face anxiously and seemed relieved by whatever he saw there.

Perhaps h
e had feared tears or hysterics; or something worse. She had got off lightly, in truth. And now it was done. Done, and to be forgotten as swiftly as possible.

“That is very kind of you, Mr Tell,” she said after a moment’s awkward pause.

She stepped down and took the arm he was offering in the most gentlemanly fashion, and they began to walk briskly towards the South Carriage Drive, bordering Kensington Gardens. She kept her head high, as if she saw nothing unusual in being out at this hour of the morning for a stroll, dressed as she was.

“Have you been able to make any progress in the matter of hiring men?” As she asked the question, it occurred to her to wonder if her watchers were somewhere about, having just seen her emerge from a gentleman’s private residence in the early hours of the morning.

She craned her neck to look behind them.

“Don’t look!” he hissed, stiffening.

“What? Why not?”

“They’re there. They’re following us. Don’t do anything unexpected.” She kept walking, her skin crawling at the thought of being watched right this second. “Anything
more
unexpected,” he amended after a moment.