Chapter Twelve
The next morning found Abbi and Michael in the Bond Street shop of Mademoiselle Beauchamps. Swaths of fabric had been draped over her and an endless stream of fashion plates had been paraded in front of her. Dresses had been ordered for every possible event, activity and time of day.
Michael had insisted that everything be in vibrant shades, without a pastel in sight. He’d also taken a far too active role in selecting her under things. Her stays and chemises were no longer serviceable cotton but were of heavily embroidered silks and satins. Silk stockings and garters festooned with tiny bows and rosettes also accompanied them. Petticoats were provided that were so sheer, she might as well have been naked.
Abbi had blushed furiously when he’d ordered peignoirs in black, silk chiffon. Madame had asked him if he wished to have them lined for modesty and he had declined, stating adamantly the modesty had no place in the bedchamber. She had chuckled at him, called him a naughty boy and had winked at Abbi most inappropriately.
After being measured to within an inch of her life, they left the shop with the promise of several ready-made dresses being altered to fit and sent over that afternoon. Several more would follow during the rest of the week and beyond. Trips to the milliner, the cobbler, and the glove maker followed.
“It’s too much,” Abbi said after Michael had handed her up into the carriage for the short drive home.
“No, it isn’t. How long has it been since you’ve had new gowns?” he asked.
Abbi sighed, “It’s been years as you well know. That doesn’t change the fact that the amount of money spent today is enough to feed the village of Blagdon for a year.”
More than likely two years, but he didn’t bother to correct her. He had expected protests from her and had prepared an argument. “Regardless, your social station has changed and your wardrobe must reflect it. If it does not, it will reflect poorly on me.”
Abbi knew that was true. “London may well be your life, my lord, but I am not sure that it can be mine. The city is not for me, I fear. I will make a total cake of myself and be a social outcast. If that happens, it will benefit us both for me to return to the country.”
“You will not be a social outcast. But whether you are or not, has no bearing on the fact that you and I will be together. In London, in the country, or anywhere else, as husband and wife we will not live apart.”
“For a man who has inhabited the beds of countless married ladies, that is not the tack I expected from you regarding our own marriage.”
Michael leaned forward on the carriage seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze, “I’ve done a great many things in my life that I am not proud of. Yes, I’ve had relationships with married women. Perhaps it makes no difference in my level of innocence or guilt, but I never sought them out. Generally if a wife was straying, I was not the first with whom she had done so.”
“And Lady Westerbrook?”
He had known that it was coming, and there was only so much he could reveal for the secret was Caroline’s. “Caroline was a friend for many years. While she was married, it was never more than that. After Charles’ death, she asked me to become her lover and I did. My feelings for her were never more than friendship.”
“Do you bed all of your friends?” she asked, with pointed emphasis on the last word.
“Many female friends were also lovers. It is different for a man, Abbigail. We do not need deeper feelings to engage in a physical relationship. It is that way for some women, but most require more than that.”
The question burned in her of whether or not he intended to take other lovers now. Pride would not allow her to ask it. As the carriage rolled to a stop before the townhouse, he sighed and said, “We can talk more about this later, but for now I have to go. Rhys and I are to meet with several of the dealers today to ferret out whatever Rupert and Lavinia are up to.”
“Of course.”
Michael helped her down, saw her to the door and with a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, left on foot. Many of the people he wished to speak with were in less than decent neighborhoods. Taking a fine carriage was an invitation for trouble that he did not need. He had arranged to meet with Rhys at the first shop, on the edge of Seven Dials.
The address was a case of misdirection. At the head of a street lined with rookeries, brothels, and opium dens, the tiny shop looked like little more than a place for people to pawn their cast offs. But the backroom told a different tale. The wares were priceless and the proprietor was a key player in the criminal underground of London.
When he arrived at the shop, alighting from the hackney he’d hailed near his home, Rhys was already waiting for him, with Spencer by his side.
The shop was closed, the sign hanging on the door that was still slightly ajar. Michael spared a questioning glance at it and then turned his attention to his oldest friend, “Have you been inside then?”
Rhys shook his head grimly. “No. It looked like trouble, so I’ve stayed here in full view of the pie seller. I don’t relish the idea of being the accused again, and Spencer only just arrived.”
Michael didn’t laugh at the gallows humor. Rhys had been under suspicion of having murdered his first wife for years. Spencer, however, was above reproach. “I don’t imagine we’ll find anything good inside, but let’s get it over with, shall we?”
The men entered the shop, scanning the room for danger. It had obviously been searched and by someone who didn’t care if things were destroyed in the process, as many of the displays had been hopelessly smashed. Michael knew, of course that the truly priceless items would be hidden away in the back. He only feared what else they might find.
Together they moved through the room, and towards the heavy curtain. Behind the curtain was a locked door, which Michael expertly opened. When the lock clicked free, they entered the storage room which was filled, shelf after shelf, with priceless antiquities.
It was also filled with the coppery stench of blood and none too fresh if Michael had to guess. The store’s proprietor, Raymond Jacobs, was lying between two shelves, at least one day dead from the look of him. A pool of blood had spread around him, his skull all but crushed. It was just like Allerton, Michael thought.
“Poor bastard,” Spencer said. “Hell of a thing to lay dead and not even be missed.”
Michael agreed. “We should summon the watch.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Rhys said and stepped outside.
“So what are we looking for, Ellersleigh?” Spencer asked. His voice was cold and a bit gruff, but Michael had long since grown used to Spencer’s disapproval.
“Ledgers, bills of sale, anything that ties this man to Lord or Lady Whitby… or Lord Allerton, for that matter.”
Spencer snorted, “Leave it you to fall in with them. For the love of God, Michael! They are all half insane!”
Michael closed his eyes and just for a brief moment, considered planting him the facer that he deserved for being such an arrogant prig. “I didn’t fall in with them, Spencer. Unfortunately, my new wife happens to be the younger stepsister of Lady Lavinia.”
“You didn’t just fall in with them! You married into them!”
Michael paused in the act of searching the desk that had been the deceased proprietor’s, “Spencer, if you ever think to compare my wife to Lady Lavinia again, I will call you out. You may insult me as much as you wish, but you will never speak of Abbigail so.”
The steel in Michael’s voice was not something Spencer was accustomed to. He looked up and met his friend’s hard gaze and realized that there was far more to the rumors of Michael’s marriage than he’d imagined. “So that’s the way of it, then. You’re bloody well in love with her.”
“I am not in love with anyone, Spencer, but she is my wife,” Michael said. The denial was too hot on his lips, too quick, and even more telling for it. Falling in love with Abbigail was a complication he could ill afford. He never intended to fall in love with anyone again. It was too painful.
They continued searching. When the bell over the front door tinkled a warning Michael and Spencer both tucked the papers of interest that they had accumulated in their pockets. The Watch gave a perfunctory exam of the scene, labeled it a robbery gone wrong and summoned a wagon to remove the body. He escorted them from the premises and placed a lock and chain on the door. It was of no consequence. If they needed to return, Michael could pick any lock and they would be unlikely to use the front door at any rate.
Outside in the street, they hailed a handsome cab. As they were climbing into the cab, another coach rumbled toward them. The conveyance, sleek and black, it obviously did not belong in the neighborhood. The pair of matched grays that pulled it were fast, and traveling at a speed that was ill advised on such narrow, congested streets. As it lurched forward it picked up speed, though it had already been moving faster than was wise on such narrow streets. As it neared them, the driver jerked the reins and the horses pulled to the left, the vehicle shifting ominously as it careened toward them.
Michael looked up at the panicked whinnying of the horses, in time to see the carriage barreling straight for him. His death was certain at that moment. Staring at that coach, little more than a meter from him, he thought of Abbigail.
But death did not take him. Instead, a pair of strong hands hauled him back and the coach thundered past with only inches to spare. Had Spencer not acted so quickly, dragging Michael back from the cab, he would have been trampled under the horses’ hooves. As it was, they wound up in the gutter covered in all manner of filth.
Rising to his feet, Michael held out a hand to Spencer, helping the other man up. It was an uneasy truce between them, but there was no denying that he now owed his friend his life.
“That was not an accident,” Rhys said. He had already climbed into the hackney, but disembarked. The driver was refusing to transport them now and left little doubt as to his opinions of letting two muck covered lords defile his fine carriage.
Spencer nodded, his dazed expression stating his agreement more fully. “Beware the black coach,” he said.
Michael nodded, and offered the driver of their hired hack a gesture that was more suited to their current surroundings than to his Mayfair roots.The driver uttered a mild oath and the hackney lumbered forward. They would be walking home.
To Rhys, Michael added, “It most definitely was not…Let’s not mention this to Abbi.”
“Or Emme,” Rhys agreed “Or Larissa.”
Spencer shook his head. “She'll know anyway. You won't need to mention it, but I doubt she'll say anything. The only one who worries more about your wife than you do is her sister.”
~*~*~
As the carriage sped away, Rupert cursed. It hadn't been his intent to put a permanent end to Ellersleigh, but when the opportunity had presented itself, he couldn't allow it to pass. After discovering the merchant's body, he'd beat a hasty retreat, but not swift enough. Seeing Ellersleigh and his cronies enter the shop had been a shock to say the least.
Running him down the carriage had been an impulse, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed.
It was for the best, Rupert told himself. It would have raised questions he didn't want asked. He consoled himself with the thought that little of import could have been found in the shop. The merchant had kept very discreet records given the erotic and occult nature of many of the items he sold.
Deciding to keep the incident to himself, he headed towards his townhouse. He would collect his things and head for Whitby Hall immediately. Given Lavinia's infatuation with the Viscount, the less she knew about the events of the day, the better.
~*~*~
Rhys and Michael returned to the townhouse so that Michael could exchange his ruined clothing. Spencer had gone to his own home for the same and planned to meet them shortly. Abbi was touring the house with Ms. Fillings, the housekeeper, learning about the day to day running of the household and reviewing household accounts.
Michael was glad of it, as he wanted an opportunity to review the documents with Rhys and Spencer prior to discussing their findings with her. She was too much a part of things already and he feared that knowledge could make her even more of a target.
Rhys was awaiting him in the library, and by the time Michael had rung for brandy and a bit of food to hold them over, Spencer had arrived.
“So what, precisely, are we looking for?” Spencer asked, producing the documents he had liberated from the shop. It was very similar to what they had done during the war. They had often been tapped to complete clandestine missions. Not spies exactly, they had still been trusted with covert operations.
Michael ran his hand through his hair, frustrated by just how little he actually knew. It was all supposition at that point, and he didn't like it. “I don’t think Allerton lost Blagdon Hall to me by accident. I think that Lord and Lady Whitby forced him to do so. They wanted me there for some reason, and I can only imagine it has a great deal to do with my father’s collection of antiques.”
“And Abbigail?” Rhys asked.
Michael's jaw clenched as he answered, his anger telling. “Rupert has had designs on her for some time. In removing her from the sanctuary of Blagdon Hall, he was providing greater opportunity to compromise her.”
Spencer nodded, then surmised, “So they were killing two birds with one stone. They compelled Allerton to lose Blagdon Hall to you to get you within their clutches. Given your reputation, they had to assume that you would be eager to partake of whatever entertainments they were offering.”
“Yes,” Michael agreed, “Lavinia attempted to seduce me the first evening that they invited me to Whitby House. That was also the evening Allerton was murdered in the garden, in much the same way our shopkeeper was just murdered.”
“And the evening that you took Abbi back to Blagdon Hall rather than leave her under the Whitby’s roof for another night,” Rhys added. “The real question is what are they after? What in your father’s collection are they after?”
Michael indicated the documents spread before them, “The ledgers at Whitby Hall gave only the amount of the purchase, but did not identify the items. If I can discover what they acquired, then perhaps I can narrow down what they want from me.”
Spencer began to peruse one of the ledgers while Michael rifled through the bills of sale. There was nothing that directly identified them, but one receipt had been inscribed in a corner with the initials “L.W.”.
“There is nothing in the ledger but prices and item numbers,” Spencer said.
“Match the item number from this receipt to the ledger, and we might have something,” Michael said, passing the document over.
Rhys rose, “I have to go. I need to check on Emme and the preparations for our return tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Rhys.”
He waved away the gratitude, “I haven’t done anything…Besides, I owe you for your skills as a matchmaker, don’t I?”
Michael chuckled as Rhys exited the room. When he was gone, however, the only buffer between himself and Spencer was gone as well. He truly didn’t understand how their friendship had become so strained over the years, or even when it had begun.
“So how did you meet your new Viscountess? Something quite improper on your part and perfectly innocent on hers, I imagine,” Spencer stated.
“It was improper but was no nefarious in the least... Allerton had not informed me that Blagdon Hall would be inhabited when I arrived. Hence, Abbigail's hasty removal to the den of iniquity that is her sister's home.”
“That's a first... you being improper by accident. She's lovely, by the way.”
“Abbigail is lovely,” Michael agreed. “Stop noticing it. Now. And if you could stop harping on my licentious past, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Spencer held up his hands in mock surrender. “I swear to be on my best behavior, and to reveal as little as possible of your worst behavior.”
It wasn’t much of a promise, but it would have to do. “You should stay for dinner, then. It’s only a few hours away.”
It was hardly a gracious invitation, but Spencer accepted it willingly. He wouldn’t admit it, but the harsh words he’d received from the Duchess of Briarleigh regarding his treatment of Michael had stayed with him. They had burrowed into his mind and he’d grudgingly accepted that he’d been a judgmental prig. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit it, but there it was.
He and Michael had grown up much the same way, with fathers that would not be pleased with them regardless of what they did. Michael had taken the route of not trying to please at all, and had, in fact, gone out of his way to be provoking. He had taken the opposite road of being everything that was proper. It hadn’t worked. He had still never gained his father’s approval, but over the course of the last two years, he had learned why.
It all made much more sense to him, but it still grated that he had been doing to Michael the very thing their respective fathers had done to them. He'd been placing unrealistic expectations on him and demanding a kind of perfection that was humanly impossible to achieve.
Amends would be made. Helping Michael identify whatever threat the Whitby’s posed would go towards settling that debt, he would do whatever was necessary. But first, he had to do the thing he had dreaded for some time.
“I owe you an apology, you know.”
The papers Michael had been shuffling through stilled in his hands, and he looked up at Spencer, the shock written clearly on his face. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do, actually. I’ve been a bastard and well you know it. I took every bit of gossip and innuendo about you to heart, when as your friend, I should have known better…I should have trusted that you were not the blackguard they painted you.”
“I’m not exactly virginal, Spencer.”
“Are any of us?”
Recalling Abbi's assertion regarding Larissa's feelings for Spencer, Michael seized the opportunity. “Hardly virginal, but much closer to sainthood than I'll ever be. So, Saint Spencer, have a care with young Larissa... My lovely wife seems to think the girl harbors very tender feelings for you, and that perhaps Larissa's feelings aren't the only ones engaged.””
Spencer's jaw firmed and for just a moment, Michael saw something in the other man's eyes that made him wonder if perhaps Abbigail wasn't correct. But he said nothing more because the door opened.
Abbi entered wearing one of her new day dresses. The dark, emerald green gown set off her porcelain complexion, and her hair was pulled back and tied with a simple ribbon. She looked young and incredibly beautiful. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a guest,” she said.
“Not at all. Spencer hardly counts as a guest. He'll be joining us for dinner tonight.”
Spencer had the distinct feeling that the new Viscountess did not care for him very much. Nonetheless, her nodded acceptance was gracious. She was quite lovely, in a very calm sort of way. Michael, who'd spent his entire adult life chasing whores had snared a Madonna to wife. Of course, the mane of wild gypsy hair that she sported was enough to make any man look twice.
Remembering his manners, Spencer sketched a bow and said, “Thank you for your graciousness, Lady Ellersleigh.”
“You must call me, Abbigail. I am not yet accustomed to my new names. Ms. Fillings just gave me the litany and I fear my eyes glazed over midway through.”
Michael knew how she felt. As a young lad, memorizing the long list of titles he would one day inherit had made his head ache. “Bloody hell! It takes half the day just to recite them!”
Abbi sighed, “I'm afraid I have unpleasant news, Michael. Mrs. Wolcot wrote me that a girl from the village has gone missing, and a body was discovered in the woods that they believe to be William, the youngest son of Lord Harding.”
Michael cursed. “We’ll go home soon,” he said. “I should have concluded everything I need to in town in just a few days.”
“And I’ll be joining you,” Spencer said. “It sounds as if you'll need someone at your back.”
As Abbi left, Spencer looked back at Michael, “The carriage today... Larissa warned me. She said she couldn't be sure it was Whitby. What do you think?”
“I have many enemies.” Michael's admission was reluctant but resolute. “At this time, he's the most likely suspect...Why would they be doing this, and what does it have to do with these bloody antiques?”
Michael, who had been flipping through the ledger looking for the item number from the receipt, paused, having identified the object. “The item they purchased from him was a gold mask, allegedly recovered from a temple of Bacchus and worn by a priestess during rites… That fits Sarah’s description perfectly.”
“So is it Lady Lavinia then who is the true culprit and not her husband?”
“I can’t quite believe that, Spencer. Rupert and Lavinia have a strange relationship. They explore their perversions together, so I can’t imagine that Rupert isn’t involved in some way. He was apparently financing the purchases.”
“What item in your father’s collection would fit with whatever it is they are doing?”
Michael considered it for a moment, and then retrieved a ledger from the desk. It contained a detailed list of his father’s collection of erotic artifacts. The artifacts themselves were stored in a vault, as they were hardly the sort of thing one would display. He scanned the pages quickly until he found the item that had come foremost to mind. “Dionysus’ Chalice… A golden cup, requiring two hands to hold, intricately carved with various depictions of explicit acts. It was rumored to have been used to catch the blood of sacrifices which was then consumed by his followers,” Michael read.
“There are any number of other chalices with a similar purpose, why this one?”
Michael sighed, “I researched this particular chalice as it was my father’s last acquisition before his death. The carvings on the cup depict Dionysus ejaculating into the cup. I don’t think it was used just to drink the blood of sacrifices, but to collect other fluids, as well.”
Spencer grimaced, “Good God, the previous Viscount had a strange hobby.”
“You have no idea,” Michael said. “Every item he collected was related to something grotesque or barbaric.”
“So the mask was linked to the cult of Bacchus, and the chalice was used in by a cult of Dionysus, who are simply the respective Roman and Greek equivalents of the same entity… So are there other artifacts?”
“Without a doubt… They’ll need something to do the bloodletting with, and I imagine that is why Lord Harding’s young son met his untimely demise. Harding possessed a dagger that my father had one tried to acquire from him.”
Spencer sat down on the edge of the desk. “The real question is why. What purpose do these items serve for them, other than to play their twisted sexual games? I can’t imagine there isn’t some greater purpose involved, at least in their minds.”
“There are legends that abound about each of these artifacts…that they have mystical properties. But as to their ultimate goal, I couldn't say. Only Rupert and Lavinia can answer that question.”
Dubiously, Spencer commented, “You speak as if you think there might be some truth to this... that these items have some sort of power!”
Michael shrugged. “After what we both witnessed at Briarwood Hall, I no longer hold to the rule that I must see it to believe it. Regardless of whether it can actually happen or not, it seems they believe it, and that makes them dangerous.”
~*~*~
After Spencer had left for the evening, Abbi and Michael retired for the night. She was less than pleased with him but had decided to wait until they were alone before making her displeasure known. She plucked the pins from her hair, dismissing Sarah, who left without a word, she began dragging a brush angrily through her hair.
Across the room, Michael couldn’t miss the tension that rolled off her in waves. Her shoulders were squared, and he could see that her jaw was clenched. Deciding to beard the lion in its den, he said, “What have I done?”
Abbi whirled on him and said angrily, “I will not be excluded from this investigation… I have just as much at stake as you, if not more! The people of Blagdon are my acquaintances, my responsibility! Not yours! And Lavinia and Rupert are, for lack of a better word, my family and, therefore, my responsibility, as well.”
Michael attempted to placate her, knowing even as he did, it was doomed to fail. “The nature of the information we are looking for is indelicate, to say the least, Abbi. It isn’t a matter of excluding you so much as protecting you from things that would shock you.”
She gaped at him, “Rupert and Lavinia have been married for five years, and for five years I have been fending off my brother in law’s advances. I have been forced to listen to Lavinia wax on about her amorous adventures, the more perverse, the better! I don’t think you have to worry about my delicate sensibilities! Considering that I have heard all of this and can tell you whom she was involved with and when, you are overlooking the fact that I am a valuable source of information!”
He had no argument for that. She was absolutely correct and he’d allowed himself to be blinded to those facts by his desire to protect her. She’d been doing an adequate job of protecting herself before he ever came along. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a short-sighted ass.”
Abbi, prepared to embark on another diatribe, stopped short, “Excuse me, but did you just agree with me?”
Michael shrugged as if it was of no consequence, “I did. I allowed my desire to protect you to blind me to the fact that you are quite capable, in most circumstances... I am finding it increasingly difficult to be reasonable when it comes to the matter of your safety. If I could, I would leave this entire matter be. We'd reside in London or at Southwood and they could have bloody Blagdon.”
“If you could?”
He looked away from her, fearing that his emotions would be too potent. “I cannot stand idly by why they harm innocent girls... and at the same time, I cannot allow you to put yourself in harm's way. But, I will agree to keep you informed of all things that we discover and allow you to be party to our discussions of these events. You have much to offer and I'd be a fool to ignore it.””
Out of steam, Abbi stopped and said, “Oh. I hadn’t expected you to see reason so quickly.”
Michael tugged her into his arms, “In spite of the fact that you routinely rob me of the ability to think, I am accounted to be a reasonably intelligent man.”
A grudging smile tugged at her lips, “I can see that you would be considered so.”
“Thank you. That is high praise, indeed,” he said and kissed her lingeringly.
“You’ll not distract me so easily,” she snapped and stepped back from him. “Tell me what you found today.”
Michael loosened his cravat and shrugged out of his waistcoat. “I promise to tell you everything in the morning. I’d prefer to engage in other forms of communication tonight.”
Abbi watched him, the confident movements, the heated gaze of his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips. He was truly a magnificent sight. “Your word?”
“On my honor, little of it that there is,” he said, his shirt falling to the floor.
She simply couldn’t get enough air. Abbi watched the play of muscles as he moved, remembering the springy texture of the light dusting of dark hair on his chest, the hardness of his body against hers. She was simply unable to draw enough breath into her lungs to function.
Even as she watched, he tugged off his boots. Then his hands were at the fall of his breeches. The hard ridge of his arousal was plainly visible to her, even through the fabric. With each button that was released, she grew hotter. Her face was flushed, her breathing ragged, and her body aching for him without even a touch.
As his breeches and small clothes fell to the floor, he walked toward her completely naked. Abbi leaned against the dressing table, no longer trusting her own legs to support her weight, shaking as they were. She had never thought a man would be beautiful, but he was.
“You are wearing too much,” he said, whispering hotly against her neck. With deft fingers, he unlaced the back of her gown, her stays, within seconds he had her stripped to her chemise, still wearing her evening slippers with her stockings and garters. His dipped his head, closing his mouth over the hardened bud of her nipple.
Abbi’s head fell back and a moan escaped her. The heat of his mouth, the rasp of his tongue and the added friction of the linen chemise were unbearably erotic. His hands cupped her thighs, lifting her so that she was settled more firmly on the dressing table as he continued to ravish her breasts with his mouth.
Her hands slid into his hair, holding his head in place, reveling in each stroke of his tongue, each hot pull of his skilled lips. The scrape of his teeth over one distended nipple had her crying out, arching against him. There was an edge of danger to him that night. This was not the gentle lovemaking they had shared before. He was taking her on a journey and she was not only willing, but eager to explore with him.
“Do you know,” he asked, “How beautiful you are? How the very sight of you can drive a man mad with lust?”
“Show me,” she said, with a challenge.
Michael gripped the neckline of the chemise and with one swift motion, ripped it from her. The sound of tearing fabric echoed through the room. He glanced up, and her gaze on him was hot, without fear. He pulled her to her feet and turned her so that she faced the mirror, with him at her back. The silk stockings still covered her long legs and the prettily embroidered garters flashed at her thighs.
With the height of her evening slippers, his shaft nestled into the cleft of her lush bottom. It was the sweetest hell he’d ever known. Taking her hands in his, he brought them up, sliding her silken fingertips and his own callused ones over the soft skin of her belly, up to her breasts.
He molded her hands around those tender globes, shaping them with his own. The hard buds of her nipples were visible between their fingers, and in the mirror he met her gaze. He removed his own hands, but by unspoken agreement hers remained. “Show me what you like,” he said, “Touch yourself for me.”
Abbi was dying. Embarrassment warred with desire and with the need to please him, to see his blue eyes darken with lust. As always, desire won. Her gaze fastened securely upon his in the mirror, she moved her hands over her breasts, her fingers caressing the pebbled peaks of her own breasts while he watched with hooded eyes.
She could feel the hard pulse of his erection, could feel him thickening and lengthening against her. She fought the urge to press against him, to plead with him just to take her. His gaze was hot, roving over her. It was almost like a touch. Her fingers kneaded the soft globes, plucking at the distended nipples. His hands tightened reflexively on her hips. She smiled, a coquette’s smile, as she heard the slight hitch in his breathing.
“Minx,” he murmured softly.. “Where else do you like to be touched, Abbigail?”
She couldn’t say it, and in all honesty, had no words for it. “Michael—“
“Show me,” he whispered, insistently. “Let me see you.”
Embarrassed, but eager, aching with anticipation, she trailed her right hand over her body, down to the juncture of her thighs. He didn’t speak, but his heated gaze communicated everything she needed to know. Parting her legs slightly, her fingers slid through the thatch of dark curls and over the weeping cleft. She leaned back, her back pressing against his chest. She could feel his heart beating a strong tattoo. “I can’t do this, Michael…It’s too much.”
He kissed her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over, then soothing with his tongue, “You have no idea,” he said, “What a vision you are. There is nothing more beautiful, more erotic than watching you…seeing your delicate hands move over your flesh.”
The words bolstered her confidence, battled back the doubts and insecurities that had claimed her. With his hot mouth trailing fire over her neck and shoulders, Abbi parted the folds of her sex and slid the tips of her fingers over her own moist flesh. The pleasure was intense, as much from the weight of his gaze as from the tentative caress. His hands slid over her hips, over her belly, and he covered her hand with his, pressing deeper, increasing the pressure of her fingertip on the pearl of her sex. Her hips rocked forward, arching into that touch as a harsh gasp escaped her parted lips.
Michael couldn’t wait any longer. The damp heat of her body called to him. Gently he pulled her hands up, placing them flat on the surface of the dressing table, leaning her forward slightly. Instinctively, she parted her legs a bit wider. He’d never seen anything as glorious, as lust inducing as her narrow waist flaring out into the lush curves of her hips and her magnificent heart-shaped bottom.
He trailed hot kisses from the back of her neck, along the column of her spine, delighting in her shivering response. With a groan, he guided his shaft to her entrance, pausing there, teasing them both with the anticipation of pleasure. She made a small sound of protest, moving against him entreatingly. One day, he thought, he would be able to resist her, but not yet.
He pressed forward, flexing his hips so that he filled her with a slow, sure stroke. She gasped beneath him, crying out with pleasure. Closing his hands over the curve of her hips, he held her still as he began to move, setting a rhythm that would drive them both to the brink of madness. He moved slowly, pressing in with deep, commanding thrusts and then withdrew just as slowly, relishing the drag and resistance of the tight muscles of her sheath.
In the mirror, above them, he watched, and when he met her gaze in the glass, he knew that she did, as well. It was unbearably erotic, unbearably intimate. He didn’t increase the speed or the intensity, but kept to that same maddening pace, until he could feel her thighs trembling against him. Her soft moans had become demanding cries.
Michael shifted slightly, pressing deeper still. She strained against him, rising on her toes, pressing back against him. “Please, Michael, please,” she cried, all but insensible with need.
It was all the prompting he needed. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. His thrusts became faster, harder, as he pressed into her more deeply. He could feel her clenching around him, her release imminent. He moved his hand over her belly, down to the nest of dark curls and slid one finger inside her, teasing the small, hooded bud that would make her shatter. He pressed against it lightly, massaging gently as he thrust again and again. He felt her shuddering beneath him, gloried in the harsh sounds of pleasure that escaped her. Every quiver of her belly, every quaking muscle in her thighs, spurred him on, until he was lost to his own release. He met her gaze in the mirror, taking note of the sleepy and sated expression on her face. Gently he withdrew from her and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed.
Her body still trembling in the aftermath, Abbi said, “Don’t think you’ve completely succeeded in distracting me. I still want to know everything you discussed with Lord Wolverstone.” She could feel the rumble of his answering laugh against her.
“I will tell you everything,” he said, “As soon as I can remember my own name.”