At His Lady’s Command Read online

  What he couldn’t bear: Lady Portia regretting those flame-hot kisses so much that she’d apologized and shaken her head in disgust. He thought he’d become immune to rejection after his childhood, that he’d managed to shove the memories of that broken, illegitimate unworthy lad down deep enough to forget. The realization such rawness lay just under the surface, ready to claw at him again, had been an unwelcome surprise.

  Christ.

  Rejected by the woman he loved, soon to be without employment or a roof over his head…as always, his wheel of fortune turned from heaven to hell. Why had he thought this time might be any different? And now he had to pretend nothing had happened. That he didn’t know how it felt to have Lady Portia in his lap, grinding those perfect slender curves against him like she wanted to fuck for hours, her lips devouring his, for she kissed as she lived—bold and wild.

  Straightening his shoulders—what a soldier did to carry on in the face of adversity—Randall glanced across the bedchamber to the clock on the mantelpiece. Five minutes before the hour. He reported for duty at precisely nine o’clock each morning, for Lady Portia was an early riser who took tea and toast in her room while reading her correspondence. He always found her at her carved mahogany desk, quill scratching and dipping into its inkpot, for she liked writing letters. Then, depending on the weather, they would take a brisk stroll into town, before attending to whatever visits, meetings, or other activities carefully scheduled in her diary. He welcomed her strict routines. In some ways they were similar to army life, rather reassuring to a creature of habit like himself.

  Giving his serviceable black jacket one last pat, Randall left his chamber and walked the length of the hallway to Lady Portia’s. As usual, he knocked three times on the door, and entered the room.

  She wasn’t at her desk.

  Confusion turned to shock, and his gaze flew around the room as pure panic gripped his heart. The shock eased back to confusion at the sight of her still in her four-poster bed, wearing just a fine linen chemise, her brown hair unbound and curling around her shoulders. Until it dawned that she hadn’t seen or heard him enter the room, because she was occupied.

  Touching herself.

  His mind roared at him to turn around and leave at once, but his feet were rooted to the ground, his eyes devouring each detail of the sinfully erotic scene across the bedchamber. The ribbon of Lady Portia’s chemise lay open, revealing the tantalizing curves of her small breasts as she played with one distended raspberry nipple, and her thighs were spread, her fingers expertly working the slick, pink petals of her cunt…

  Her slick pink, hairless cunt.

  Good God.

  Never had he seen anything so blatantly carnal, and he fought to breathe as his cock rose and strained against his trousers. She was the most beautiful, sensual woman on earth.

  “Seen your fill, Denham?”

  Lady Portia’s irritable voice reached across the chamber like a slap to the face, and his cheeks burned. He deserved her ire and more, at his unprofessional behavior. When had he become a damned voyeur?

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped, turning away. “So sorry. I didn’t know you were…ah…busy.”

  Silence fell. And yet even with his back to her, not in a thousand years would he forget the mouthwatering sight of bed-rumpled, near-naked Lady Portia.

  “You know…” she said eventually, her tone now thoughtful. “I touch myself because I read somewhere that it is good for the constitution to start each day with an orgasm.”

  Randall’s heart began to pound. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. But today I am struggling. I’m so wet, yet I cannot climax. And if I cannot climax I shall be cross all day, and God help everyone.”

  “I…er…”

  He’d actually lost the ability to speak. It sounded like she wanted his assistance, yet surely that was wishful thinking. Last night she had bloody well apologized for kissing him!

  “Really, Denham, must I beg?” she asked, and the teasing tone laced with such imperiousness wound its way around his engorged cock and squeezed hard. “Very well. Should you like to do a public service and make me come, please march over here.”

  This is wrong. Halstead would call you out if he knew.

  This is right. A chance—probably the one and only— to pleasure Lady Portia!

  In a split second, his cock took command of his entire body and ordered his feet to fucking move, for they sped toward her bed so fast they nearly caused sparks on the polished wood floor. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Excellent,” she purred as she spread her thighs wider and continued to circle her swollen clitoris. With no bush to hide the succulent pink flesh…

  Say something, you witless fool!

  “No hair,” he said hoarsely. Christ. He truly was cunt-struck.

  Lady Portia laughed. “Ah, you noticed that? I found a recipe in the French courtesan’s diary. A trifle messy to apply the sticky concoction, and my word it hurt to remove with the cloth strips…but the smoothness feels divine. Come and see for yourself. Oh, and do not fret about us being disturbed. I told Marie to return at ten o’clock.”

  Surely he had to be dreaming. Fantasies like this didn’t happen when a man was awake. And yet the bed felt real enough as he perched on the edge, as did Lady Portia’s damp fingers as she took his hand and guided it between her legs.

  Randall groaned at the hot, wet petal-softness of her mound, and his cock began to seep moisture, dampening the flap of his trousers. “It does feel divine.”

  “Unbutton them.”

  He frowned, too absorbed in caressing her. “Beg pardon?”

  “Your trousers,” she said impatiently. “You cannot be comfortable right now, and I feel it only fair that I see your cock when you are touching my quim.”

  It took longer to unfasten the buttons with one hand, but his other hand absolutely refused to move from its new favorite place. The relief when his engorged cock sprang free of its fabric prison was indescribable, and the sound of Lady Portia’s indrawn breath went some way to restoring his pride, considering he had so far demonstrated all the finesse of a green lad seeing his first naked woman.

  “Oh my,” she murmured, licking her lips as she stared at his cock. “Aren’t you splendidly thick. Well, Denham, we have ourselves a situation. I require an orgasm. And so do you it seems. In the spirit of friendly cooperation, I propose we make each other come.”

  “But last night…you regretted the kiss. Apologized for it,” Randall said gruffly, even as his cock yelled at him to shut his damn fool, fact-listing mouth.

  Lady Portia nodded. “A poor choice of location, we were close to the townhouse and could have been seen by others. But we won’t be disturbed here. And I thought about that kiss all night. Or more accurately, I touched myself…oh yes, I adore doing so. It feels wonderful and relaxes me. Why shouldn’t I? I’m quite sure men take their cocks in hand regularly. Don’t you?”

  His mind whirled like a spinning top, struggling to comprehend her blunt reply, measuring and assessing the possible repercussions of their actions as military men always did. But as she’d said: they were alone. She wanted him, he wanted her, they had both endured a sleepless night of unfulfilled lust thinking of the other, and now both desperately wanted to come.

  Propriety and rules be damned.

  * * *

  She could practically see Denham’s mind churning, weighing her offer against his own needs, his sense of honor and duty, the possible risks. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

  But Portia stared at him, willing him to surrender again like he had to her kiss in the carriage, to move that big hand of his against her quim, penetrate her with those strong fingers, let her stroke his fully erect cock, until they both orgasmed. After a very frustrating night in bed, where her contrary body craved release and continually made it to the precipice only to disallow a glorious finish, she needed this more than her next breath. And it seemed only he would do, not her fingers or her little collection of po
lished jade dildos.

  Please say yes.

  “Well?” she said too-sharply, unable to moderate her tone at the thought of being rejected, when her mind had finally made the leap from seeing Denham as a forbidden attraction, to the man she must have in her bed.

  At last he moved, reaching over to take her hand and place it on the smooth, rock-hard cock that reared up from its nest of coarse black hair, and she almost cheered.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  Inhaling unsteadily as his thumb brushed her clitoris and sent a jolt of delight through her body, Portia shuffled up onto her knees so she could get closer, and attempted to close her fingers around his girth. She couldn’t!

  A soft moan of delight escaped. Bracing her free hand on his shoulder, she began to squeeze and stroke his cock with the other, using the pearly moisture seeping from the swollen head to ease her way. All while his callused fingertips caressed the soaked folds of her labia, and teased her entrance with brief, shallow thrusts guaranteed to make her lose her mind.

  Hmmm. He thought to torment her, did he?

  Portia changed her grip from firm to feather-light, dancing her own fingertips along the length of him, brushing the head, darting down to play with his heavy balls.

  His breath hissed between his teeth. “Please.”

  “Please what, Denham?” she replied ruthlessly, deliberately not giving him what he wanted. “Tell me plainly.”

  “Harder. I need it harder,” he groaned, his hips jerking upward in an attempt to push his cock back into her palm.

  “And why should I do that when your fingers aren’t deep inside my quim where I need them?”

  Denham met her gaze, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with arousal. And then, very, very quietly he said: “I have yet to receive specific orders, my lady.”

  Portia froze. On the way to Halstead’s estate, he had said he preferred taking orders, and she’d wondered if that might extend to the bedchamber. It appeared the answer was a resounding yes. And yet all her experience of Englishmen, especially older men, told her they resented and disliked women taking the lead because it offended their masculine sensibilities and defied the biblical order of things.

  “Am I to understand,” she said carefully, because the thought of having this brawny, handsome man submit to her was so heady she could barely articulate the words, “that if I give you an instruction on how I wish to be pleasured, you will follow it exactly?”

  Denham shuddered, and more pearly fluid trickled from the head of his cock into her hand. “Yes, my lady.”

  Excitement surged through her. Thankful for the softness of the bed cradling her knees, and the well-stoked fire keeping the room a reasonable temperature, Portia brushed a light kiss of approval across his lips. Then she tugged at her chemise until it fully bared both breasts. “Suck my nipples, Captain. Suck them hard until they are as red as holly berries. Immediately.”

  Denham made a primitive sound, and his hot mouth engulfed one tender nipple, drawing firmly on it with his lips, even scraping it with his teeth, making her whimper as the delicious pleasure-pain sensation darted straight to her throbbing, aching core.

  With one hand Portia commanded, cupping his neck to push his head closer, encouraging him to take more of her breast in his mouth. With the other hand she rewarded, sliding up and down his cock and sporadically squeezing. Once her nipple turned dark red and so sensitive she could scarcely bear the exquisite pressure, Portia twisted her shoulders a little so he would move and lavish attention on its twin.“Mmmmm. Oh yes! Just like that.”

  “Tell me what else,” he gritted out. “Order me to pleasure you.”

  Her head swimming with lust, Portia ran her fingers through his short military-cropped hair, and tugged his head back so she could plunder his mouth with her tongue. Then she trailed her lips along his slightly rough jaw until she reached his ear and nipped the fleshy lobe.

  “Can you feel how wet I am?” she whispered, slowly rubbing her quim against his hand.

  Denham took a ragged breath, his pulse thundering under her teasing mouth. “Yes. Fuck. All over my fingers.”

  “Then you know I need to come at once. So you must first ease one finger inside me, then a second.”

  “Yes, my lady,” he replied, as his fingers glided over her labia, before one gently pushed inside her. Soon he penetrated her with a second finger, and began a lazy, expert twist deep inside her quim. Oh, there was a great deal to be said for a man of experience.

  Portia bit her lip, but couldn’t halt a needy wail as he toyed with that tiny rough ridge that nearly made her explode like a fireworks display at Vauxhall. The time for play was done. She needed to climax right now. “Faster,” she commanded harshly, even as she firmed her grip on his cock and massaged the head. “Fuck me with your fingers until I come all over them.”

  Then she couldn’t think at all, as Denham’s blunt fingers thrust and withdrew, his thumb worked her clitoris, and he rubbed his cheek against hers in a gesture so unexpectedly sweet that it hurled her over the edge. Reclaiming his lips in a fierce kiss to muffle her scream of ecstasy, she soared to the stars, her orgasm made even better when he came all over her hand, his spurting seed sticky and warm, his guttural groan a symphony to her ears.

  Utterly boneless, her knees unable to support her for a moment longer, Portia eased his fingers from her quim and collapsed back onto her pillows. One couldn’t argue with her opinion; an orgasm was the perfect start to the morning. “Denham.”

  He leaned back against the post at the left end of her bed, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling, his well-emptied cock now resting benignly against his thigh. “I have temporarily lost the ability to think. That was…”

  “Quite satisfactory,” she replied, her words altogether ruined by the wayward grin tugging at her lips. “Yet you must think and move, for I require a cloth and warm water. You quite covered my hand, as I’m sure I covered yours. I would use my nightgown, but that would be hard to explain away to Marie.”

  Denham nodded, and ambled across the room to where a ceramic bowl of water and two neatly folded cloths sat. He wet both then returned, and they attended to themselves. All the while she could feel his gaze on her, unsure, waiting for her next instruction. That vulnerability from her stoic captain made her heart clench, reminding her that she had behaved badly the previous evening, blurting that apology and allowing him to walk away without explaining her thoughts like the mature, worldly woman she was.

  “Next time,” she mused, “You shall lick my quim clean, and I’ll suck your cock. Then there is no evidence at all.”

  Denham relaxed. “Next time?”

  “Oh, indeed. I believe we must embark on a secret and exceedingly wicked affair. Well, at least until my brother and stepmother ruin my life with their nonsense. Do you concur?”

  His dark eyes glittered, and he inclined his head. “Yes, my lady.”

  * * *

  The scent of impending rain was heavy in the air.

  Nothing unusual for Guildford, especially in November when people muttered that they may as well grow tails and gills as feet were rather useless. But Lady Portia had insisted on a stroll to town, so they wrapped up warmly and donned their sturdiest boots. In truth, he was glad of the fresh air and her usual brisk manner as they passed the imposing red brick building of Abbot’s Hospital at the top of High Street, for it allowed him time to think on the unthinkable—that after an erotically perfect interlude in Lady Portia’s bedchamber, they were going to have an affair.

  He, lowly Randall Denham had pleasured the great Portia Butler, and would be permitted to do so again. All he had ever dared hope for, finally happening. And yet thanks to bloody Halstead, this glimpse of paradise would be a short one.

  It seemed his life would forever be that mix of heaven and hell. His parents happy but unmarried, for she had been a rich man’s mistress not a wife. His childhood rich with gifts and laughter and affection, until the nightmarish day when Mama died and
Father abandoned him to a harsh orphanage. Joining the army at seventeen and finding his true calling as he thrived in a strict environment of routine, orders and hierarchy, but witnessing the carnage and bloodshed of war, the agony of friends dying beside him while he escaped with cuts and bruises. And now living with the bold and fiery woman of his dreams…yet knowing he would eventually lose her to some peer who would never appreciate such a treasure, and worse, force marriage, subservience, and unwanted motherhood upon her.

  Indeed, heaven and hell.

  “Denham! Yoo-hoo!”

  Randall glanced down. “Something wrong?”

  Wrinkling her pert little nose, Lady Portia gestured toward the Guildhall on their left, or more specifically the enormous clock that stuck well out over the footpath and kept an elegantly watchful eye on High Street. “I asked your opinion on whether the clock had been cleaned. Do you think it has? I told the town clerks it looked a trifle shabby.”

  He stifled a smile. “Couldn’t say, my lady. It is rather exposed to the weather. But those clerks do enjoy your visits.”

  “They dive under their desks when I approach,” she said archly.

  “Because they know they’ll have to do more than shuffle paper.”

  “Perhaps I could try being…sweeter.”

  Randall frowned. “What?”

  She hesitated, and he hated the dimming of the light in her eyes. “That is what my future husband will expect. A sweet wife who says yes my lord, and no my lord, and whatever you wish my lord.”

  “Lady Portia,” he said patiently. “There can be no peer in England unaware of your tendency to tart speech. Unless they have recently woken from a fifteen-year nap.”

  “More like thirty year. I was a precocious child.”

  “There you go, then.”

  “Denham, I…” Lady Portia’s hand clenched on his arm, and even through her kidskin gloves and his greatcoat he could feel her tension. “I won’t be some lord’s chattel. Wed for a dowry and bloodline, permitted no more excitement than a musicale or shopping.”