Chapter Thirty
As the sounds of boisterous fucking filled the room, Andrew reflected that he was right about his naughty minx. She liked to watch.
He’d observed her titillated response the last time she was at his club, when he’d mentioned the viewing holes. Then there’d been her delightfully wanton response to the looking glass above her bed. Thus, he’d thought to give her the ultimate voyeuristic experience: observing the play in the Sultan’s Seraglio.
As she perched on his lap, her cheeks were flushed, her tits surging, the tight tips visible beneath the gold silk. Her arousal was a potent aphrodisiac. Against her arse, his prick was steel-hard and throbbing with a heartbeat of its own.
“Do they know they’re being observed?” she whispered.
“Yes. It’s part of the allure.” He nuzzled her ear, feeling her shiver all the way in his bollocks. “Those who seek out the Sultan’s Seraglio enjoy being watched during sex. And for those who want to only observe, there are five other private viewing rooms like this one.”
“But what we’re doing—isn’t it terribly wicked?” She bit her lip.
“No rules but what we make, remember? You’re safe to explore your desires with me.” He caressed her shoulder. “I want to know what arouses you. I want you to know what arouses you.”
Her gaze veered back to the viewing hole, and he saw what caught her attention: Jilly, one of his lustiest and most sought-after wenches, was entertaining two of the customers simultaneously. The brunette’s skills were on full display as she took a ramming from the rear while performing fellatio with genuine enthusiasm.
Primrose suddenly tensed, and Andrew’s gaze shot to her face. Seeing her lips tremble, he wondered if he’d made a miscalculation. What went on in the orgy room was as common as bread and butter for him—but for her? While naturally sensual, she was recently a virgin and a well-bred one at that. Modesty was as ingrained in her as depravity was in him.
He silently cursed himself for his stupidity. For forgetting the differences between the two of them—for taking her too far into the darkness of his world. As an apology surfaced on his lips, she suddenly ducked her head, tucking it into the crook of his neck.
Her words were whisper-soft against his throat. “I find watching quite… titillating.”
That she had the courage to own her desires humbled him. And the fact that she trusted him—Christ, it was a feeling like no other. Pride expanded his chest.
“It’s a natural reaction, love.” He stroked her cheek. “And you’re a passionate woman.”
“I feel all awash,” she said in a soft rush.
She was trembling with need, with the arousal that she hadn’t yet learned to control.
Tenderness and lust surged through him. “I’ll take care of you. Trust me, sweetheart…”
He claimed her mouth, drinking in her sweetness while he untied her robe, pushing the silk off her shoulders. He cupped her breast, pinching the bold tip, and she moaned against his lips. Hell, they’d hardly begun, and she was about to go off like a Roman candle. Reaching between her thighs, he groaned at her lushness. He rubbed the heel of his palm against her pearl and drove two fingers into her tight sheath—and that was all it took.
Her cry of release made his cock jerk, pre-spend dampening the tip. He growled with pleasure as her cunny milked his fingers. When she was done, he brought his hand to his mouth, and, holding her passion-dazed eyes, licked her honey from his fingers.
“Goddamn, you’re sweet,” he said thickly.
Cheeks pink, she said, “But I… it was over so quickly.”
“It’s not over.” He took her mouth, sharing her delectable flavor with her, smiling when she quivered. “Sunshine, we’re just beginning.”
~~~
“Oh, I can’t. Not again.”
Except for her pout, Primrose made the perfect Lady Godiva, he thought. In fact, he wanted to have her immortalized in paint, a portrait for his eyes only. He wanted to view Primrose this way whenever he wished: sitting astride him, her supple curves playing peek-a-boo through the shining curtain of her hair, her milky skin flushed and dewy from their lovemaking.
After her first incandescent climax, he’d taken her on the divan, first on her back and then, when she seemed ready for something more adventurous, he’d positioned her on all fours. She’d gotten over her shock quickly, purring when he entered her from behind. Her snug, eager pussy had tested the limits of his endurance. Through sheer force of will, he’d made sure that she came again before he did. And while he recovered, he’d fingered and licked her until she creamed upon his tongue once more.
Thus, he had ample evidence to support the fact that not only could Primrose come again, she would. And she was so full of passion that it wouldn’t take much. Christ, she was his match in every way—and he was one lucky bastard.
Now they were on the bed, he sitting against the headboard, she atop him.
“You can,” he told her.
To prove his point, he fisted his cock, running the burgeoned head against her damp and swollen petals until she sighed. Quickly donning a fresh French letter, he fitted his prick to her hole, yanking her down as he thrust up. They both moaned. Gripping her soft hips, he guided her up and down on his rod, her quim flowering around him, slathering him with slick honey.
“It’s too much,” she gasped.
“Ride me. You saw how it’s done.” Deliberately, he reminded her of what she’d glimpsed through the viewing hole… and groaned when his ploy worked, her pussy constricting helplessly. “Goddamn, you’re milking me like a fist.”
“That feels so… I can’t…” Panting, she strained to reach her summit.
He grabbed one of her hands, brought it to where their bodies joined.
“Rub your pearl, love.” He guided the motion with their twined fingers. “Make it nice and slick while you ride me.”
Whimpering, she did as he instructed, and, God, she was stunning. Her jade gaze swirling with gold, her slim fingers diddling herself as she impaled herself on his cock, she was desire incarnate. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She absorbed him completely, like no one else ever had or would. When she took him into her body, she took all of him—his cock, his mind… his heart.
Raw need pumped through him, pushing a spurt of pre-seed into the sheath. In that instant, he wanted to tear the bloody thing off, to have nothing between him and Primrose, to take her and take her until they came together. Until she was plowed full of his seed, dripping with it. Gritting his teeth, he held onto his sanity. He palmed her shoulder blades, pulling her toward him, altering the angle so that his cock drilled against her pearl.
Her entire body tautened… and then—bloody fuck. Her cunny convulsed around him, lightning-quick spasms that sucked the seed from his balls, forcing it up his shaft. He roared in ecstasy, his hips bucking as he shot stream after stream of hot spend into the sheep-gut barrier.
She collapsed atop him, boneless as a kitten. He held her close, his fingers tangling in her silken tresses. Unspoken words pounded in his heart, and he smothered them against her lips.
~~~
“Andrew, are you awake?” Rosie whispered.
“Hmm.” His voice rumbled beneath her ear; he definitely sounded drowsy.
After the exertions of the evening, she probably ought to let him rest. Cuddled atop his chest, watching the flickering fire in the hearth, she basked in the aftermath. Being with Andrew innervated her—made her feel content and limitless at the same time.
She rubbed her cheek against him, enjoying the light scratch of chest hair over hard, warm muscle. “Thank you for showing me this chamber.”
“Hmm hmm.”
“And for showing me that there’s nothing wrong with me or my desires.”
His hand ran lightly over her hair. “You’re a naturally sensual woman, Primrose—everything a man could desire. Why would you think there’s anything wrong with you?”
In her present relaxed state, it was so easy to share with him. “Because of the gossip about me. According to the ton, I’m a trollop.”
“The ton is made up of idiots and hypocrites.”
“Even if I’m not a trollop, I am a bastard. Even worse than that, I was…” She caught herself, just barely, a frisson of fear sizzling through her. Heavens, had she been about to blurt out a thought she hadn’t even allowed herself to think? Since Mama’s ugly revelation, she’d blocked the matter from her mind; she hadn’t permitted herself to consciously dwell upon it.
“What, love?” His hand continued its soothing stroke. “You can tell me.”
Could she? Could she trust him with the vile reality?
He gave her hair a gentle tug, and she lifted her head to meet his eyes.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Mama told me why Coyner took me as his ward.” The words tumbled from her lips. “It wasn’t because he wanted a daughter. He wanted... he wanted me for…”
She couldn’t make herself finish. Even if she could, she wouldn’t have been able to—for Andrew’s arms had tightened like steel bands around her, crushing her against him.
“It’s not your fault.” His voice vibrated with suppressed fury. “Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.”
“Nothing happened. According to Mama, Coyner meant to eventually make me his child bride, but she and Papa rescued me before that. Coyner died fighting Papa—died because he refused to let me go.” Her cheek pressed against Andrew’s hammering heart, Rosie fought to unearth the rest. “I do have memories of that time, and I don’t remember Coyner ever… harming me. In any way.”
She was rolled over. Made to look into Andrew’s intense gaze.
“Then what distresses you?” he said.
She inhaled deeply. “Even though he didn’t abuse me in any way, the fact that he meant to…” Nausea hit the back of her throat, but Andrew’s steadiness urged her on. Gave her the strength to untangle the jumbled skeins of her thoughts and feelings.
“I remember how he cossetted me, called me his Little Flower. When I pleased him, he would buy me anything I wanted.” Her insides roiled. “So I tried to please him, to be his good girl, and for what? Some frock, some stupid doll. Remembering what I did,”—she swallowed against the rising bile—“disgusts me.”
Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how much. How dirty and unclean the truth made her feel. Before Mama’s revelation, she’d just been a bastard—now she was a bastard who’d been bought to satisfy a lecher’s perversions. No wonder the ton rejected her. They’d sensed that she was damaged goods.
“You were just a girl. You didn’t know Coyner’s true intentions. It was only natural that you should want to gain your guardian’s approval.”
“But the fact that I was willing to sing him a song to get a music box, dance for him for a new pair of slippers,” she said bitterly, “that makes me no better than a…”
She trailed off, suddenly realizing what she’d been about to say. And to whom.
“Whore?” Andrew’s tone was free of inflection.
“That was thoughtless of me,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”
Despite her tumultuous state, questions deluged her. She’d been curious about his past, of course, but she’d never felt quite right asking about it. The truth was they’d spent most of the time focusing on her troubles. Andrew’s primary concern was always her welfare and, as a consequence, she realized, he talked very little about his own.
He was so in command of himself, so self-possessed that it seemed he had no need to confide in another. Nonetheless, she wanted to know him. To give him the same attention and care he’d shown her, even if he didn’t need it.
“You’re not sorry that you… sold your, um, services for money?”
“I used my body and my mind to survive,” he said flatly. “There’s no shame in that.”
As she looked up at his stark, beautiful face, her throat clenched. He was right, of course. His self-acceptance, his ability to see past what others might think of him, humbled her. Heightened her desire to understand this strong, tender, and complex man who was her lover.
“No, there isn’t,” she agreed. “But how did you end up in that trade?”
He studied her a moment before answering. “One could say I carried on the family tradition. Although my mother was an actress, her talent lay more in the bedchamber than on the boards. She began a career as a courtesan, and I was the result of it.”
Recalling what her mama had said about Andrew’s parentage, she said tentatively, “Is it true that you have royal blood?” At his startled look, she mumbled, “Mama told me.”
“Ah. The old rumors.” His lips twisted. “Yes, it’s possible. My mother was the Prince Regent’s mistress for a brief time, but neither of them were the faithful sort. By the time she realized she was with child, Prinny had already lost interest in her. So she was left pregnant and without resources to care for herself or her unborn bastard.”
“How dreadful,” Rosie whispered.
“My mother nearly died bringing me into the world, but somehow she survived. She continued selling her wares to support the two of us. By the time I was eight, drink had taken over her life,”—a muscle shifted in his cheek—“and, one by one, she lost her money, beauty, and health.”
His emotionless recounting of his childhood chilled Rosie—made her want to gather him in her arms and hold him tight. Something in his expression warned her not to.
Swallowing, she said, “You were so young. How did you survive?”
“I had quick and sticky fingers, so I got us by. When I turned fourteen, my mother introduced me to a bawd who catered to female clientele.”
Rosie couldn’t stop herself from recoiling. “Your mother sold you into prostitution?”
“She didn’t sell me. It was my choice.” A banked fire flared in his eyes. “I wanted to put food on our table, to have a roof over our heads, and fucking was an easier way to do it than thieving or running with cutthroats.”
“But you were only fourteen!”
Incredibly, his broad shoulders flexed in a shrug. “I was large for my age. The bawd taught me the essentials of pleasing a woman, and anything she left out, I figured out quickly on my own. Don’t make my life into a Cheltenham Tragedy. The last thing I want or need is your pity.”
The steely edge in his voice told her that he meant it.
Then another thought hit her. “Was this bawd Kitty Barnes?”
“No, I met her a year later.”
By the way his eyes shuttered, she could tell that he wouldn’t say more about it. And a part of her didn’t want to know. Wanted to keep that ugliness buried where it belonged.
“What happened to your mama?” she ventured.
“She died when I was sixteen.”
“Did you forgive her?”
“For what?”
“Um, for all of it?” She blinked at him. “Turning to drink. Depending on you to take care of her.” Forcing you to make a choice no child should have to make. “Weren’t you angry at her?”
“None of it was her fault,” came his startling reply. “She was a victim of her circumstance, and she did the best she could with what she had. She taught me to do the same. So, no, I wasn’t angry at her. I loved her.”
Listening to his matter-of-fact accounting, Rosie felt a shift inside her. An undertow of understanding that challenged her perceptions. For so long, she’d raged at being a victim: of her birth, of Draven, of Coyner… even of the ton. Life had been unfair to her—yet how much worse had things been for Andrew?
Despite that, he didn’t rail at fate. He didn’t wallow in self-pity. He didn’t act out in reckless desperation.
No, he had loved and taken care of the mama who’d failed him. He’d defied all odds to become one of the most successful businessmen in all of London. And he’d gone to extraordinary lengths to protect Rosie.
Her throat swelled. She needed time to sort the chaotic thoughts in her head, the lessons to be gleaned by new insights. But she did know one thing.
She smoothed a bronze lock from his forehead. “You’re a strong man, Andrew Corbett—and a good one. I’m so lucky that you’re my lover.”
His gaze heated. “I’m the lucky one, sweetheart.”
“Thank you for tonight.” She smiled tremulously at him. “For trusting me with the truth and being honest with me. For teaching me to be honest with myself.”
He responded with a kiss. One simmering with passion and deep undercurrents of emotion. By the time he raised his head, she was panting for him.
“Again?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the slope of her cheekbone.
Her pussy fluttered. As did her heart. How she craved this man.
“Yes, please,” she whispered.
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You’re going to kill me, you know.”
“Can you think of a better way to greet the hereafter?” With great daring, she ran her hands over the bulging muscles of his shoulders, down the marble-hard ridges of his backside and was rewarded by the fierce rise of his erection against her thigh.
“By all means,” he said huskily, “let us find le petit mort together.”