Forsaking Hope (Fair Cyprians of London 2)

Waited for his shock, his disgust, his utter repulsion.

But after a flare of confused surprise, he simply stared at her with the most beatific smile and murmured, “I knew you’d come one day.” He sighed, a gentle shudder of pure happiness. “Now, kiss me, so that I know you’re real.”

Hope avoided kissing the men who paid for her, but she needed no urging now.

She smiled down at him, wildness at the possibilities presenting themselves surging through her. And then, with exquisite slowness, as she savoured what was about to come, she lowered her face to touch her lips to his.

He moaned softly, tightening his arms about her while his manhood strained against her belly. Yet, he made no movement to enter her. Like her, he seemed to want to prolong the exquisite prelude to the inevitable coupling.

Without warning, he flipped her over, caging her with his body, holding the side of her face with one hand as if to protect her, while the other rubbed gentle circular movements over her highly sensitised skin of her inner thighs.

The touch was like a promise met; the sensations he evoked all she’d dreamed of while his eyes bored into her. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

She arched into him, using her fingertips to contour his high, noble forehead, his fine aristocratic nose, the smoothness of his cleanly shaven jaw, before she trailed her hands downwards to explore the contours of the body she’d seen only in well-cut hunting or evening clothes.

And then, in the greatest of daring movements, she reached out to explore his maleness, that which was so terrifyingly out of bounds during the brief time they’d known each other.

Her nipples were so hard they were positively painful, but all the better. She wanted to feel everything. She wanted this to remember. Her always. The culmination of her girlish hopes and dreams.

Closing her eyes, she tasted the saltiness of tears unshed in the back of her throat. This was exquisite. She wanted the moment to last forever.

He shuddered as she gripped him, then rolled her onto her side so he could pull her against him, at the same time feeling for the moistness that would leave him in no doubt as to her desire.

A great contentment edged with excitement found itself in a soft exhalation as he found just the right spot. He was perceptive enough to her needs to register it, and with a short laugh of satisfaction, he set himself to toying with that most sensitive, most private part of her.

Hope gave herself up to the growing intensity of excitement within her. It was clear he was as invested in pleasuring her as he had clearly desired a woman to give him pleasure. It accorded with the man she knew. The handsome, kindly, and honourable man who’d captured her heart. A man who clearly needed a woman right now. Her heart hitched as she thought of Annabelle. Was he thinking of her? Imagining her in Hope’s place?

It was her job, she accepted, to be proxy for all the erotic fantasies of unfulfilled reality, but if this were the only way to enjoy Mr Durham’s attention—his kisses, caresses, and pleasuring—she’d happily submit.

As she felt the pressure within her build, she gripped him harder with one hand while she clenched her other in a fist and tensed her body to maximise the wave of pleasure that would be the culmination.

“Come, my darling girl,” he whispered, increasing the speed and pressure within the moist, swollen folds between her legs. “My beautiful girl, come.”

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She felt the sweat break out on her forehead, and her body moved in concert with his.

“I want you…” she ground out, rolling onto her back and gripping his buttocks, exerting all her strength to bring him to her, “…inside me.”

He didn’t need much coaxing, breaching her entrance with an ecstatic cry as he began to pound his enthusiasm.

And she matched him, movement for movement, trading on his excitement to reach her own climax in a simultaneous outpouring of mutual abandonment.

Except it was more than that. Their bodies were as one. He’d worked to ensure her pleasure matched his, and now he was holding her tight, stroking her face, her back, murmuring to her.

As if he knew her intimately in mind as well as body.

As if he loved her.

When she was certain he was sleeping, Hope quietly rose and dressed. Her body pulsed with life and her mind felt reinvigorated. Mr Durham had loved her, believing her a figment of his dream, believing her to be Annabelle. And she’d been happy to be his fantasy. Until tonight, she’d never experienced sexual pleasure. Who’d have imagined it could be so satisfying.

She ran her hands down the side of her modish ensemble, pulling down the little veil of her neat, pert hat as she took a step backwards, still studying the beautiful man on the bed.

He looked peaceful, a gentle contentment replacing the tortured expression he’d worn in his sleep, before he’d opened his eyes and seen her.

The power of love, she thought as she plucked at her skirt to make the swathes and bows sit just as they ought. Perhaps he’d trade on what he’d gained from his lovemaking with Hope to make the necessary overtures to Annabelle. Maybe, on the strength of what he’d enjoyed just now with Hope he’d ask Annabelle to…what? Marry him? Forgive him?

Regardless, Hope’s job was done. She turned and put her hand on the doorknob before she remembered. But as she glanced across at the escritoire, encountering Mr Durham’s beautiful naked body along the way, she knew she had not the heart to do as Wilfred had demanded.

He’d exerted as much power over her as she ever intended he would again.