She couldn’t answer, partially due to embarrassment. But more likely because her brain was too busy processing what she was witnessing.
The woman rose up on her knees then lowered once again. The man reached to toy with her nipples, pinching and petting them. Their eyes were wild, movements frantic, like mindless creatures of pleasure. Two nymphs in a secluded wood working toward mutual satisfaction. The woman was bold. Confident. She steadily rolled her hips to work the man’s cock in and out of her body.
“So would you?” the devil asked over her shoulder. “Would you lift your skirts and make yourself come?”
“I . . .” Florence cleared her throat. “Stop trying to embarrass me.”
“I don’t want to embarrass you. I want to know you. It’s obvious this arouses you. And, as you said yourself, you’re no innocent.”
“Would you?” she threw back at him.
“Yes, were I alone I might pull my cock out and tug on it until I spent.”
Her lungs froze, unable to function at his confession. God above, why would he say such things to her?
“But we’re discussing you. And there’s no reason to deny yourself, seeing as how we’re trapped here for the time being.”
“No reason other than your presence.”
“I could turn around.”
Her sex pulsed, liking the idea very much. But that was too wild, too deviant . . . even for her. “I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. Just pretend I’m not here.”
“But you are here. I can’t forget it. And what you’re asking of me? It’s private.”
“Where is your spirit of adventure? The woman who enjoys taking risks, who wants to be treated equally? You have nothing to fear from me. I won’t touch you. I swear on the deed to the Bronze House.”
“I . . .” The woman in the next room curled forward until the man could suck on a nipple, his feet braced on the floor to give him leverage as he thrust upward. Florence briefly closed her eyes, her body a wire pulled taut. My God, how much more could she take? “This is different. I cannot undo a lifetime that tells me it’s wrong.”
“Then undo who you are.”
“What?”
“Be someone else, if only for a moment. Physical pleasure is not evil. Whoever tells you it is has an interest in keeping you ignorant or chaste. Perhaps both.”
“Who would I be, then, if not myself?”
“Anyone. A hedonistic creature seeking self-fulfillment. A woman I’ve brought here as my guest. A young girl who snuck in to see what all the fuss was about. There’s any number of choices.”
On the other side of the wall the man rearranged the woman on her hands and knees and quickly shed his remaining clothing. Naked, he mounted her from behind. His buttocks clenched as he pushed in and out of her, while her breasts swung with each thrust. It was raw and earthy and utterly mesmerizing. Florence’s body screamed for relief.
Could she do it? Could she pretend to be someone else while easing this insane need? Clay promised not to watch or touch her. What was the harm?
Embarrassment, that’s what.
When she paused, he asked, “What if I do the same but face the other way?”
She bit her lip, nearly moaning at the idea. That would certainly ease her mortification. If they were both pleasuring themselves then she wouldn’t worry about the aftermath. Clay, stroking himself, hand flying over his shaft? Yes, please, yes. God forgive her, but her resistance weakened at the image.
She surrendered. “Turn around.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she waited until he’d angled toward the opposite wall. When all she could see was his back, she said, “You start first.”
He made a strangled noise in his throat. “Fine, but I expect you to soon join me.”
She could see his shoulders shifting as his hands went to his waist. Clothing rustled and after a few seconds he groaned. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “That’s good.”
Now, now, now . . . She spun toward the window and her fingers couldn’t gather her skirts fast enough. Desperation caused her to fumble but she kept going, moving fabric out of the way, tugging, shifting, until she could hold all the layers of cloth in one arm. Air rushed over her stockinged legs, and she dove to find the part in her drawers. When her fingers brushed through her folds, her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. She was soaked and swollen, delirious with need, and she didn’t waste any time, focusing directly on her clitoris.
“I can hear you,” he said, then grunted. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?”
Words eluded her. She panted, air bellowing harsh and fast, as the pads of her fingers circled the taut nub. Her lids fell and she envisioned she’d snuck inside the brothel, an innocent young woman eager to discover the carnal delights two people could find together. Shocks of pleasure streaked up her legs, pressure building in her muscles.
He was right. Imagining does make it easier.
Noises came from Clay’s side of the tiny room. Distracting noises that heightened her arousal. Skin moving over skin, cloth rubbing. His rough exhalations. She bit her lip, picturing what he looked like, with his fist gripping his hard penis, stroking, pulling, his eyes dark with pleasure . . . Was he thinking about her?
“Christ, Florence. I wish I could see you right now. I bet you’re slick and flushed, so goddamn beautiful. I—” He bit off whatever he’d been about to say and cursed instead. His breath stopped for a few seconds before he let out a long moan.
Oh, mother of mercy. Clay was spending. In the same room with her. Right behind her.
It was too much, too fast. Her limbs tensed, everything tightening as if to fly apart. Before she could prevent it, the orgasm was there, overtaking her in a burst of electricity and heat, obliterating all thought. She trembled and shook, the strength of it causing her to lean her forehead against the wall. On and on it went, so satisfying and necessary. Like nothing she’d ever experienced before.
When it finally ended and her brain righted itself, disbelief and shame started to creep in, burning her skin. What kind of woman pleasured herself in front of another man, a dark and dangerous man who wished to ruin her father? She’d never been exactly shy, but this was more than she’d ever imagined. Good God. What had she done?
She cleared her throat and rearranged her skirts. When she peeked over her shoulder, she saw that Clay was fully dressed, no trace of what just occurred anywhere except the handkerchief he was tucking into his jacket pocket. Was that—?
A knock sounded at the door. “Clay?”
Annabelle. Panic filled Florence, and she couldn’t meet Clay’s gaze. The brothel owner would surely know what had transpired in this tiny room.
“We need a minute,” Clay said to the woman on the other side of the door.
“There’s no rush. Jack said you can return next door whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
Annabelle didn’t answer and silence descended. Florence needed time and space to think about tonight. She didn’t know how this would change her relationship with Clay, if at all, but going back to the House was out of the question right now. “I should return home,” she said, still not looking at him.
His big shoulders shifted. “Are you . . .” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I apologize for bringing you here. And I shouldn’t have pressured you into doing something you weren’t ready for.”