Being Wicked. Lacy Danes

Which of the mistresses is holding the event?”

      “Emma. She has been asking about you.” He winked.

      “Dear Emma.” Her lips curved up into a smile as images of Emma and Markus’s brother Rupert futtering in the hall at one of his famous parties filled her mind. Emma’s legs wrapped tightly about Rupert’s waist, her head thrown back, as he bit her neck and growled. Her small hands slapped and clawed at Rupert’s back as he kissed her and thrust her against the wall, stealing her breath away.

      Slick moisture tingled Grace’s cunt and she rocked her hips backward in the chair, squeezing the walls together to relieve the blooming ache in her pussy. Stop, Grace. Stop thinking about your wild longings. “I have not seen Emma in well past a year. Is she quarreling as frequently with Rupert or has he moved on?”

      “Rupert is now devoted to Cora. You will meet her tonight. When will you get past your stubborn thoughts on what you need, and go with what your desires tell you, Grace? I have never seen a woman more like a mule than you.”

      The icy, firm tone of his words slid like oil down the center of her back and between the globes of her bottom. Indeed, she was stubborn. The image of a mule pulling back against the ropes as Markus pulled and pulled quirked her lips up. She looked up into his eyes. The same intensity that shone in his eyes every time he caressed her cheek after they had futtered shone back at her—a gentle caring mixed with a firm determination.

      She sighed. He was right. At the very least, she did long to see all of her friends again. She swallowed and stared back at the proper women her age that sat and laughed, talking about bonnets, and ribbons, and all the false things they pretended mattered.

      “I will go, but only if you put me in my cups on the way.”

      He held out his hand to her and she wrapped her fingers around it and stood.

      He stared down at her. “No problem, Grace. I have plenty of spirits in my coach, as you are well aware.”

      Indeed, he always had something in his carriage to soften the girls he brought to his home before they arrived. She hoped he had some of the chamomile and anise-flavored liquor that let down her inhibitions and pushed forth the longing to be bold and futter.

      “Indeed, Grace. I know what kind of spirit you wish, though I do not think it wise going where we are. You should have your wits about you. You have not been touched since…” His jaw set firmly and his brows pulled tight together in a scowl.

      “Precisely why I need to be touched, Markus. You want me to let go and follow my desires. Help me, but don’t expect me in your bed.” She cringed slightly as the words left her mouth. That was entirely rude, Grace. Naughty girl. Markus doesn’t deserve the backlash of disappointment that swirls in your life. “Pardon, Markus.”

      “There is no need to slap me, Grace. I know you were only with me for Oscar.” The muscles of his forearm tensed. “Much as I was.”

      Indeed, she was well aware of why Markus bedded her at the beck and call of her husband. Markus was indebted to Oscar and came whenever Oscar called. Chills touched the back of her neck and she forced that part of her husband’s memories away from her mind. She didn’t need to remember him that way.

      Grace stumbled from the carriage and straightened her skirts. Wonderful, Grace, now everyone will assume you are in your cups. She smiled to herself. Well, she supposed she was a bit tipsy, but far from making a spectacle of herself.

      Markus smiled at her. “I see the herbs in the wine are working well.”

      “I am relaxed, and a bit awakened—that is all, Markus.” Why did she always feel like she had to prove to everyone that she was fine? She frowned. Why couldn’t she simply let go and be what she was? Vulnerable, unsure of herself, and, well, a bit daft. Enough of that, Grace. You have strong qualities, as well as your vulnerabilities. Was that true? Her brow pulled tight. She supposed that was. She simply needed to find out what those were and force them to the surface.

      “Aroused, eh? I am glad to hear it, Grace. You need to remember what it is like to touch and be touched.”

      Grace sighed. Indeed. That was precisely why she had allowed Markus to talk her into this situation—this event she could pretend at.

      She walked up the wide sandstone steps to the newly constructed manor house, which stood on the border to Chelsea.

      The outside appeared to be a normal manor. Straight lines and perfectly spaced windows all cued up in rows across the front. A soft glow of candles radiated from the windows, where peering in was welcome by any who wished to see.

      The inside was different. Anything but proper. As everyone in this set knew, this home was filled with the latest trends, as well as oddities. The owner was a wealthy Danish man who let the house for an extended visit to the capital and had taken a fancy to Emma.

      Grace sighed. Emma did capture everyone’s attention; so no surprise, she now resided in this masterpiece. Emma’s petite stature and beautiful fair hair made her a sight to behold, but her many, many carnal talents kept the men at her side. All of Grace’s encounters with her had been filled with passion and expertise. Emma’s passion certainly came from all of the tutoring Rupert bestowed on her.

      Though many said Grace was the one who drew attention—a talent she never wanted or had—she feigned it well.

      She closed her eyes. A thud then a stifled cry, came from the right of her. She turned her head as her eyes shot open.

      A young lady pushed to her knees and scurried into the bushes at the side of the house.

      Grace hesitated. Did she witness a woman, a lady, jumping from a carriage? What was that woman about?

      “Everything well, Grace?” Markus’s fingers firmed on her elbow and he propelled her up another step toward the great rose carved doors.

      “I’m fine, but I need to use the washroom.”

      “Very well. It is down the hall on the right side of the house, filled, I am sure, with all kinds of interesting things for you ladies to relieve yourselves in.” He smiled a full-tooth smile at her. “I will let you know what room Emma has you settled in, when you return.”

      The right side of the home was the side where the young woman scurried into the bushes. Grace stepped into the house and turned toward Markus. He reached up and untied the ribbons about her throat that held her cape in place. The footman grasped back and lifted her cape from her shoulders.

      She spun around. The entry dwarfed anything she had ever seen. The dark wood floor gleamed, and before her in the center of the space stood an enormous staircase. Intricately carved of deep rich wood, the stairs were the centerpiece of the room, which led to the second floor.

      This home was indeed meant to impress. She headed to the right of the staircase and through the open door to the back half of the first-level rooms. Spotting two doors—the one to the right, with a red ribbon tied on the handle, and the one to the left, with a blue ribbon—she sighed and hoped. Red ribbon meant caution; it was a public place to futter. Blue was the retiring room.

      She pushed open the door with the red ribbon to the right and entered the room. The smell of jasmine perfume and rose petals filled her senses and she glanced around. The room was beautiful—soft gold velvet chairs sat on blue carpet, gilded mirrors hung all about on cornflower blue walls. In the middle of the room was a large oval seat with a carved gold wood tree in the center. From the tree, straps of leather hung.

      In her mind, she was pushed down on the gold velvet seat…. Her hands were pushed back against the wood tree and the leather straps tied tight about her wrist as a man, with gold hair, bit her neck and breasts. His hands spread her thighs wide as his rough fingers slid up her soft skin heading toward her core. She closed her eyes and moaned, savoring the fantasy.

      Her nipples tingled and pebbled hard beneath her corset. She pulled her shoulder blades together and pushed her hard buds against the fabric. Tendrils of pleasure, as if from the wooden tree itself,