Polly's Game Page 2
How sweet of him to bring her a present. Blinking back the tears in her eyes, she tore open the paper and a tumble of pretty things fell on to the floor. She stared at them openmouthed. He must have spent a small fortune on her.
“Gloves and stockings,” he said, falling to his knees and gathering them up for her. “Isn’t that what you wanted from me last night?”
“You should not have spent your money on such expensive trifles,” she scolded him. He could not afford to bring her such presents. “I would have invited you to my room for nothing.”
“That is why I had to bring you a present. Now, take me upstairs and thank me properly for the gifts.”
“I would rather thank you improperly,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the stairs. He had been so sweet to her, she would make sure he was adequately repaid.
Up the stairs and down the hall she led him until she reached her room, done up in the pale pinks she favored. She shut the door behind her. “Now, Mr. Harry Fitzgibbon,” she said with mock severity, as she pushed him down on to her pink coverlet, “you and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
“Shall we dice for favors?”
“No more games.” She stabbed him in the chest with her forefinger. “You cruelly left me wanting last night. That was not the work of a gentleman.”
His eyes were smoky with desire as he stared at her. “It was as much a torment for me as it was for you.”
“Then tonight you must put us both out of our misery. I shall not let you leave until you do.”
“Take off your clothes for me. Let me see your body again.”
Her whole body was trembling with eagerness to do as he asked. With shaking hands, she discarded first her bodice, then her skirts, and finally her chemise.
Hands behind his head, he lay on the bed, not moving a muscle as he stared at her. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“Flatterer,” she said with a laugh, but the sincerity in his voice warmed her soul. She could get used to a man like him, a kind, thoughtful man who cared for her comfort as if it were his own. If she had known any other men like him, she would not be so set on her independence. “Now take off your own clothes and let me see what you are made of.”
His grin was pure delight. “Take them off for me.”
Pulling him to a sitting position, she straddled his lap and set to work on his shirt and jacket. His erection pressed into her mound, and she rubbed herself against him like a cat, her pussy leaving patches of damp on the fabric. He was big, she could tell that much, though just how big was the question. She wanted to take off his trousers so badly, but she forced herself to slow down and savor every inch of him. This might be her only chance to love him as he deserved. Soon he would take his London wife and retreat to the country. She knew men well. Once he was wed, he would not visit her again.
His chest was well worth lingering over. Covered with a sprinkling of light brown hair, it was firm and well muscled. She ran her hands over it admiringly. “You have a fine body.”
“You haven’t seen the best half of it yet.”
It was time to open the main present he had brought her. She pulled off his boots, unbuttoned his trousers, and dragged them over his hips, closely followed by his smalls. His erection, free of confining clothes, sprang up in all its glory.
He was big. Bigger even than Sir Phillip Reedy. Fatter and longer both. She licked her lips greedily as she stroked his thick length. “I love a man with a fine cock,” she murmured. “And yours, I believe, is the finest I have ever seen.” No more games. She wanted him inside her.
“You are the flatterer now.”
She touched the tip of her tongue to his cock and was rewarded with a groan of pleasure as he bucked his hips to bring his length closer to her warm mouth. “Take me in your mouth. Please.” He sounded as if he were in pain.
Usually she avoided sucking on a man’s cock where she could—she liked them better between her thighs than in her mouth. But Harry was different. He asked nicely instead of demanding.
“And turn around so I can taste you at the same time.”
She squirmed around so they were lying top to tail on the bed. His tongue flicked out and touched her clit, driving her instantly almost as mindless with desire as she had been when he left her last night.
She took his cock into her mouth, as much of it as would fit, and sucked strongly on it. For the first time she actually wanted to pleasure a man in this way. She wanted to lick down his length and suck on his swollen head as he grew even bigger in her mouth, and as he licked on her in his turn.
She was almost ready to scream with frustration when he finally stopped tormenting her with his tongue. “You are soaking wet, my dear,” he said, moving his head from under her.
He was careful of her pleasure, instead of selfish in his desires. So few men were like him, especially to a whore.
Taking hold of her hips, he moved her until her head was next to his, and her body lay atop his own. “Kiss me, Polly,” he murmured.
He tasted of her, and of himself, too. “Take me now, Harry,” she begged quietly. “I am wet and ready for you. My pussy wants your cock.”
“Ride me, Polly, as you would ride a horse.” He lifted her up, nudging her cunt with the head of his cock, and lowered her onto his shaft.
She gasped as he impaled her on his cock. He filled her, stretched her, caressing every inch of her with his hardness.
“Sit astride me and gallop us home.”
She needed no more urging. Up and down she rode him, his thrusts meeting her movements, his cock pushing into her as deep as it could go. Faster and harder she rode him, until it seemed as though they were indeed galloping over the plains.
His face contorted, and his breathing grew erratic. He was ready to come.
It was too much for her. She could not hold out any longer. With a cry, she felt herself shatter into a million pieces as he spurted his seed into her with pulse after pulse of pleasure.
Afterward, they lay in the bed together, the pink coverlet drawn over their naked bodies. Polly had never felt so content in her life. In Harry’s arms, even just for these short moments, she felt as though she had come home.
“I don’t care for the London lasses I came here to wed,” he said as he lay in her bed, cradling her head on his shoulder. “They are too much like my late wife—sickly, puling creatures who would lie back in the bed and suffer their husband’s embrace in silence.”
A stab of jealousy ran through Polly at his words. How she envied the woman he would take to wife. She would have a rare treasure in him. “You would tease them out of their sulks,” she said lightly. “You and Mr. John Thomas here.” She reached down and caressed his cock, now lying quietly satiated.
“I want a woman like you beside me. A woman who will meet me thrust for thrust and beg me for more. A woman to wrap her legs around a man’s body and welcome his loving.”
“You are young yet. You will find such a woman one day.”
“I’m not so young as that. Thirty-five come autumn. And I’ve found the woman I want beside me. Polly, will you be my wife?”
She stiffened. It was not the first time a man had asked her that in the first flush of satisfied lust, but each time it hurt anew. They never meant a word of it. “That is a foolish jest to make.”
“I am not jesting. I can give you what you want most of all in the world. A house in the country. A garden for your chickens and room for half a dozen pigs if you want them.”
“You are a gentleman. I am a whore. Men like you do not marry women such as I am.”
“You are a woman. I am a man. That is all that matters.”
“You will think better of your offer in the morning and thank your lucky stars for your escape.”
“You are the woman I want. I will not return to the country without you.”
He came each night for a week, taking her to her bed and staying with her until morning.
Every night he asked her to come to the country with him, and every night she put him off, sure that he would come to regret his impulsive offer.
Then, on the eighth night, he came to her, his face troubled. “I would wait for you until Doomsday,” he said, “but I must go into the country for a short while. My mother has taken ill, and I ought not neglect her. I must go, but I cannot bear to leave you behind. Will you not come with me, as my wife?”
“You would think of marriage at such a time as this?”
“I cannot think of another man touching you now that I have found you.” He sighed. “I am a selfish man, I fear. I do not want any man but me giving you pleasure.”
“I would wait for you,” she offered. She had never promised a man as much as that.
“Do not make me wait,” he pleaded. “I have fallen in love with you, Polly, and I cannot leave you. Come with me now.”
She felt her resolve to refuse him weakening. He had not wavered in his desire for her. “Can you afford to take a wife?”
“Does that mean you will wed me?” His face was alive with joy.
What did it matter how few worldly goods he had. She had enough for her inn. They could run it together and be happy. “I must have taken leave of my senses, but I would not have you leave without me. I will wed you if you still want me.”
“Polly, my love, you have made me the happiest man in the world.” He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the door.
She followed him, protesting at his haste. “Where are you taking me?”
“Away with me right now. Before you can change your mind.”
Foolish man. He had captured her heart, and she did not even want it back again. “I will not change my mind.”
And with that, Harry Fitzgibbon, the reclusive, mildly eccentric, but notably wealthy ninth Earl of Castlepoint, took his bride-to-be in his arms and kissed her roundly to seal the bargain.
About the Author
LEDA SWANN is the writing duet of Cathy and Brent. They write out of their home overlooking the sea in peaceful New Zealand. When not writing they have busy lives working in the technology industry, bringing up four children, and enjoying an adventurous outdoor life that ranges from the mountains to the sea.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
POLLY’S GAME. Copyright © 2007 by Leda Swann. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Mobipocket Reader July 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-149113-9
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Table of Contents
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About the Author
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher