The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark

      “I wasn’t mocking,” he responded, but complied.

      It felt so strange being with him, extraordinary and unexpected.

      His boot fell to the floor along with his stocking as his cravat sailed over her shoulder. She pulled at his other boot while she felt his fingers tugging the laces of her light corset.

      The other boot fell and her corset dropped to the floor.

      She turned.

      He was lifting his shirt off over his head revealing his glorious chest.

      She smiled as their eyes met and he stood. She knew he’d seen her admiration and she felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly as he tossed his shirt onto the pile of clothing on the floor.

      Her fingers spread over the ridges and hollows of his stomach.

      He gripped her chemise and lifted it.

      Naked to the waist, Ellen blushed, and smiled when he did, her gaze clinging to his as her shaking fingers freed his buttons and his tugged loose the ribbon of her drawers.

      His eyes were full of longing—the same longing she’d seen there that night in the club. The air left her lungs. His desire frightened her today because it meant so much more to her now. He had promised things to her. She wished to give in return. She wanted this to be right. Forcing her courage, she stepped forward and slid her arms about his neck, pressing her breasts against his chest and her lips to his. I love you. Foolish, foolish words.

      Need clutched his groin as her slim, soft body pressed flush against him. His fingers slid up the slender column of her neck and into the roots of her hair as he plundered her mouth, cradling her scalp. God, he loved her.

      Her hair fell, cascading about her shoulders and pins dropped to the floor. A mewling sound suggesting satisfaction leaked from her mouth.

      He gripped her hips ready to lift her to the bed but she pushed his hands away and broke the kiss.

      “Let me,” she said again, her pale gaze clashing with his.

      Compliant, he stood still, breathing deeply while her eyes followed her gentle touch as it explored the contours of his chest. He was entranced by her, watching her as she watched her fingertips skim over his skin.

      Her dark eyelashes contrasted starkly with her pale blue eyes and her black hair lay across the alabaster of her shoulders. There was not a single blemish on her skin.

      Her gentle fingers brushed over his biceps and arms before they gripped his hands and then her thumbs pressing into his palms she dropped to kneel on the rough floorboards. The air froze in his lungs.

       Oh God.

      He should not let her do this. He did not wish her to work her craft. But the pleasure was excruciating. She knew how to drive a man mad.

      A shiver raked his skin as he watched her. He was lost.

      When she let go of his hands, his fingers instinctively threaded into her hair, cupping her scalp and following her rhythm.

      After a while, burning with an unbearable hunger, his thumb pressed into her mouth and urged her to stand, his heart pulsing.

      “Ellen,” his hand held her scalp as he kissed her. She did things to his insides he could not explain, made him feel weak. He leaned her back until she tumbled onto the bed. But then her palms pressed against the pectoral muscles of his chest and stopped him again.

      “Ah.” He conceded with a frustrated humorous grunt, rolling to his back and giving her the lead once more.

      She was blushing when she straddled his waist, her eyes watching him and her cold palms on his chest.

      He recalled the sensation of entering her. It had been in his dreams ever since that first night. But when she descended it was not at all the same, it felt forced, unbearably abrasive and painful.

      Clarity hit him like a bucket of iced water. Hell. She was watching him clearly looking for response, busy giving him what she thought he wanted—Cyprian style. This was solicitation. She was not in the least aroused.

      His body mentally and physically revolted, angry and shaking, he gripped her waist and set her aside. Then leaving her there he climbed from the bed, escaping his disgust.

       Lord.

       Damn.

      He reached for the mug of ale and drank; his eyes focusing on anything but her. You heartless fucking bastard, Edward! He’d let her ply her trade because it suited him. It wasn’t like that. What they’d done at the club had not been like that! Had it? Not like Gainsborough and any others she’d bedded.

      Bile rose in his throat. He was sickened to think she’d felt forced into this—by him. What on earth did she hope to gain by it? Or did she simply not know better?

      He looked back at her. “That is not what I want, Ellen.” His voice shook as badly as his nerves.

      She looked stricken, bewildered, kneeling on the bed and watching him with an expression of confused pain, her fingers clutching the covers. “I don’t want to have sex with you if you do not desire it. You owe me no debt. If all you want is help I will help you without this.” The anger in him dissipated suddenly as in a cracked tone he gave her the option honour demanded; even though his desire was a living entity inside him, belying every word. “If you would rather go, or just talk, tell me?”

      The distress in her wide eyes was tragic, a scene drawn directly from a Greek play, Diana cast out by Zeus. His gaze swept her body in an instant, from the crown of her head, over her pert breasts, to the curve of her waist and her slightly parted thighs. Heaven only knew how he would walk away but he would if she denied him. His eyes lifted back to her face and he met her gaze.

      He wanted to go to her, to soothe away the tears he could see there, but he wouldn’t do it, not until he was certain this was her choice as much as his. If he comforted her, coerced her with arousal, he would never know the truth.

      “I want to give you what you gave me.” She answered quietly. He’d drained the last of her confidence.

      A lump lodged in his throat. He took a swig of the ale to clear it and then set down the pewter mug.

      “Ellen…” He went to her, sitting on the bed but not close. Not knowing what to say.

      Her hands covered her face, hiding a blush which ran down her neck and a mortified sob escaped the barrier of her hands.

      He could not leave her suffering. “Ellen.” He gripped her hands, pulled them down, then braced her chin and held her gaze to his. “What gives me pleasure is you wanting me.” He threw a disgusted glance at the bed, where they’d lain. “Not, that damned performance of it.” Then looking at her again, he said, “Whatever you do with me, you do because you want to, Ellen, not because you feel you should. If you don’t want anything physical between us, neither do I.”

      “I want to.” Her lips clamped shut on the childlike denial. It was a boon, at least she’d meant to please him and not felt pressured.

      “I’ll put it another way, Ellen, do nothing for me unless it gives you pleasure too.” Sucking in a shuddering breath, his fingers fell from her chin as he finally released the knot of anger and revulsion inside him. “I am not an imbecile, Ellen, you aren’t even aroused. Gainsborough may not care, but I do. God, it revolts me to think you would equate me with him.” He shrugged off his anger. “Do you want something to drink?”

      She shook her head, then slid her slender arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his, her weight knocking him back to the bed.

      This time he was more cautious, keeping his head and letting her lead the kiss, his fingers tracing across her back and buttocks. Even those gentle curves were perfection. He curled his fingers and ran them up her side, brushing the swelling curve of her breast which pressed against his chest.