Page 8 of His Brazen Tart
Piers paused just long enough to ensure he saw no uncertainty or fear in Joan’s eyes. She raised her chin and stared back at him, clearly not ready to back down or apologize for her behavior. Not that he would have expected her to.
He grasped her jaw in a gentle but firm hold, allowing himself a long, leisurely look at her. Her pulse throbbed in the hollow of her collarbone, and a slight tremor went through her as he trailed his thumb over the seam of her lips. Her breath raced against his skin, sending a tingle of awareness through him. This mouth was made for sin, full and shapely and at his mercy. Indulging his curiosity at last, he pressed the pad of his thumb against the black spot above her upper lip and dragged it toward her cheek. To his pleasure, the beauty spot didn’t budge, proving to be a natural punctuation mark on the composition of her face.
Curiosity satisfied, he carried on. Joan flinched when Piers hooked his fingertips into her bodice and pulled, easing the fabric down to her ribs. Her breasts spilled free, teardrop-shaped and swollen, the nipples tightening to tiny peaks. Then, he grasped fistfuls of her skirts and yanked them up to her waist, exposing taut calves, soft thighs, and a thatch of silken, black curls with the barest hint of pink flesh showing from within. As he’d thought, the only undergarment she wore proved a pair of stockings—white and edged with lace, with sky-blue garters tying them up.
His erection throbbed, the tip of his cock going wet with desire as he trailed an absent fingertip along the inside of one thigh. She drew a sharp breath, then sighed, allowing her head to fall back and her eyes to slide closed as he neared the apex of her thighs. Piers stopped just short of where he wanted to touch most—because he knew it was also whatshewanted most. His naughty little tart hadn’t earned than from him yet.
Her head snapped up and her eyes flew open when he withdrew, returning to his chair. She gaped at him in disbelief as he took up his napkin and snapped it in the air before laying it back across his lap. It took a great deal of discipline not to roar with laughter at the incredulous look on her face.
“What the devil are you doing?” she snapped as he took up his fork.
Piers allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. “Why, Joan … I saidyouwere finished eating. I never saidIwas.”
Chapter 4
Joan watched in shocked, open-mouthed silence as Piers resumed eating as if nothing had happened. As if there weren’t a half-naked woman sharing his table. As if he hadn’t exposed all her intimate parts before tying her to a chair. She squirmed to test the strength of the silk ties. Though the fabric was forgiving, the knots were relentless, holding her wrists and ankles captive. Being unable to conjure any words just then, Joan stared at Piers and tried to determine if she now found herself in over her head.
She had, admittedly, broken a handful of Piers’ high-handed rules on purpose—partly because she wanted to know how he intended to punish her, but also because a part of her didn’t take kindly to being ordered about. It was the part of her that had lived under the oppressive rule of her parents and then that of her husband. Becoming a wealthy widow had freed her from such oppression, and Joan recoiled at the very idea of allowing anyone such control over her again.
So then, why was she allowing her new courtesan to treat her this way? The man wouldn’t even look at her, his eyes lowered and his face serene as he helped himself to another portion of mutton. Joan’s spine bristled with indignation and her tongue burned with the urge to give him what for. Yet, the words never came. Instead, Joan took inventory of the various baffling sensations creeping through her body. Along with the anger and shame heating her belly, there were other sensations that made her nipples grow hard and the depths of her cunny pulse. Intrigue and curiosity. Hunger and longing. Desire and need. Arousal, so potent it overwhelmed her.
Shelikedthis, Joan realized with a rush of clarity. There was something thrilling about the moment Piers had shot to his feet, the vein in his forehead throbbing and his lips pinched into that stern, grim line. An instant change had come over him at the very moment Joan had pushed him too far, revealing the sort of man that turned Joan’s legs watery.
Another feeling—one she hadn’t been able to name until now—became apparent, and Joan seized it, reveled in it. Power.Shewasresponsible for pushing him to this point.Shehad tempted him until he couldn’t hold back. Only, perhaps she hadn’t gone far enough. Once Piers had her tied to the chair and at his mercy, Joan had expected him to take advantage of her position. It would seem she wasn’t the only one with something to prove. Sir Piers Lovelace was obviously a man of careful control.
The niggling of her mischievous nature made Joan wonder what it would take to push him back toward that exciting edge.
She heaved a heavy sigh while arching her back, purposely thrusting her breasts outward and upward, never taking her gaze off Piers’ stern face. He maintained his rapt attention on his dinner plate, though Joan detected the slight flick of his eyes in her direction. She grinned, releasing another breathy noise and allowing her head to fall against the back of her chair.
“Is this how you entertain all your lovers?” she asked. “It is a wonder anyone is willing to pay you to act as their courtesan.”
Joan felt the sudden heat of his gaze. Her skin flushed from the intensity of his stare, and the warmth building in her core increased. She didn’t have to look at the man to imagine him raking his gaze over her, slowly and methodically. Goose bumps prickled along her flesh as she registered the stroke of his gaze over her bared breasts, then down to the exposed valley of her quim. Her thighs trembled against the hold of the silken ties.
When it became clear that Piers intended to go on ignoring her, Joan tried again.
“Is it a very effective tactic … teasing a woman with words and threats, then failing to follow through?”
More silence, though when Joan lifted her head, she found Piers staring straight into her eyes, his jaw working as he chewed. He looked like a volcano ready to explode, and Joan hovered on the edge of breathless anticipation. The man was magnificent when he was angry, like the gods of the Greek myths she’d loved studying in seminary school.
“Nothing to say?” she prodded, pursing her lips in a playful moue. “I suppose you have run out of ways to threaten me. I should hardly be surprised—”
“Fucking Christ, woman, do you ever cease babbling?” he roared, slamming his knife and fork onto the table so hard that her own place setting clattered. Flames flickered on the ends of their tapers, and the wood groaned beneath Piers’ weight as he pressed his hands onto the surface and pushed to his feet.
Joan trembled with glee and the slightest trickle of unease. Yet it wasn’t enough to make her call out her safe word. The unease she felt wasn’t born of fear, but rather due to the unprecedented nature of this evening. She had been so bored with her previous lovers, wanting to know excitement and the heady rush of potent expectation. As she defiantly returned his glowering look, Joan leaned fully into the moment.
“Only when I am sleeping,” she fired back. “Which I very nearly am, for you will not get on with it!”
To her surprise, Piers threw back his head and laughed. The sound was thick and husky, sending another jolt of desire down into her core.
“Oh, my dear,” he murmured. He approached her with slow steps, one hand loosening the knot of his cravat. “I know exactly how to occupy that mouth of yours.”
A cutting reply died on Joan’s lips as he worked loose the buttons of his fall, the flap of his breeches falling to reveal a thick, long bulge pushing against the fabric of his shirt. Her legs trembled at the round, wet spot spread over the linen, revealing the bulbous protrusion of his cockhead. She kept her attention on the opening of his breeches while his hands jerked the shirt upward.
Joan’s channel clenched around air, longing eating away at her as she looked her fill. Piers’ strong, long-fingered hands framed the magnificent organ, which jutted from a neatly trimmed nest of light blond hairs. She’d never seen a man groomed thusly, the shortened hair allowing her an unobstructed view of heavy bollocks.
He gripped himself and stroked while looming over her. The fact that he was still completely dressed aside from the exposure of his erection only made a more erotic picture of him. Joan shivered at the whisper of cool air against the folds of her cunny—which grew wetter by the second. It would be embarrassing, how desperate she was for stimulation, if she hadn’t already seen the evidence of his own desire. She wasn’t the only one affected by this game they played. She enjoyed pushing, but Piers clearly enjoyed being provoked. Now, he would make her pay.
Joan came to understand the reason for his instructions regarding her hair when his fingers closed around the loose knot. Her breath caught as he unceremoniously jerked her head back and used his other hand to position the tip of his cock against the seam of her lips.
