Page 12 of My Fake Mistress
She untied his cravat, he worked at his trousers, she pushed his waistcoat and coat from his shoulders as he stumbled while removing his socks and shoes. She licked the line of his jaw, kissed him, nipped him, and when finally stripped to nakedness, he buried his face in her chest and inhaled with abandon. She scratched the restraint from her hair and burrowed out every last pin and comb and let them fall to the floor. She made to pull at her corset tie. Julian clasped her hand.
‘Would you stay like this?’ he asked. She still wore her stockings, chemise and corset. ‘I may not survive all of you. And you look so decadent. So perfect. In fact…’ He moved between the furniture, lifting heavy swathes of fabric and peering under them. Then he grasped the edge of a lushly draped stretch of white linen and threw it back to reveal a tall mirror with an ornate gilt frame. Grey spots lined its edges where rust was beginning to corrode. He rummaged some more, then dragged a settee from beneath an uneven jumble of furniture, its claw feet scraping against the wood with a light shriek. ‘You should see the masterpiece you are.’
Blythe went to his outstretched arms, expecting him to lower her to the lounge. Instead, he stilled her and guided her to stand before him. ‘Kneel,’ he said. ‘On the cushion. Face the mirror. Do you see your perfection?’
Herself? She could scarce raise her eyes, and instead focused on the gilt trim.
‘Look. See your beautiful lines. The soft curves of your skin. The way it creases and holds your sweat and scent. You are a promise of heaven. If I could paint, I would pose you like this.’ He pressed his body against hers, his rigidness between her cleft, his chest firm warmth along her back. He nuzzled into her neck, his arm bracing and when she wanted to melt and lie back, he held her in place. He gripped her chin and forced her eyes level with her reflection, as his other hand slipped between her thighs, pushed up her chemise to burrow into her triangle of hair. With slow deliberateness, he began to stroke. Blythe leaned back against him and groaned, shuffling her knees wider. ‘Look,’ he demanded. ‘Or I will stop.’
She met herself in the mirror. With its speckled edges, and lacklustre gilding, it seemed the perfect frame for her, worn down thing that she was. One stocking ribbon had loosened and fallen, while the other slip of yellow still held its thin bow around her thigh. Her breasts pushed against her corset, and her mussed hair hung in thick, curvy waves. When Julian buried his finger inside her, she watched fascinated, almost as an onlooker, as her expression contorted into a type of tortured bliss. She wanted to hold the moment and watch forever but also wanted to swoop headlong into its embrace.
‘What will we call the masterpiece that is you? The delicious deflowering of Blythe? The innocent corrupted?’ He half growled, his rumble rippling through his chest, and into her. Small slips of him showed behind her, a skerrick of his muscled thighs, a stretch of his chest. Tantalising snippets of his naked beauty, and although she stood central to the frame, she felt his energy and his direction. She was the model, yet he was the artist who sculpted and brought her to creation. His long dormant desires flaming for her alone.
She leaned back in his arms and tilted to take in his rapture, and his lust. She kissed him, full mouthed, completely uninhibited. ‘I think, the reawakening of Julian.’
‘Don’t take your eyes from me.’ He shuffled against her, and his cock penetrated her with tantalising slowness. She held his gaze in the mirror until an ache, at first mild, then more biting, rippled through her, smothering the ecstasy she had felt just a moment before. As she gasped, he groaned, pushed harder and held her still. Her face twisted with the slight agony, even as his melted into bliss. Then he withdrew with the same breathtaking slowness until just his tip teased at her, before re-entering her with languor. Again and again, he moved with the same steady pace, until her little gasps of pain became more throaty growls of pleasure, and when she cupped the back of his neck and pulled his lips toward hers, he began to move faster.
The energy, the connection, the overwhelming saturation of the feeling seeped into her every part. His teeth scraped her neck, and he nipped her earlobe. ‘You are so tight,’ he rumbled against her, and his words sent an unexpected shiver through her, her cry a partner to his. ‘So wet. So goddamn ready for this, weren’t you? Are you still sore, my fake mistress? Do you want me to stay slow, or would you like more?’
‘More, please,’ she said, not even quite knowing whatmoremight mean, but knowing that more of this couldn’t be bad, in fact, it would be stupendous. More of Julian, of his hunger for her, his attention, she wanted to store it up and lock it into a new place, a special cavity within herself, one made just for him so that she could draw on it forever.
Julian grasped her hip, then placed a splayed hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, and with a guiding firmness, pushed her down, and slightly away from him. Her grasp caught the edge of the seat before she could topple, and with his next thrust, he filled her much deeper than before. He half howled, then caught her by the waist and thrust again. His thighs slapped the back of hers, indecent skin on skin, their bodies all animal instincts and half human desire. When she craned her neck to find him, he still held her gaze, and she whimpered at the terrific beauty of their coupling as reflected in the mirror, her body rocking in sync with his, her corseted chest catching air, his hands gripping her hard. He stroked her back with his palm, then followed the curve of her hips to bury his hand between her thighs, until he found that delicious little place there and stroked. She wanted to find words, find eloquence and structure to define the tumult, but her mouth shaped nothing but a whimper, and her brain screamed nothing butmore, more, more.
It came on as a roar, a terrific shimmer that began where their bodies met and it seemed unfathomable that those small little places of connection could create such a fury not only inside her where Julian pressed his body into hers, but at every place where they touched. The lightening jiggered and raced, from her sex to her hips to his fingers stroking her. He pulled her upright so that their bodies aligned. He showered open mouthed kisses over her shoulders. Touch, sensation, all of it so blindingly good it bubbled into every extremity.
‘Let the feeling take you,’ he breathed in her ear. ‘Let it dominate you. And let me watch.’
She held his stare for as long as she could, meaning to watch him as her body surrendered to the sensation, but the pull became too loud, too captivating, and Blythe let it draw her down. She still felt his body where his hands held her, where his cock thrust and where their skin touched, but she also fell into a heaven that was just her, all comfort and ecstasy, a magnificent, selfish throbbing that smothered everything. Stretching one hand behind her, she caught Julian by the back of his neck, and gripping to give her greater balance, she demanded more kisses, more of his passion and attention. Completely in his focus, she was central, the masterpiece, the star exhibit, and between the shuddering that overtook her in waves and waves of energy, her vision blanked and flickered, and she caught snatches of his expression as it morphed from lasciviousness to something softer. To wonder. To enchantment, and even rapture. And as the thrumming began to fade, she caught herself, face flushed, eyes bright, and she saw freedom, abandon, and while it should have terrified her, she also saw love. A love she knew she could not keep but still she held it and let it infuse her. No longer cold and scared, her love for him made her feel human, and vulnerable, and terribly alive.
Julian hitched her closer, and she bent again for him, with her head tilted slightly so that she could watch the moment of his release. The candle flickered, and with the shifting shadow, his façade fell, and as he thumped into her, grunting, he said nothing but her name,Blythe, and maybe a curse. He pulled out, straightened, and pumped his cock, then he arched with a throaty roar as he spilled his seed over her thighs.
The yellow glow from the candle washed with the milky white from the moon, and the only noise in the attic was their raspy breaths. Julian slowly opened his eyes and caught her watching in the mirror. He took a slow inhalation and smiled. Not the friend. Not the fake protector. A lover. An equal, who both took and gave.
He mumbled something likestay there while I clean this up, searched through his pants and returned with a kerchief. Once finished, he slid onto the settee and caught her in his arms, pulling her against him. She curved into him, bracketing his body and resting her cheek against his chest.
‘I feel like a cad,’ he said as his breath slowed. ‘A complete rogue. That is not how one should take a virgin.’
‘You know, I can’t tell if you are admonishing yourself, or a little bit proud,’ she said.
He planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘You see through me, Blythe. You see all of me. No one ever has made me feel so transparent before. Not even…’
She heard the bite in his tone as he pulled back a memory. ‘You can say her name. I won’t be jealous.’ She stroked his cheek with her thumb, then brushed a kiss onto his chin. ‘We all carry our dead. They don’t have to be heavy.’
He said nothing, just pulled her tighter, and when she chanced a glance in the mirror, the old conflict had returned. Julian stirred. They dressed.
‘Would you like to leave first?’ he asked, not quite meeting her eye.
‘You go,’ she said as she gestured to the frames. ‘I would like to say goodbye.’
His silent kiss on her cheek warmed her after he had left. She took a breath and held his smell—leather, woodsmoke and grief—then exhaled.
She took up the candle, half spent, and scanned the room.
It was time to get to work.
Chapter Five
Springsunshineflitteredbetweena few vestiges of persistent winter cloud. So tired he felt groggy, Julian had still dragged himself from his bed to bid farewell to Blythe. She had protested the carriage, but he had insisted she should take it not only to the train station but all the way to town, as his last act as her protector. Her fake protector. Or whatever he was.
