A Certain Latitude Read online

  His hand reached for her clitoris, fingers spread, not needing to rub her because the movement of their hips provided enough friction.

  His other hand appeared at her breasts, toying with her nipples, touching her in exactly the right way. She began the climb to another orgasm, fearing that her inevitable cry of pleasure would earn her further punishment, then not caring—watching herself, seeing her face soften, her mouth fall open, March’s cock thrust into her faster and faster, her body contract.

  And, yes, she cried out, an incoherent gasp of sound she could not help. March, too, she saw in the mirror lost control—his movements spasmodic, teeth bared in a grimace that looked almost like pain, before a final deep thrust.

  “So,” he whispered in her ear, “do you think I should beat you again, Clarissa?”

  “If you wish,” she murmured.

  “No. I’ll spare you.” He withdrew from her in a gush of fluid and tugged at her bound wrists. “Well done, my dear.”

  Her arms fell apart, still behind her back. Sated and drowsy she lacked the energy to move. March rubbed her wrists and rearranged her, rolling her onto her belly.

  “Surely…not again, so soon.” She started as something cool, smelling of herbs and tallow, spread onto her damaged backside.

  “I didn’t realize quite how hard I hit you,” March said. “While I admit I find the marks somewhat arousing, I should like you to be able to sit down tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” She turned, with some care, to face him and stroked the lock of white hair back over his shoulder. “I wish...”

  “Ah, Clarissa.” He touched his mouth to hers.

  She pulled him in closer, deepened the kiss, loving his taste and smell, the touch of his gentle hands, the squash of her breasts against his hard chest.

  “What a charming amorous scene.”

  Allen Pendale, wearing only a pair of thin cotton drawers, stood in the bedchamber doorway.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Pendale,” March drawled. “My dear fellow, how delightful to see you. Come in, do. I believe we have some brandy somewhere—Clarissa, will you not offer Allen some refreshment?”

  Clarissa, from surprise more than anything else, had grabbed March’s dressing-gown as soon as she’d realized they were no longer alone. Now she wrapped it around herself, tying the belt, and fetched Allen a glass. She glanced at him: he stood awkwardly a few steps inside the bedchamber, feet planted squarely on the floor.

  March appeared to be enjoying his discomfiture.

  “Will you sit down?” Clarissa asked, as though speaking to a guest in a drawing room. She only just suppressed a giggle that she was sure would have turned into a loud, vulgar snort.

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long. I came to say…” He took the glass.

  Clarissa tried not to smile. He was wearing only his drawers, for God’s sake, and it was the middle of the night—surely he must realize that they could not be fooled into thinking this some sort of bizarre social call. She shot a look at March, who sprawled naked on the bed, his cock still wet and leaving a trail of semen on his thigh. Shouldn’t he be the one trying to put Allen at his ease? She seemed to be incapable of normal behavior—whatever that might constitute—all too ready to burst into loud inappropriate laughter at any time.

  Allen took a sip of brandy. He placed the glass on a cabinet and squared his shoulders, as though making some sort of decision. To Clarissa’s delight he cocked a hip forward and hooked one thumb into the waist of his drawers, posing. The thin fabric slid down a little onto his hips. “So, who wants me first?”

  Clarissa burst into loud laughter and heard March’s guffaws.

  Allen gave a rueful grin. “I beg your pardon, I’ve no idea how to go about this. Maybe I should leave…”

  “Wait,” Clarissa said. She grasped his hand. “Please, don’t go. We are dreadfully rude. I am so very sorry, but…you took us by surprise.” She clamped her mouth shut before she said anything she’d regret, overjoyed at the thought of Allen offering himself up like the next delicious course in a meal.

  She didn’t dare to meet March’s gaze, afraid they would both lapse into helpless laughter again. Instead, she tugged at Allen’s hand. “Come and sit with us. We’re both quite tired—you must be, too. I don’t even know if we’ll…”

  March covered himself with the sheet—about time, Clarissa thought, shame on you for flaunting yourself at Allen—and moved over on the bed. “You are most welcome, Allen.”

  Allen nodded and climbed onto the bed, keeping some distance between himself and March.

  As unobtrusively as she could Clarissa retrieved the whip from the floor and placed it inside the cabinet where March kept his indecent toys, including the ivory phallus. There was no point in intimidating Allen, who veered between nervousness and flirtatious bravado. She sat on the other side of the bed, near the foot, placing a pillow against the bedpost, and waited to see what would happen.

  She had expected to feel jealousy, possibly even revulsion—lust under the stars, fueled by a great deal of brandy, was one thing—but this? She had a wild curiosity about what the two men might do together, as well as a fear that they might ask, or tell, her to leave. After all, March and Allen had had a good part of the day alone. Maybe they had already … she remembered March swooping down to take Allen’s climax in his mouth, and her nipples peaked against the silk of the dressing gown.

  March murmured, low and intimate, to Allen, “…your choice alone. As Clarissa said, we’re all somewhat fatigued. I should be honored if you choose to stay.” He glanced at Clarissa. “My dear, maybe you could, ah, help Allen.”

  Help Allen? From the stirring in the thin linen drawers, she could tell that very little help was needed.

  Allen shifted, cupped the bulk of his genitals, and muttered something polite and, she suspected, untruthful, about being tired himself.

  Clarissa crawled across the bed and loosened the fastening of the drawers. Allen’s cock spilled out, half erect; she knew without a doubt that a pinch, a gentle slap, would bring it to its full hardness. Her hand or March’s?

  She looked at Allen. His lips were slightly parted, and his dark eyes held a pleading expression. She leaned to plant a kiss on his cock. He grew firm beneath her lips.

  “Surely we don’t need all these candles,” she said. An easy remark, but one she resented having to make. March wanted Allen, not her; she wasn’t sure what Allen wanted, but he was here, after all, of his own free will. To please March, she must make herself unobtrusive, a bystander to his desires. She slipped off the bed and busied herself with blowing out candles, pinching the smoking wicks between her dampened thumb and forefinger. After a leisurely circuit of the room, and when only the candles by the bed still burned, she crossed to the window and opened the shutters a little to let in starlight.

  Only then did she turn to the bed to see what the two men did.

  Her breath caught with something—jealousy? What she saw between Allen and March surprised her as much as it excited her. There was gentleness, as well as a sort of intimate brutality. They moved together like a pair of wrestlers, playfulness mixed with lust. They were kissing each other, March lying on his side, one arm beneath Allen’s head, and the other hand roaming over his body. March’s hand and arm were pale against Allen’s dark skin as March stroked the other man’s chest and belly, dipping occasionally to clasp Allen’s even darker cock, now fully erect, protruding from the cotton drawers.

  Clarissa stepped a little closer.

  Allen groped a hand toward March, reaching for his cock.

  March captured his hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss—a gesture that Allen need not attend to his pleasure, perhaps? He slid his mouth briefly to Allen’s nipples before returning to his lips again.

  Clarissa squeezed her legs together, wanting to be part of them, to feel what March did to Allen, to join in their caresses.

  March saw her and smiled, granting her permission.

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bsp; She climbed onto the bed on the other side of Allen and dropped her mouth to his chest. Now she was close enough to hear the low sounds both men made—growls of tenderness, lust, surprise. Allen’s skin tasted of sweat and soap. She joined her hand with March’s on his cock, tickling the scrotum with her fingernails, letting him slide, slow and delicious, in her palm. March’s hand closed hot and slick around hers, sliding, pumping.

  March raised his mouth from Allen’s and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

  Allen opened his eyes, drugged with pleasure, mouth loose and swollen, eyes dark.

  And March looked at Allen the way he would never look at Clarissa—dazed, imploring. March, offering himself, with no trace of his usual amused reserve, his mask dropped. He was a man disarmed by desire. Humbled, too, as Allen turned toward her and she saw the disappointment on March’s face.

  “Clarissa,” he murmured, breaking free of March’s embrace, “how much pleasure can you take from the two of us?”

  So March would pleasure her because it was Allen’s desire. They scrambled together briefly on the bed, with the clumsiness of eager but under-rehearsed actors finding their places. March sat with his back against the wall, she on his lap, his cock sliding home, while Allen knelt before her.

  Allen’s mouth moved over her breasts and belly, down between her parted legs. March groaned loudly in her ear. He had to be agonizingly aware of Allen’s tongue so close to the root of his cock, his balls. Lost in the pleasure of that lapping tongue, she grasped Allen’s head, digging her fingers into his thick curls. She knew how badly March craved his attention—didn’t she feel that way about March herself? But, right now, she wanted March’s cock to stay exactly where it was and Allen’s tongue and lips, his fingers on her breasts, to continue their astoundingly wicked play.

  Both men urged her toward orgasm—must everything between men be a contest?—March’s steady thrusts providing a solid foundation which Allen embellished and decorated. Ripples ran up her body, her thighs tensed and spread, and she came in a tumult of pleasure, her body lifting and thrumming. March bit into her shoulder, his sweat dropping onto her equally wet skin, and he groaned, thrusting hard inside her.

  “Now you’ll have me.” Allen pulled Clarissa onto him, onto his cock. She was dimly aware of March’s kiss on her mouth, March’s hand reaching behind her to cup Allen’s balls and caress her buttocks, Allen’s thighs, as she shuddered and came, again and again. One flesh, the three of them.

  A brief rest—Allen actually fell asleep after that first orgasm—then awakened to a hand on his cock. To his disappointment, the hand was not Clarissa’s, and the look on March’s face made Allen feel both guilty and ashamed. He should reciprocate this time, he decided. It was only fair, although he was far more interested in Clarissa, who stroked and sucked both men with equal abandon. Clarissa’s splayed legs and flushed bosom, her wet and swollen mouth, tempted him far more. She seemed to have reached some sort of plateau of sensuality where orgasms came to her with rapid ease.

  But after several—he’d lost count—she pushed Allen’s hands away. “Touch him. I want to see you do it together.”

  March raised his eyebrows. For a moment, March looked like himself, sardonic, in control, cynical. “We’d best obey the lady, Allen.”

  See you do it together? What the devil did she mean? Allen prepared to negotiate—My hand only, your mouth if you wish, and definitely not my arse and I’ve no desire for yours—but Clarissa sprawled beside him naked, her hands running idly across her breasts. Waiting.

  March waited too, plaintive, eyes beseeching him. “My dear …” March said.

  Allen grunted, hoping he sounded lustful and not merely ungracious.

  “I grow impatient, gentlemen.” Clarissa took Allen’s hand and placed it on March’s cock.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Allen said, inspired by the idea of Clarissa telling him what to do, if not by what she requested. He rose to his knees.

  “And you, March,” Clarissa said.

  Allen took March’s cock in his hand. Much like his own, and he’d done it before, and … the obvious advantage of having another man fondle you was that a man knew where and when to be rough, where to apply pressure and how much. Unlike caressing a woman, there was a blessed directness about the whole business—none of that slippery pursuit of an evasive splinter of flesh, while its owner wriggled in silence or snapped out directions. Unless the woman was like Clarissa. From the very first time he had homed into her clitoris like a bee diving into a flower. She caressed herself now, watching the two men, one hand between her legs, the other at her breast.

  “Will you come together?” she asked in a bright, breathless tone.

  “We’ll try,” Allen said, grinning despite himself.

  March cursed, grasped Allen by the back of his neck and pulled him close. March’s kiss was a frantic invasion of teeth and tongue, a demand that Allen concentrate on the pleasure at hand. March groaned deep into Allen’s throat, shuddered against him, and splashed warm onto his belly and hand. “Come for me,” he whispered. “Please, my love.”

  Allen turned his head to look at Clarissa. Her hand moved fast now, her legs splayed wide, her pretty quim gleaming ripe and red. Oh, yes, she would come soon. Very soon. Look at me, Clarissa. Help me. Her gaze met his, and they were the two who came together—not something he usually strove for while fucking, far better to take turns, to see and hear and feel the other … He groaned and gasped and spurted messily over himself and March.

  Sated finally, they settled to sleep. He was afraid March would dismiss him, exercising his rights as Clarissa’s protector—and damn it, he wished March would stop looking at him like that. Lustful glances were one thing; March made vulnerable by unsatisfied desire made Allen unsettled. He made sure Clarissa lay between March and himself. She was exhausted and drunk with pleasure, her limbs flopping like a rag doll’s. After drawing the sheet over her and smoothing her sticky hair from her face, Allen tucked himself behind her, his arm circling her.

  March took his hand and Allen let him, too tired for embarrassment. Poor sod, let him have this small scrap of affection.

  With a satisfied sigh Clarissa softened into an embrace as innocent as that of children sharing a bed, brothers and their sister, tired after a long day, intimate and at ease. He kissed Clarissa’s shoulder—the nearest part he could reach without moving. This was the first time they’d actually shared a bed to sleep, but unfortunately, someone else was there.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Can’t we go and watch the gentlemen fight?” Celia threw her French lesson book down.

  “No. Not until you have memorized your list of words.”

  “Dey be finish, den.” She gave Clarissa a challenging, sideways glance.

  Clarissa, who knew by now that Celia could speak perfectly well when she chose, ignored her.

  Outside, through the large glass doors, open to let in a breeze, March and Allen fenced. Clarissa heard the rattle of foils, the occasional laugh or gasp of effort. When she glanced out she saw a crowd of slaves had gathered to watch.

  Celia clasped her book to her chest, shut her eyes tight in concentration, and gabbled some French to herself.

  “Are you ready?” Clarissa asked.

  “Le chien, dog; le cheval, horse; le cochon, pig; l’oiseau, bird; le boeuf, cow; la chat, cat; le mouton, sheep,” Celia chanted, a female Noah taking inventory of her Ark.

  “Very good. And what about the word for chicken?”

  “I said the word for bird,” Celia pointed out.

  “You did. And the chicken?”

  “Oh…” Celia’s brow creased. “La poule!” She cried in triumph and ran outside.

  Clarissa bent to pick the French primer from the floor, where it had tumbled as Celia made her escape. As she straightened, she heard Celia’s scream.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  Clarissa’s first thought was that Allen had killed him when she ran outside and saw both Allen, his foil st
ill in his hand, and Celia crouching over March’s slumped body.

  “March!” So much for discretion in front of his daughter. March looked ill, lips blue, and he scarcely seemed to be breathing. “Oh, God, Allen, what’s happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. We were fencing and he swooned.” Allen pushed gently at Celia. “Let him have some air, girl. Fan him, if you want to be useful.” He unbuttoned March’s cuffs as he spoke.

  Finch, impassive as ever, arrived. “Let me see to Mr. Lemarchand, sir,” he said to Allen. He directed some of the slaves to carry their master indoors, and the rest of them followed.

  Clarissa put her arm around Celia, who wept uncontrollably. “We must send for a physician, Finch.”

  “I’ve done so, Miss Onslowe, as soon as I heard the master was taken badly again.”

  “Again?” Allen looked furious. He tossed his foil onto the table, where it landed on Celia’s French book and rolled onto the floor. “This happened yesterday too, and he assured me he was perfectly well.” He turned to the milling, excited slaves. “Don’t you have work to do? Get out of here.”

  On the sofa, March sighed. “Allen, please do stop shouting.”

  “Damn you, March, you told me yesterday you had consulted your physician!”

  “It is nothing,” March said, his voice feeble. “Pray do not create such a commotion.”

  “Brandy, sir.” Finch intervened.

  A little color returned to March’s face after he drank. He smiled at his daughter and Clarissa. “Celia, I am perfectly well. Don’t cry.”

  “I thought you were dead, Papa!” Celia flung herself on the sofa beside her father and sobbed on his shoulder.

  “You can see I’m not. I shall retire upstairs and rest, and I’ll be perfectly well in a little while.” March patted her arm. He looked at Clarissa, a mute appeal in his eyes—Take her out of here, please.

  “Come, Celia,” Clarissa said. “Your papa needs to rest. Let’s fetch our bonnets and go into the garden with our sketch books.”