Page 12 of Doxy for the Ton
“Do you want another sovereign?” he asked. “Every whore has a price.”
“Not this whore,” she snarled. She continued to ride him until the wave of pleasure threatened to break. “Some things are not for sale—the cost is too great.”
He bit his lip to stem the surge in his body. He couldn’t hold on much longer…
Then she reached down and ran her fingertips along the sensitive skin at the base of his cock. He jerked upward and his resolve shattered.
“Sweet heaven!” he cried.
Almost immediately she withdrew, then grasped his manhood as he exploded with pleasure. He threw his head back as his body disintegrated whilst she wrung every drop of pleasure from him until he lay back, utterly spent.
When he opened his eyes he saw her naked form striding across the bedchamber toward the washstand. She dipped a cloth into the basin and wiped it over her legs, then she returned to the bed and wiped the evidence of his pleasure off his body. His manhood twitched as she ran the cloth along his length, then she tossed the cloth onto the floor, wrinkling her nose as if in contempt.
His stomach churned in shame. Had she found the act so distasteful?
Or was ithimshe found distasteful?
“Did you have to do that?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It was no different to when I wiped the shit off you earlier.”
“Don’t say that,” he said. “It’s—”
“It’s what?” she snapped, anger illuminating her eyes. “Sordid? Demeaning?” She made a dismissive gesture. “It’s all the same to me—just business.”
“So, I’m just another man to you.”
“As I’m just another whore toyou,” she said. “If you don’t like what you see, then you shouldn’t have purchased the goods. I’m what men like you made me.”
Gone were the harsh vowels of London’s slums. Her accent—and her words—were not those of a street whore.
He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. What had she said that was not true? Perhaps his shame was because in looking at her—at a person who was a mere commodity, who had no worth in the world—he was looking in a mirror and seeing himself for the first time.
What was he other than a commodity—someone who had no worth? Worse, even—for he had been responsible for the loss of two innocent lives. At least a whore earned her keep giving pleasure to others.
He heard a rustle of clothing and looked up to see her slipping her chemise back on.
“Stop,” he said.
“I’ve earned my coin,” she replied, reaching for her gown.
“No.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re all the same. More money than Croesus, yet the least willing to part with it.”
“Croesus? Who’s he?”
She stiffened, then averted her gaze. “Some rich nob who didn’t like payin’.”
“I’ll pay you,” he said. “I-I only meant that I don’t want you to go. Stay—for the night, at least.”
She closed her eyes and her chest rose and fell in a sigh, and Alexander suppressed the urge to take her into his arms. Then, after a pause, she opened her eyes.
He patted the bed. “Ten pounds.”
A dark corner of his soul whispered of the desire to see her vulnerability again, to penetrate that hard shell.
“It’s a good price,” he said. “But you must earn it. I want to rut you again before breakfast.”
