The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

“That is more agreeable,” he said.

Agreeable for whom? Jessie had to shut her eyes for a moment. The new arrangement was doing nothing to aid her concentration. She wondered how long she could bear it, for her cunny was poking out like a ripe fruit, ready to be taken. She was wet with wanting, and meanwhile he was standing there as calm as could be, instructing her to pose lewdly.

“Now polish the floor.”

She was sure she heard disguised humor in his tone. Was that amusement at his enemy’s expense, or hers? Frustration began to get the better of her. With a deep intake of breath, she shifted and pretended to polish. The position he had arranged her in made her rear end wobble and dip as she worked. Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, she shot a disgruntled glance his way as she did so.

“If I did not know better,” she blurted, unable to hold her tongue, “I would think you were trying to shame me, sire.”

“Shame you?” There was definitely humor in his voice. “Shame the Harlot of Dundee? An impossible task, surely?”

Curses. He knew of her notorious title. Jessie pressed her lips together hard, for it annoyed her immensely. He was a stranger, a man who had lately been away at sea, and yet he knew what they called her. That was a great pity.

She sat back on her haunches and peered up at him, folding her arms across her chest. Who had he spoken to about her? What else did he know? That title was a dubious honor. Many times, in anger, she’d called it the bane of her life. That was far from the truth. Her secret gift was her true burden, but still, the title did not please her.

However, it was when she broke off following his instructions that she noticed the soft chamois leather of his breeches was strained at the buttons, his manhood lifting inside the confines of his clothing. That he was stimulated by their play was obvious, and the sight pleased her. “Your instruction, sire. Please continue.”

“It is good to see you are becoming more amenable.”

She buttoned her lip.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I want this man to lust after you, but he must not know that your purpose is to get close to him. I need you to attract him, but for him to think he is the seducer, in order not to arouse his suspicion. What would you do, under such circumstances?”

Jessie’s mind quickly wandered into various lewd scenarios, but the only man she could picture at that moment was him. “I would first play innocent in order to convince him I am chaste, and then perhaps allow him to see that he had stimulated me.”

Ramsay nodded. “How would you do that?”

“I could show that I am desirous of a man’s touch, but at a loss for one. I would go somewhere where he might find me, where he could observe me desperate for relief…and attempting to handle myself.”

Mister Ramsay considered her at great length before he replied. “That may indeed stimulate his ardor.”

His comment was measured, and there was a brooding quality to his posture. Had she unsettled him? Jessie hoped that was the case. It was only fair, after all. He’d put her in such a state of longing that she would be forced to handle herself, and soon.

“Demonstrate your meaning,” he instructed, “so that I can be sure.”

Staring at him, she shook her head. “Demonstrate?”

“Do it. Play the innocent woman burdened with her lust, the woman who must somehow find relief.” His eyes glittered.

That made her breath catch. He wanted her to bare herself, to touch herself, while he watched. The idea excited her. Secretly thrilled by the turn of events, sh

e silently dared him to resist what he was about to see. As she rose to her feet, renewed anticipation assailed her.

She moved the chair nearer to the window, where the fall of light would assist her display. “Allow me a moment to picture myself there, in his home, in order to do it well.”

“Go ahead.” Ramsay folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. His pose was one of leisure, but his eyes were narrowed and his lips tightly pressed together as if he was concentrating.

That pleased her immensely. She would soon have him needy for her. Meanwhile, she could happily look on his handsome, scarred face as she plucked and teased at the seat of her pleasure. After a moment’s consideration, however, she decided that would not aid her quest to look innocent. “Please stand further in the shadows, sire. That way I can pretend I don’t see you…I mean him.”

Curiosity flitted across his face. He lingered, staring at her as if challenging her somehow. It made her heart flutter, for although she was sure she could do this, his attention made her feel more vital and alive than she ever had. When he moved away from the light the shadows only served to make his presence more looming, more exciting. Without warning she remembered the thrust of his cock inside her, and it was as if an echo of that moment haunted her intimate places, and she was back there in the tollbooth again, with his strong arms holding her. Her cunny tightened in response to the memory, her sense of frustration building. Determined to succeed in arousing him to the point of madness—as he had her—she rubbed her hand around the back of her neck and sighed with longing.

Even with her eyes averted, she could not banish his presence. If it were him that she had to seduce, she would have no trouble in mustering the urge. So she imagined it was Mister Ramsay who she had been sent to seduce, Mister Ramsay who unwittingly harbored her in his house, unaware of her true purpose. That quickly presented a vivid picture for her to think on as she stroked and squeezed her breasts through her bodice and stays. In it, he was her master and she was his servant. As master of the house he had shown interest in her from afar. She had gone looking for him and had spied him, perhaps at his washstand, naked. Aroused to a state of anxiety by the image of his strong, manly form in a state of undress, she had crept away into a linen cupboard to ease the fevered desire she felt.

While Jessie lifted her skirts to access her cunny, she imagined she might become aware of him watching her—peering in at an open door, perhaps, standing in the shadows. Ah, yes, it was Mister Ramsay she had to get closer to, and she was succeeding. Jessie bit her lip, struggling with the urge to look directly at him. She would eventually, because she had to know how her performance had affected him, but not yet.

The lurid nature of her imaginings urged her on. Resting one foot upon the chair, she hitched her skirts to her waist and pinned them there with her elbows. With two fingers she delved into her cunny, and quickly discovered exactly how damp she was. It came as no surprise, but made her sigh with longing nonetheless, and she quickly worked the fluid over her sensitive places. Within moments her hips began to weave back and forth, the friction making its own demands on her, causing her body to react. Her core ached for him, for the solid, gratifying thrust of his engorged shaft. Again her body shivered as she remembered how it had felt, and her cunny clamped, eager to be filled again.

As the moments passed, she grew desperate to come, for his presence only heightened her need, but she resisted the urge to tip herself over the edge. The tension emanating from the place where he stood was growing by the moment, thrilling her. He was about to pounce, about to order her to bend over the chair and present herself so that he could fill her with his cock, she was sure. It was what she wanted, but she forbade herself to look his way or to encourage him, for she had to prove to him that he could not resist.