“No, no. ’Tis for my own pleasure of introducing you to new experiences.”
“I believe I shall retire now. Thank you for the walk.” Althea stood and shook out her skirts. Before Evan could rise to offer an arm, she strode away toward the stairs and her room, eager to remove herself from temptation and oversharing. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her.
Vowing to keep closer counsel the rest of the visit, she climbed into bed. Unable to sleep, she stared at the ceiling for hours, trying to picture her husband’s buttocks. Her mind kept superimposing Evan’s taller, broader, golden form over the fuzzy memory of her spouse. Her pulse sped up, her fingers rubbed against her palms envisioning his skin, his hair. Each time, she chastised herself and tried to blank her mind, only to go through the cycle again and again before sleep claimed her.
****
Evan lay in bed envisioning the game, remembering the feel of Althea’s arse in his hands. In his imagination, he stepped forward to rub his aching cock along its seam. Even through clothing, he thought it might only take a few strokes to come messily all over her lower back.
He was torn between elation at his cock stiffening after being disinterested in everything for so long and frustration that the object of its desire had to be the one woman uninterested in the more ribald party games…and yet another person who wanted his money more than they wanted him.
No matter, his imagination would suffice. He took his cock in hand, grabbed his handkerchief from the bottom of the bed where he’d thrown it, and lay back against the pillows. He pictured her in the gallery light, creamy pert breasts showcased by the scooped neckline of deep aubergine. Remembering the shoes by her chair in the card room the night before, he imagined her peeling a stocking down, then the other, then standing for him. He circled her in his mind, his hand sliding over the mounds of her bottom again, pausing to squeeze, then around her side and up to scoop a breast out of her décolletage.
His fist accelerated, and his other hand cupped his bollocks. Squeezing the purple head, he panted, wanting to draw out the fantasy.
His lips pursed, imagining the silky skin and pebbled tip of her exposed breast. Her scent lingered in his nose, and he imagined pressing against her hip as he gathered her skirts up to reach—
He grunted and shuddered as tendrils of fire curled around the base of his spine. His bollocks drew up, his pulse drumming in the iron rod under his fist, and he could not stay his orgasm a second longer. He grabbed his handkerchief. His other fist tightened and twisted, yanking brutally on his cock as it spurted ropes of scorching liquid into a fistful of silk.
His hands flopped to the bed beside him, all his muscles slackening. But his thoughts continued to circle.
Mayhap now I can focus on the best choice of amusements for the morrow.
He ran through the games he had planned in his mind, rejecting one after another. Too many different people touching. Too much skin for his most conservative guest.
Contemplating prior years’ sport, he encountered the same frustration. The only matches she’d likely find acceptable were first night entertainment, too tame for his other guests at this point in the party.
How do I get myself into these situations? Damn me, I’m only eight and twenty.Then, with the edge of his frustration dulled, clarity returned.Why am I trying so hard to please another person in the long line angling for a handout?
He fell asleep plotting how to get Althea involved in the games. And more, to give her her first orgasm, mayhap ever.
Chapter Five
The next afternoon, Althea meandered from room to room. She sewed in the parlor, listened to music in the music room, and told herself she was bored, not surreptitiously searching for her host.
Finally, she ever so casually wandered the hall leading to his office and realized her slipper had a pebble just as she neared that door. Leaning against the wall, she slid the shoe off and bent to look at it, listening closely for his voice.
When the door opened, she jerked in shock and fell forward, catching herself with her hands, her knees coming down hard on the floor.
“Lady Althea?” Evan’s bemused voice asked. “Are you quite all right? I assure you, you needn’t beg for help on your knees.”
“Mmmphh.” She spit hair from her mouth and nearly groaned aloud, as much at being caught as the pain in her knees. She’d chosen to leave her hair loose down her back for the daytime, and it had fallen out of the ribbon holding it back from her face.
“If I may?” he asked, sobering. His hand closed around her upper arm, and he pulled her to stand. He was in buff today, which only added to her view of him as lionlike.
One knee hurt when she put her weight on it, and at her wince, he quickly guided her into his office.
Leading her to the settee, he directed her down with the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm.
She plopped down and shoved her curls back, only to gasp as one leg, then the other, was lifted and placed on the low table in front of her.
Evan stepped to the bar, distracting her from her injury with his broad shoulders and the drape of his jacket over his narrower hips. His thick mane, amber with bronze highlights, fascinated her every time they were in a room together.
He returned with two Scotches and pressed one into her hand then walked away. She heard the door shut before he reappeared, one of the forest green slippers that matched her gown in his hand. Her jaw dropped, and she glanced down. One of her feet—on the table, eep!—was slippered, and one was stockinged. Mortified, she dropped her head forward, allowing her hair to slip back along her face to hide her embarrassment.
“Have a sip, Althea. To calm your nerves after the fall.”
She sipped, feeling fire burn its way from her throat to her stomach. Coughing once, she sighed and sipped again. How could she explain this?
