Page 21 of His Brazen Tart
She was so close to spending, she could practically taste it—the heady sweetness of an explosive climax, the anticipation of a thrilling leap from a great height. But Piers continued holding back, using his fingers to tease the places he’d struck, stroking and caressing and adding streaks of brilliant pleasure to the ache left behind.
Joan clenched her lip between her teeth to try to hold the words in, but they came anyway, falling off the edge of her tongue with ease.
“Please … fuck me, Piers.”
He paused, the crop raised as if he’d been about to subject her to more. One fair eyebrow winged upward in surprise. “I’m sorry … what was that?”
Irritation roiled in her belly, but her desire was stronger. Her thighs were smeared in her own wetness and her arousal scented the air around them. Her legs quivered uncontrollably, the force of her need reducing her to a state in which her pride no longer mattered. If she didn’t climax soon, she felt as if she would die.
“Fuck me,” she said, louder this time. “Please, I cannot take any more.”
“Have you forgotten something?” he teased, stroking the crop along the inside of her thigh. “I am still owed an apology. And don’t patronize me by saying it will not happen again, because we both know very well it will. A simple ‘I’m sorry, Piers’ will suffice.”
“I’m sorry, Piers,” Joan ground out, teeth aching from the way her mouth instinctively fought saying the words. However, once they were out, it was as if a final barrier had fallen from between them. Something akin to both relief and lust flared to life in Piers’ eyes, and the sternness of his expression fell away like a mask being removed. The crop fell to the floor, and Piers was on his knees in a blink, the key clicking in the lock of her shackles. His breeches were half unbuttoned by the time he came to his feet, his turgid erection pushing through the folds of fabric as if with a mind of its own.
A pleading moan escaped her lips as he climbed over her, his breaths harsh and rushed as he draped her legs over his shoulders. He had been so controlled, so calm, that Joan had been nearly oblivious to the signs of his own need. He held himself over her with trembling arms, his eyes wide and wild as they connected with hers, piercing and entrancing.
He entered her with one strong, deep thrust, filling her to the hilt and sending her spiraling on a stunning climax.
“Piers!” she cried, shocked and overcome by her release—instantaneous and powerful. Her insides clenched and spasmed around him as he battered her with hard, deep thrusts, touching parts of her that no man had ever discovered before him.
Joan’s vision went hazy as her orgasm seemed to go on and on, carrying her on rushing waves of pleasure and euphoria. Each surge of Piers inside of her drove her higher and higher, sending her past the lull of one climax’s end and pushing her furiously into a second.
She clawed at him, seeking purchase as her body and mind seemed to separate from one another, the pleasure so acute that it almost mimicked the ache in her thighs and buttocks.
Piers was right there with her, panting and groaning as he took her with wild abandon. Her legs slipped off his shoulders, so she wrapped them around his waist, holding him tight. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled, tipping her head back so that she stared into his eyes.
Joan felt as if she were drowning, lost in his crystalline gaze. As the final waves of her climax washed through her, Piers pushed into her a final time and then withdrew with a low, pained groan. The hot rush of his seed washed over her belly as his lips grazed her chin. And then, shockingly, he captured her mouth with his own and stroked his tongue along the edge of her lower lip.
The unexpected kiss drugged Joan into a languid cocoon of warmth and the afterglow of well-spent pleasure. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she opened herself to Piers and kissed him back.
Chapter 9
Piers lounged in an armchair near the open window, rifling through the breast pocket of his coat. As he retrieved a silver cigarillo case, he watched Joan step from behind the privacy screen in the corner. She was a far cry from the woman she had been only minutes ago—glistening with a sheen of sweat, pink cheeks, and eyes that glittered with satisfaction. In the moments following his explosive climax, Piers had been unable to do anything other than lie beside his lover and struggle to catch his breath. Once his legs solidified, he had left the bed and tended to Joan. The various women he had introduced to his salacious talents reacted in different ways in the aftermath. Some became clingy and wanted his comfort. Others wanted nothing more than a few hours of sleep.
It didn’t surprise him that Joan had her own special way of grappling with her experience. She was silent and pensive, staring at the ceiling while reposed comfortably amongst the bedclothes. Even without asking, Piers had a vague idea of what she might be thinking. She might have an adventurous streak, but it would take years of freedom to undo what had been ingrained in her by her mother and husband. Women like Joan often grappled with their sensual natures, and as a courtesan, he had been responsible for teaching some of them how to enjoy their urges and desires. Unlike his previous keepers, however, Joan wouldn’t shy away from her personal revelations. She wouldn’t wallow in shame and try to convince herself that there was something wrong with enjoying what he’d done to her. Like everything else Joan did, she would throw herself into the deeper well of discovery with curiosity and joy. He didn’t have to know her well to understand that. Joan never did anything in half-measures.
Once she was ready, he directed her to the washstand behind the screen, which was fully stocked with everything she would need to clean herself up.
As Piers struck a match to light the cigarillo between his lips, she emerged wearing only her chemise, combing her fingers through her tousled hair. Piers slouched and watched her through the haze of smoke wafting out into the night. She was softer and younger-looking without all her finery, her hair a gleaming black curtain hanging in soft waves over her shoulders. He could almost convince himself he was in the presence of an innocent as she padded toward him on bare feet.
Joan paused just before him with her arms folded over her bosom. The sensation of the tobacco’s effects in his veins loosened the tension in his muscles, along with a warm feeling he couldn’t explain. He only knew that instead of wanting to be away from the woman he’d just bedded—as was his usual preference—he was content to linger. It surprised him to admit that he didn’t just desire Joan. He actuallylikedher.
“Is it always like that?” she asked.
Piers frowned at the abrupt question, and it took him a moment to realize what she was asking him. “Yes,” he said without thinking.
She wasn’t the first woman to ask if what they had shared was usual between couples of exotic tastes. It wasn’t uncommon for a new submissive to become attached to the first man to dominate her. His way of avoiding such complications was to remind his lovers that the right dominant could pleasure her just as he could.
At her curious glance, he gave a nonchalant shrug. “A well-trained dominant will learn what you like and deliver pleasure. If you are careful in your selections, you are sure to enjoy a similar experience every time.”
Tapping a finger against her chin, she stepped closer, until she stood between his parted legs. “Now that I have been introduced to Mr. Lyons, do you think he would grant my request for a membership to Olympus? Until you, I’d never known how one might come to meet such men. It would seem the club is the perfect hunting ground.”
Piers stiffened, irrational jealousy making his face and neck burn at the idea of her tempting other men into her bed. She wouldn’t have to try very hard to have the members of Olympus clamoring for her attention—just as she did in every ballroom across London.
He took hold of her hand and yanked, toppling her into his lap. He moved his cigarillo aside to keep from burning her as she fell against him, legs parted over one of his thighs, hands braced on his chest. Her lips quivered with mirth when she stared at him, her eyes sparking to life with a now familiar light. She was teasing him, the little minx.
“I am certain Mr. Lyons would accommodate your request,” he said. “But one thing you should know about dominants is that we are extremely possessive. Until our time together has run its course, I am the only man who will be spanking this delicious arse of yours.”
