Chapter Ten

L uke swirled in a maelstrom of ecstasy and agony all night.

While feet were not his favorite part of a woman’s body, they might be in his top five, as he’d found they had a surprising number of erogenous zones. Perhaps, as Belle—he no longer thought of her as Isabella—had said to him, it was having a man serve them in such a manner. Oral pleasure had a different edge for him when a woman was on her knees before him rather than in bed. Not that he had a preference, it was simply nice to have variety. Hellfire, right now, he’d savor a woman’s mouth on him in any position.

Caressing Belle’s feet earlier in the evening had been sublime. Despite how hard she had worked throughout her life, that work had required less time on her feet than the tavern girls he’d tupped in the past. Her tempting, delicate feet reflected that. He’d wanted to follow his hands with his nose, then his tongue.

By the second foot, he’d had to adjust his cock in his breeches or faint from the pain of constriction. She had not seemed to notice his bulge brushing against her foot, or he was sure she would have commented. No one could accuse her of shyness.

Instead, she’d relaxed against the chair, he hoped from enjoyment of his ministrations. He’d concentrated on her pleasure as he basked in achieving a full cockstand for the first time in months.

He was grateful she hadn’t commented on his manners when he did not stand after. If he had, his engorged member would have been at eye-height for her and might have offended.

Of course, as a courtesan, she’d have seen her number of hard cocks. But as she’d said when he’d goaded her later, there was a difference between facing it without warning and having invited it or being paid to deal with it. He had to remember she was doing him a huge favor in saving him from more of his father’s wrath, no matter what the arrangement was between her and the Black Widow.

He’d waited for what seemed like hours for her to stop moving and fall asleep, excited beyond words that he was still fully erect the whole time.

It had helped that when she’d bent to put him in the cuff, her nightrail had dropped open and he could see her luscious breasts almost all the way to the nipples. He’d nearly surged up and tried to kiss her, but he had gotten himself into enough trouble for one night. He also was not ready to make another apology, given how the first had affected him.

He’d really believed he could sneak in a tug and get some relief with no one the wiser. Instead, she’d caught him, tied his other hand, and gone to bed.

After which, he was positive she did the same thing she’d stopped him from doing—and finished. Damn, he’d wanted to call out to her. He wasn’t sure if he’d have offered to help, asked permission to join her, or yelled at her for her unfairness.

Reminding himself of his tenuous status as an unwanted guest, he’d bit his lip hard, told his cock to stand down for all the good that little chat had done, and lain there. Somewhere just before dawn, he’d drifted off, his body unable to fight the withdrawal and excitement of the previous day.

When he woke, he was uncuffed. Desperate for release, he stumbled back to his room. She’d said no pleasuring himself on her floor. Thankfully, there was a lovely bed in here to which he still had unfettered access. Dropping his clothes to the floor, he threw himself on the bed, then recalled massaging her feet. He leaned over and drew the vial of rose oil out of his trousers pocket. It took less than a minute for her scent mingled with his arousal to wrap around him. Another minute basking in at the image of her in that slinky red shift and he was spilling into his hand with a grunt.

By the time he cleaned himself up and dressed for the day, his cock was twitching again at the thought of seeing his fascinating hostess.

He sighed. It was going to be a long stay if he couldn’t manage even thinking of her without his trousers growing tight. On the other hand, his cockstand and steady hands meant he must be past the worst of his recovery.

Luke had just settled onto the back parlor settee when Belle entered.

Standing over him with hands on hips, she offered a choice—really an ultimatum. “Either read the letters from your father, outline a plan for your future, or go help the gardener prepare the rose bushes for winter.”

He cast a side glance to the window. Tree branches scraped the glass rhythmically against a gray backdrop. Still, the other two choices did not sound appetizing.

“The gardener’s name?”

She sighed. “Alistair.”

He frowned. Her tone indicated disappointment, but she’d given him a choice. He was going to be productive with his day, which was more than he might have done if left to his own devices. On the other hand, a grown man should be able to find a good use of his time without needing prodding.

He sighed, feeling just as he had when his father berated him for decent-but-not-good-enough marks in school. He’d revert to drinking again if he thought about it anymore. The Earl was bad enough, but displeasing Belle felt worse. He wanted her admiration—or at least respect. She had made a success out of the thinnest of opportunities, whereas he had failed despite everything being handed to him. Watching William pull his family out of poverty and Nate create a niche market for his special wares was hard, but he’d never begrudged his friends’ success. But they’d also not inspired him to improve. Belle did.

By dusk, his wrists were marked with bloody scratches from the gap between the gloves Alistair had loaned him and his cuffs. His shirt had caught twice on thorns and torn, leaving a long gash on his back and his chest. Despite that, he took a moment before going inside to survey his work, relishing the visible progress from his toils. He’d only managed a quarter of the bushes Alistair had winterized, but he’d helped.

In clean clothes, hoping all the bleeding had stopped so he didn’t run out of shirts, he dropped into his chair at the dining table with zero finesse. He was exhausted.

Belle raised a brow at him as she gestured to the servants to begin serving. “How was your day?”

“My back and knees ache from kneeling, I’m scraped all to hell, and it took me an hour to thaw from that wind. All in all, surprisingly good.”

She hooted a surprised laugh. When she calmed, she asked, “What makes it good?”

He flushed, knowing what she was asking. “The feeling of accomplishment. Of having won, in a way. ’Tis certainly cheaper than gaming wins.”

She didn’t press him about determining a path for himself, applying herself to her food.

Happy to avoid another lecture, he watched her for a long moment. Her dark tresses were pinned back from her face, but a thick wavy hunk had fallen forward to rest on her collarbone. Her bold sapphire dress was neither demure nor provocative but outlined her luscious curves so well it provoked him, anyway. Dark brows and lashes against creamy skin were offset by rose lips. He desperately wanted to find out if her nipples and her quim were similar hues. If he wasn’t so deep in debt, he’d have bet double or nothing, as it was a sure winner.

Shifting in his chair to relieve the sudden constriction of his trousers, he sighed. Conversation. That’s what he needed. He was such a fool, he didn’t even know where to start. It had been too long since he’d had a polite dinner with a lady—and never with a courtesan.

“How was your day?” he blurted.

She patted her mouth with her serviette and stared at him.

He could see her mental headshake at how long it took him to produce that weak of a conversation sally.

Nevertheless, she answered. “Also productive, thank you. I wrote several letters to friends of mine who have left London. You recall how letters work, do you not?”

He rolled his eyes. “Weak, Bel—Isabella.”

“I enjoyed it.” She shrugged with a grin.

A sudden thought occurred that was the perfect topic of conversation. Perhaps he might learn from her success. “Tell me about how you became a courtesan? Please?”