Page 15 of Doxy for the Ton
She tried to push him away, but he held her closer, the firmness of his grip speaking of desperation and pain.
But it was not a pain that she could ease. Not with a kiss, at least.
Time to earn my ten guineas.
She reached lower and found his manhood, already hard for her. He sighed as she parted her thighs and he slipped inside her. He began to thrust, weakly, sliding through her with slow, tender strokes. For a moment, she ignored the danger and allowed herself to feel. Warmth blossomed in her heart to match the desire in her body.
“Oh, Mimi…”
As he whispered her name, a ripple of pleasure threaded through her, and she bit her lip to stem the tide.
“No…”
“Yes,” he murmured, his lips tracing a path along her throat. A fizz of need threaded through her breasts as his lips caressed her skin, and she gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the tide of longing…
Then, with a sigh, he relaxed and slid back into sleep until, finally, he was at peace, his breathing steady—the nightmares gone.
She ought to be relieved that she’d not come to pleasure at his touch, but instead, she was overcome by a sense of loss.
Think of the money, Mimi. Ten guineas is worth it.
Perhaps it was—but no sum was worth risking her soul.
Chapter Four
Why did theworld relish the dawn rather than dread it? Particularly the birds—opening their mouths to declare, sharpy and rudely, the beginning of a new day.
To most, the dawn heralded life, and love.
But not to me.
To Alexander, the dawn served as a reminder of his sins—and the prospect of eternity in hell for what he’d done.
Dawn was the precursor to death.
And yet, this morning, for the first time since that day in the park, the pain in his soul had lessened. A pair of warm arms enveloped him with tenderness and a soft voice shushed his cries and eased his pain.
Perhaps, in time, he’d be able to sleep through the night, unmolested by images of twisted bodies, broken bones, and the lifeless eyes of his best friend.
He sat up and stretched, wincing at the stab of pain in his leg. He glanced about the bedchamber and caught sight of a gaudy orange object beside the washbasin.
A wig.
Then he recalled a hard, painted face, fixing him with her dispassionate gaze as he came to pleasure at her touch.
He lowered his gaze to the bed and caught his breath.
She lay beside him, her back to him. Her body rose and fell with each breath. Soft, pale-brown hair spilled over the pillow in waves, not quite concealing the creamy-white skin of her shoulders. He lifted the bedsheet for a better look. She stirred and he withdrew, his cheeks warming with shame.
He wasn’t some eager adolescent taking an illicit peek at a woman. He was a duke, and she was the doxy he’d bought and paid for—at least for the night.
She rolled onto her back and he caught his breath.
Gone was the harsh whiteness of powder, the gaudy red on her cheeks and lips. Before him lay a fresh-faced creature, her skin almost translucent. A gentle smile of contentment curved her lips, which were a soft pink. In the stillness of repose, she looked innocent—angelic.
In that moment, she was neither the painted whore he wished to bed, nor the brittle porcelain lady he was expected to wed. She was merely a young woman, in the tranquility of sleep, awaiting the joy of a new day.
He had never seen anything so lovely.
