The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark

      Her leg slid across his thigh. He bent his knee.

      Clenching her buttock, blood beat in his veins and hunger burned in his stomach but he was not letting his reins go, not yet.

      With her cold fingers gripping him he returned her kiss waiting until he was sure she understood this was for them both. And when she pressed down and he was certain he let his primal beast roar and rip free, his hands clasping her as his thigh pressed back.

      “Ellen.” He breathed her name as though in pain. Then she was battling against him for control as before. It was intoxicating, the way he caressed her. Distracting. She could not think and he took control his hands all over her.

      Ellen clung to him, falling into ecstasy. It spun delicious pain into her nerves, and left her limbs limp and shaking.

      “Edward!” she screamed as he tumbled her onto her back and leaned over her, his muscles taut with intent.

      She was not conceding. She was not giving him control. She wanted to lead. She wanted the novelty, the feeling of power, to know she could, to know he’d let her, to feel equal. What he’d said was true, she’d been too nervous to be aroused before, thinking too much, but her motives were unchanged. She wanted this to be different. Her breathing heavy she held him back. “Let me, I want to lead.”

      His dark eyes shone like glass. He clearly did not understand. She saw the question in his eyes that said, why. But again he did not deny her and rolled back. “As you wish, Ellen. Have your way.”

      She was going to. She was determined to do this as she wished. ‘Whatever you do with me, you do because you want to.’ There was so much promise in those words. This was much more than sex.

      She straddled his magnificent body and splayed her fingers on his sculpted chest.

      He was silent and unmoving, bar the lift of his chest as he breathed.

      She sank down.

      He did not push her away, his fingers clasped her thighs and his jaw clenched.

      She bit her lip, watching him. He appeared drunk, his gaze holding hers. This was how she’d imagined it. Just like this. Adoration shone in his eyes.

      Her fingers slipped to the muscle of his abdomen. The sensation inside her swept all else away. Being with him was beautiful. Her spirit soared. Her personal litany of his possession ringing in her thoughts—release—escape—this is not just fulfilment of the flesh—this is more.

       It is more!

      And he was so unknown to her, nothing more than a stranger really, yet she felt so close to him emotionally as though she’d known this would happen between them all her life. It felt right.

      He reached up and pulled her down.

      As she returned his kiss she knew this was no longer her working a craft she’d learnt with other men or him displaying skill, this was them, bound together.

      Weeks ago, in the gaming-hell, she’d been afraid of letting go—now she raced towards it with obsession. The only noise she could hear was their breath. She was transfixed by the way he could make her feel, intoxicated. Her fingernails bit into the muscle across his ribs as the brink came in a rush, chasing through her body, a flame dancing and flaring across her already heightened senses as her fingernails dug deeper.

      His strong hands took control, holding her fiercely. His movement was urgent as she clung to him, her mouth against his, unable to return his kiss.

      A primal cry escaped from deep in his chest and filled her open mouth. Then he was hastily lifting her from him.

      She felt a shiver rake his muscle and heat on her stomach as she hugged him.

      For a moment he didn’t move just lay still with his eyes closed. But when they opened he smiled and tumbled her backwards onto the bed, humour shining in his gaze before he pressed a kiss on her lips. There was gratitude in it and his hand lay lightly on her hip.

      When he rolled onto his back, she pillowed her head on his shoulder and slid her leg over his, letting her hand rest on his midriff.

      He drew the sheet across her and wiped her stomach. Then his hand fell on her hair and his fingers sifted through it while his other hand trailed circles on her upper arm. She fell asleep.

       Chapter Four

      Fully clothed, Edward lifted his weight from where it had rested on the windowsill. He could see her fingers shaking as she secured the buttons at the chest of her pelisse. He moved forward, caught her hands, set them aside and took over the task. She looked up studying his face as he did. He did not meet her gaze.

      He hadn’t left her long to dress. He couldn’t bring himself to wake her any earlier. She’d looked so peaceful in sleep, young. Again he wondered at the fact that she was the older of the two of them. Age had not touched her beauty. She could pass for a debutante in her first season.

      Season? A sound of humour escaped his throat bringing a question to her gaze.

      He shook his head.

      She was no debutante. What she was, was a courtesan who’d bluntly refused to speak of her origin. Yet his brain could not equate her with a woman of anything less than reasonable birth. It was in the tone of her voice, her posture. His mind turned to the one thing he knew—her trade was not her choice—then wondered at the cause. An over eager lover who had taken her virtue and not offered marriage?

      Who was the family who’d turned its back? Or did she have none? No father, no brothers to protect her. No wonder her beauty had brought her to this.

      He couldn’t think of it.

      His gloved fingers skimming her cheek, her pale blue eyes met his, so starkly different to the luxurious fall of her ebony hair. He was so moved by her beauty.

      She looked saddened by their need to part, but there was no other option. He’d seen what Gainsborough could do to her. He couldn’t let her take risks until he’d worked out what to do. If she’d told him how she’d met Gainsborough it may have helped, but she clearly wasn’t going to make helping her easy. He needed to think.

      She turned away from his touch, picked up her hat and re-secured it, then pulled the veil across her face.

      “Are you ready?” she asked, turning back.

      He nodded, taking a breath, almost afraid to ask the question he longed to in case she refused. “May we meet tomorrow?”

      Her expression was uncertain but she nodded none the less, blushing and turning away from him again to collect her gloves.

      “Not here though, somewhere else.” She spoke with her back to him, pulling on her gloves and then picking up the muff.

      Edward stepped forward, clasping her waist and then pulling her against him so that he could kiss the delicate skin behind her ear. “I could pick you up in a hackney if you wished, if you tell me where to meet you?”

      She turned in his arms and pressed one gloved palm to his cheek, a shallow smile touching her lips and happiness warming her eyes again. “I can wait for you on the corner of Jermyn Street at eleven, but you must not be late.”

      “I shan’t be.”

      Her lips brushed his.

      The doorknob rattled and Ellen jerked back and stepped away.

      It was undoubtedly another ploy of the landlord’s to play voyeur. “Y’u done yet? Yu’r time’s up!”

      Ellen’s chin lifted and he recognised her distaste for clandestine assignations. He didn’t like them either but until he decided how to free her from Gainsborough they could not meet openly.

      “We’re leaving!” Edward barked