Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

L ord Ethan was my princely patron.

Now he's back and wants a fantasy…about a housekeeper.

About me ?

Xenia didn't know which of those discoveries shocked her the most. During their first session in the confessional, she'd pictured her patron as a golden-haired prince whose sensual dominance had seduced her utterly. Then she'd met Lord Ethan, and he'd seemed the opposite: dark and aloof, arrogant and unfeeling…with a beastly temper to boot. She supposed it wasn't surprising that she hadn't put two and two together.

Sitting across from him now, with only a curtain separating them, she had no doubt that her shadowy patron was Ethan Harrington. While the old confessional had muffled his voice, his deep tones penetrated the fabric clearly. He was seated in a wingchair, and there was no mistaking his virile silhouette, nor the fact that the hands that lay on the arms of the chair were gloved. Yet her certainty about his identity came from her primal awareness of him…an awareness that had flourished since she'd been in his employ.

Emotions clamored in her chest. Joy and fear. Giddy delight.

He wants me. And I want him too.

The wall she'd erected around her heart crumpled like paper in a fist and left her exposed to a host of conflicting desires. While she couldn't deny her attraction to him, she had to proceed with caution. If he knew that his housekeeper was also an infamous brothel worker, he would throw her out on the spot.

Never mind that Jane Wood wasn't even her real identity.

Yet Lord Ethan hadn't been entirely forthcoming either. If he wanted her, why had he rejected her so soundly? Why had he left for London without a word? Was she reading too much into his request for a fantasy about a housekeeper?

I must discover his true desires.

Determination filled her. Not for the first time, she thanked the Lord for the gift of her voice—the instrument she could play with such precision. As Sirena, she sounded entirely different from herself…and she needed to keep it that way.

"Once upon a time," she said in honeyed tones, "there was a young woman named Ella. When her papa died, she was left in the care of her stepmother, who was beautiful but cruel. The stepmama fancied herself a lady and treated Ella like a servant, beating and berating her. Our heroine did her best to perform the chores that were asked of her. The work was awful and demanding, leaving her covered in cinders and dirt?—"

"I think I know this story," Lord Ethan said.

"You haven't heard this version," Xenia said confidently. "Ella's situation grew so unbearable that, one day, she ran away. In need of money, she found a job as a housekeeper. Ella's employer was a man named Mr. Prince."

"How fitting."

"Mr. Prince was the sort of fellow Ella had dreamed about. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Unfortunately, he could be surly."

"And she still liked him?"

His wistful words tugged at her heart.

"She did," Xenia affirmed. "Because she knew he was a gentleman at heart. He appreciated her housekeeping efforts and treated her with respect. When burglars broke in one night, he fought them off and protected her. Moreover, he confided in Ella and made her feel special, like no one else ever had. She found herself falling for him…which was a bad thing."

"Why?" He sat up straighter in the wingchair. "Why was it bad?"

Exhaling, she let out the truth. "Because she knew that she wasn't good enough for him."

"He wouldn't care about their differences in station," he said dismissively. "Not if he was the gentleman she believed him to be."

His reply made Xenia both giddy and anxious. While Lord Ethan might not care about their class differences, he didn't know how depraved her background was. Being a servant was her biggest claim to respectability.

Reminding herself that she was Sirena at present, she continued her tale.

"Ella couldn't stop thinking about her master. Despite her drab appearance, she was a hot-blooded woman. When he walked into a room, her heart would thump, her skin warming with a flush. Her nipples would stiffen and tingle. And she would find it difficult to breathe, as if his nearness tugged on the strings of her corset."

"She was aroused whenever her master was near?" he asked hoarsely.

"Even when he wasn't." With her imagination lighting the way, Xenia led them down the dark path of fantasy. "She couldn't stop having depraved thoughts about him. One time, when he was out, she was supposed to be cleaning his study but couldn't resist sitting in his desk chair. She inhaled his lingering scent, imagining the firm leather beneath her was his lap. She grew so hot and wet between her legs."

"What did the naughty little thing do about it?"

"She ran her hands over her bosom, imagining it was her master's hands tracing the curves of her breasts." Inspired, she acted out what she described, letting her hands wander over her padded bodysuit. "She squeezed her aching mounds, playing with the straining tips, pretending that he was the one rubbing her nipples with demanding strokes."

Her shadowy, erotic show achieved its purpose, for his next words were serrated with lust.

"Are your nipples hard now?"

It was so easy to slip fully into make-believe with him. Her script faded away, and it was just the two of them, creating their own story.

"Yes," she sighed.

"I would tease you, circling toward those needy peaks but not touching them. I would watch your nipple get flushed and swollen for me. Only when you squirm in my chair and beg to be touched would I rub the pad of my thumb over that velvety tip. Back and forth. I might lick my thumb, so it feels like a tongue working over your engorged bud. Are you imagining how that feels while you touch yourself?"

Blooming hell, I am now .

"It makes me so wanton that I throw caution into the winds. Even though I can hear the servants in the distance and know I could be caught, I draw up my skirts. I find the slit in my drawers and a whimper leaves me when I touch my pussy."

She let one of her hands fall between her legs. Since she didn't trust herself to masturbate and keep up the tale, she stroked the crease of her thigh instead. In silhouette, however, she knew it would appear like she was doing something far naughtier.

"You're dripping, aren't you?" His voice was thick with anticipation.

"I'm so wet that I've soaked the linen of my drawers."

"Tell me how you touch your cunny."

As she painted the tableau with precise strokes, she mimicked the motions.

"I pet myself, pretending it is you parting my slick, swollen folds. My cream coats your fingers as you explore my juicy slit. You know just how to touch me, what I like best. You find my pearl and rub it, shooting pleasure through my veins. I beg for more."

"At first, I caress your bold nubbin gently. When you beg nicely, I do it harder, frigging you roughly. Which way do you prefer?"

The truth made her pussy clench.

"I like it rough," she said breathlessly.

"That is what I thought," he said with growling satisfaction. "You like it so much that you sling a leg over the arm of my chair, giving yourself full access to your hungry pussy. You lose yourself in the fantasy of being frigged hard by your master. Even knowing that you could be caught, you play with your cunny like the naughty wanton you are."

Pulse racing, she had to resist the urge to do what he described. To touch herself in truth. She squeezed her thighs together and felt how slippery she'd become.

"Your eyes are closed, and your head is flung back," he went on. "Your hand works furiously between your splayed legs. Pleasure is building and building…"

"Oh, yes ."

The smoldering heat in his voice mesmerized her. She arched against the chaise, pretending-but-not-pretending that she was losing herself in pleasure.

"You are so lost in your fantasy that you don't hear the door open."

Her breath puffed from her lips.

"By the time you have the presence to open your eyes, I am standing there before you. I see you sitting in my chair, your legs spread, your fingers tangled in your wet thatch. Your cheeks are flushed, and your beautiful brown eyes are those of a doe who knows she has been well and truly caught."

At the scenario, her heart stuttered with anxiety…and anticipation.

"Now that you've caught me doing wicked things, what do you do to me?"

"I give you what you deserve, pet." His voice was deliciously stern. "I punish you like the naughty little housekeeper you are."

Christ, she is delicious.

Her filthy story and writhing, voluptuous form tested the limits of Ethan's tailoring. His cock formed a visible ridge in his trousers. He knew it was a dangerous game he was playing, pretending Jane was on the other side of the curtain. Yet he reasoned that no harm could come of indulging in a fantasy. In fact, discharging his lust this way would protect her from his worst impulses. His desire to ravish his housekeeper while she begged him for more like the sweet, filthy girl she was.

Moreover, with Sirena, he could give rein to his darkest impulses. He could return to who he'd been before his failed engagement, before his injury. Anticipation roiled: he was a free man, and he could do whatever he wished. Everything he wished with his fantasy housekeeper, his Jane.

"What…what happens next?" she asked breathily.

Arousal seared him as the forbidden scenario unfolded in his mind's eye. Walking in on his housekeeper sprawled in his chair, her skirts tossed up. She was pink-cheeked and trembling, caught in the desperate act of masturbating.

"You try to cover yourself," he said thickly. "But I don't allow it. I can see how needy your pussy is, how lewdly you treat yourself when you think no one is looking. I tell you to confess that you're a wicked minx."

"I'm not wicked. At least, I try not to be," she amended. "I try to avoid trouble, but somehow I end up running straight into it."

Her protest was perfection, a mix of innocence and guile. The fact that she believed what she was saying was endearing. It was as if she didn't realize that mischief-making was part of her nature. That she enjoyed playing games as much as he did. That she was a provocative little vixen through and through.

"You have been caught, young miss," he said severely. "And I shall be doling out your punishment."

"Oh, sir. Please don't punish me."

Her coy reply made his erection leap and strain the seams of his trousers.

"The time for protestations is over," he said. "You've been a naughty wench, frigging yourself in my chair. Now every time I sit there, I will remember the sight of your wet, pink pussy, and it will distract me from important matters. In fact, you've made me hard right now. As you are the cause of my condition, you ought to be the one to relieve it."

"Please don't sack me, sir," she beseeched. "I'll do anything you say."

That was Jane to a tee, submissive yet full of cheek. Even as she surrendered to his dominant tendencies, she would tease and challenge him. His pulse was a rapid staccato, his stones tautening at the carte blanche she offered. The invitation to indulge his darker desires.

"Get on your knees in front of me," he said.

To his depraved delight, she rose from the chaise and knelt in a graceful motion. With her tits bobbing and generous bottom nestled against her heels, her silhouetted profile was the definition of sensuality.

"I am here, sir," she said meekly. "Kneeling penitently before you."

"What do you see?"

"Oh, sir. I'm not sure how to describe it."

"Perhaps you need a closer look."

He couldn't resist going to the curtain. He faced her, lining his groin up with her piquant profile. Even though they were separated by the curtain, their merged shadow made it look as if he was standing right in front of her.

"It looks like you have a cricket bat stuffed down your trousers," she said playfully.

While she may have exaggerated his size, she wasn't wrong about one thing: he was harder than wood.

"It's a cockstand, naughty minx. Surely you have seen one before."

"Not up close. It's true that I have wicked thoughts about you, but I haven't had a lover."

At her bashful confession, a drop of pre-seed leaked from his cock. He gave in to the lust pounding in his veins, reaching for the fastener of his trousers. "It's time to get a good look, then," he said. His cock sprang free, and he grunted as he fisted the thick, throbbing length.

"Oh, sir," she squeaked. "Your member is even bigger than I imagined…and jutting straight at me. What shall I do?"

He pictured Jane on her knees, gazing at him with wide brown eyes. Rimming her plump lips with her tongue like the tease she was. He bit back a groan as more pre-seed wetted his throbbing crest.

"Put your hands on my thighs, Jane." Her name slipped out, but the fantasy was so enticing he didn't even care. "You're to keep them there until I tell you otherwise."

She positioned her hands so that, in their combined shadow, it looked like she'd done as he instructed.

"Oh, your cock looks fearfully large from this angle. The tip is so thick and wide…and you're dripping onto the carpet. I do hope the stain comes out."

Her irreverent wit and commitment to her housekeeper's role made his lips twitch.

"You talk too much," he rebuked. "Luckily, I have a remedy for that. Open your mouth and put your tongue out for me."

Shadowy Jane parted her lips, poking out her tongue to receive whatever he gave her.

"I put the tip of my cock on your tongue." As he spoke, he positioned his prick to her profile. "It's a nice resting spot, wet and soft. I push inside, and you take every inch."

"Mmm hmm."

Christ, she sounds like she has a mouthful of prick.

His chest heaving, he thrust his shaft into his fist, imagining it was her mouth.

"Even though you've never had your mouth swived before, you are a natural at sucking cock. You know how to relax for me, to let me all the way into your hot little hole."

"Mmm mmm," she moaned.

"I give you more. I tangle my fingers in your tresses as I thrust between your lips. You are such a good girl, taking what I give you. As I plant myself deeper, you sputter, and I pull out so you can catch your breath…"

"But I want you inside me." She gasped out the words as if she'd been deprived of air, and she'd liked it. "I want to pleasure you. To be yours."

Bloody hell, yes.

He jerked his fist along his cock, his glove slick with pre-seed.

"You are mine," he growled. "When I take your mouth again, I am not gentle."

"I don't want you to be."

"I push so deep I can feel your throat."

"Yes, please," she breathed.

"You want to swallow my cock, do you, minx?"

"I want whatever you give me."

"Does the idea make you randy?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you need to pet your pussy?"

A pause. "May I?"

It was the perfect response. A make-him-explode sort of answer.

"You may."

"Thank you, sir."

"Are you diddling yourself, Jane? Whilst I fill your hungry mouth?"

She made a whimpering sound. "Yes, sir. I have my hand between my legs. My pearl is so slippery and I'm rubbing it, faster and faster. Then you drive your cock even deeper, and I need it, I need everything…"

Heat seared his gut as he lost himself in the fantasy, drilling his prick between Jane's lips. Even as he fucked her mouth and she rubbed her cunny, her brown eyes shone with a pure and vibrant passion. A passion that made the filthiest of desires feel like the sweetest of longings. The realization stole his breath, and suddenly, he was right on the razor's edge. There was no stopping the inevitable…and he didn't want to.

"I'm going to spend," he gritted out.

She moaned. "Me, too."

"Come with me, then. Pet that sweet pussy. Make it purr."

"Oh, it feels so fine. I…I'm going to come…"

Her silhouette trembled, and she gave a husky cry. In response, his stones swelled, heat pulsing up his shaft. He groaned as his release shot from him, splattering the floorboards. In that moment of agonizing bliss, clarity struck him.

The fantasy of Jane was not enough.

As wrong as it was, he wanted more of her. To know her…the real her.

But does she want me?