Bliss River Read online

  Sometimes it was quick behind the door, in the club­house on a table, or in a frenzy on the floor. Sometimes it was an invitation for a night of long and leisurely sucking and fucking.

  It was the heat; it made you torpid and heavy with arousal, your body languid as honey awaiting the sting of a bee. At night, you could divest yourself of corsets and constraints; you could flash a bare ankle, or the thrust of a tight naked nipple against a thin lawn dress. You walked slower, undulating your hips. You felt your body liquefy with an unnamed yearning. Your body stretching toward something hot and filling you with pleasure. Just the thought, just to imagine .. .

  All the juicy women along the promenade, all with the same yearning, the same tight wet place between their legs lusting to be mounted and driven to mindless oblivion.

  And the visitor had his choice of any of these women and more ... willing wanton women who wanted that hot space filled and their bodies satiated with whichever penis was available for the night.

  She skirted around the crowd as the women twitched and switched and provoked the men who had lined up to make their choices.

  He was not among them. No, she could see him exactly where she expected him to be: at Moreton's side, with Moreton eagerly explaining the process of procuring a partner for the evening. Moreton with his hundred mis­tresses casting for yet another, not hesitating to fondle and feel each of the women who passed his way.

  Women she knew. Women who never looked at each other as they swayed and sashayed and played the co­quette, shimmying up against any hand that burrowed down their bodices or against their buttocks,

  How could he not be like those men? And did she really think she was not like those women?

  And yet, from afar, there was such an air of restraint about him. He reacted to nothing, which must have frustrated Moreton to no end. Nor did he ogle any of the women flaunting themselves along the clubhouse prome­nade.

  Moreton talked earnestly and the stranger listened, a tall, dark, well-built, paragon who stood aloof in the midst of the usual ruttish display of naked pandering that appalled her still.

  After all these years, with all her experience. All she knew. All she'd done. She was not exempt, much as she might try to justify it.

  She moved into the crowd, still watching him. People were pairing off. He said a few words to Moreton. Moreton responded and clapped him on the back, and off he went, in a long, lean, efficient walk, down the main av­enue toward his bungalow.

  With no one on his arm for the evening.

  Interesting. So how likely then was he for the role of savior?

  She was being naive, she thought as she moved into the shadows and removed herself from contention this night. There wasn't a man in the Valley who did not love the freedom, the women, the life.

  There wasn't a woman who didn't respond to the atten­tion, the pleasure, the liberation from guilt and social cen­sure.

  There was something for everyone in paradise.

  But what about her? What was there for someone like her, who had been inculcated from birth, who had played the game, and still rebelled? What about her?

  "Georgie! Georgie!"

  It was Moreton, chasing after her as she tried to hide. But you couldn't hide from Moreton. He had his fingers everywhere, literally and figuratively.

  She stopped, feeling weary to her bones. "Yes, More-ton?

  "My dear. Don't sound so jaded, so tired. You need to be bright as a tuppence tonight." "And why is that?"

  "I noticed you made no choice tonight. But then you know my concerns about your stubbornness on that score. So you will show some respect for me and our Valley life by entertaining our guest this evening."

  She was jolted. That was the last thing she would have expected Moreton to say to her. "I'm not in the mood." "You never are. And that's no excuse anyway, even though I've been letting you get away with it for months now. It's time to perform, Georgie. Our guest is a man who will appreciate the difference between you and the succulent sirens in our little Eden. You'll do him tonight, Georgie, because that is how it is and that is what I want you to do."

  She bowed her head. She could perform—they all could perform—it wasn't a matter of that. It was a matter of whether she could get something from the guest in return. If he could help her—would help her—it would be worth spending an evening on her back.

  "Georgie."

  That tone brooked no resistance. And it was nothing she hadn't done before. Sometimes she thought that for all his protestations about her defiant nature, Moreton kept her in reserve for the more particular guests who came to the Valley, and that was why he did not force her compli­ance to his rules.

  "Go to him in an hour, Georgie, after you change into something more appropriate, and inform Olivia where you'll be. I want to hear a full report in the morning."

  "As you wish," she murmured. Nothing was different about this assignation. Everything was the same. The visi­tor would be just like the others. He would take his piece of her and then move on, and all Moreton wanted was the assurance that his trust in the stranger was not misplaced, and that his little house of cards would not crush them all in the end.

  Charles could not imagine what kind of trollop More-ton would send to him this night. And in this stultifying heat where it took as much energy to breathe as to move, he did not need a hot sweaty body to cater to. The thought made him shudder, and he rang for his manservant to bring him a ewer of cold water.

  That, at least, made sense. In his own place, a man could divest himself of his clothes and keep his body cool and refreshed. He had had enough of those people for today in any event, and all he felt like doing was washing away the stench of this promiscuous Eden.

  But what the hell he was going to do with the perfect whore and her expectations was beyond him at the mo­ment.

  He needed to think. He needed to plan. He needed to re­assess his feelings about her.

  Her. Lydia. His mother.

  By the creator of all things, he had not expected to find a woman so beautiful, so ill-used, so morose as she. She had traded one desert prison for another, and neither choice had served her well. She was deeply unhappy and deeply scared. She was not—if Charles gauged her at all properly—one who would indiscriminately take partners or willingly live out her own lover's debauched fantasies.

  What to make of all that then, after all his preparation, after all the years of festering hate for the woman who had abandoned him and caused his father's death? The woman m pursuit of whom he had come to England to live, to be educated, to learn how to walk among her people so that he could sit beside her and slice his knife through her per­fidious heart?

  She, who knew not who he was, and didn't care.

  Nor had she cared that he, the child, had also been left for dead. How many days had he lain there before the car­nage was discovered? How many days before his uncle be­held the truth of what had been done and swore his revenge? How many years beyond that until he had taken an oath in his uncle's blood to become the instrument of that revenge?

  But she knew him not, and he found that the strangest thing of all. Her whole focus was Moreton. Lecherous, dissipated Moreton, her savior. What had he saved her from that she seemed so distressed, so much in pain? And why, in the name of all that was holy, had she stayed?

  Ah—sympathy, the devil's tool. He mustn't let a chink of it pierce his armor. This woman had married his father in a calculated way, had willingly chosen the nomadic life, had borne his father a son, had professed her love for him over and over, and in the end, had pleaded with the carnal and perverted Moreton Estabrook to liberate her from her prison at the cost of many lives, and nearly his own. This litany of sins he must not forget, must not let the anguish of this one woman, who had given him life, turn him to stone.

  Things were never what they seemed. He stripped off his shirt, almost as if he were stripping away the noxious ideals of the Valley, and immersed it, rinsed it, wiped it all around his broad-shou
lders and upper torso and tossed it aside.

  The wet felt good against his heated skin, but it cleansed away no sins. The heat of the Valley was a different kind of heat—a kind of oppressiveness that was compounded of lust and desire. There was something unholy about it, something nauseatingly perverse and offensive. A poiso­nous fever in the blood.

  For one long moment, he wished he had never started this quest. It had cost him far too much already, and he was fast losing his edge, and in danger of losing his soul.

  Especially after tonight.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The woman. Moreton's choice for him.

  Unimaginable. Tempting to just not answer the door. But he had committed himself to playing the game, to get­ting close, to doing what must be done.

  He eased himself out of his chair, just a little curious but not in the least aroused.

  Opened the door.

  Her. The dark curly hair. The defiant posture. The blaz­ing eyes. The diaphanous gown. Even she. Even she.

  Her husky voice: "May I come in?"

  Damn, damn, damn—he had so hoped there was one among them exempt from this obscenity of an existence—

  Damn Moreton to hell,..

  He'd sent him the queen.

  She stepped into the room, closing the door with an un­obtrusive flick of her hand. Her heart pounded wildly as she met his indifferent gaze. This one would not be easy. She couldn't read his desire at all, and she felt as if she had stepped onto a ladder and the first rung wasn't there.

  But he was shirtless. That meant he expected something, didn't it? Or else why had Moreton sent her to him?

  Words weren't necessary; she knew that from experi­ence. She lifted her chin and untied the ribbons around her neckline. Not that he couldn't see everything anyway. Her gown was designed for just that—to reveal and conceal. She had only to move one way or another and he would see the shadow of her pubic hair, the outline of her taut nipples, the curve of her tight, round buttocks.

  It was hot in the room and his aloofness made her un­comfortable. She saw none of the signs, none of the signals

  she was accustomed to seeing. She saw only that impassive face, those opaque eyes. The sheen of perspiration on the sun-dark skin of his bare broad shoulders and flat belly. She saw no evidence of arousal or desire. She saw nothing but a man watching her with the distant curiosity of a sci­entist.

  She shrugged her shoulders and subtly worked the gown down her arms to the vee of her breasts.

  And watched him, seeking cues.

  He wasn't moved, when normally other men would be salivating to see more, and it made her feel just a little off-balance.

  But all men were the same. Perhaps his threshold was higher—he needed to see more, he needed for her to do more in order to respond.

  She pulled the gown over her breasts and let it slip to the floor, and then slanted a glance at him. She knew exactly what he saw: her naked body, curvy and beautiful; her legs, long and made for wrapping tightly around a man as he pumped the essence of himself into her; the enticing black bush of pubic hair between those legs; and her lush full breasts with their bulbous aureoles and tight rosy nip­ples. She knew he knew that she came to him ready for him to plunge himself into her.

  She saw it in his glittering gaze. Nothing escaped him, from the tendrils of her hair caressing her shoulders, to the way she licked her lips, waiting to see what he would do.

  Just like every other man. He'd tried to be so above it all, and there he was, tight as a fiddle, elongating against his trousers as she watched, with not a little thrill of tri­umph, until he was towering and erect.

  He watched her watching him, as his body betrayed him. Who could resist her? The queen with the body of a concubine. With the morals of a harlot. Looking for a di­versionary fuck.

  Well, not from him, not his penis, not his body, not his soul. It would cost him nothing less to mount her and pump her, and that was all she goddamn wanted. The length, the hardness, and the vigor of his penis.

  And to bend him to her voluptuous will.

  She was just like the rest of them, damn her to hell, and he would never succumb. He alone had that strength of will.

  He turned away abruptly, turning his back on her nakedness, rejecting her so forcefully she took a step back­ward.

  This wasn't possible. She knew the beauty of her body, the extent of her sensual allure. He was playing games with her. There wasn't a man to whom she offered herself who didn't want her. Not one.

  And this one, curse his eyes, would be no exception. She would make this one get down on his knees to her, make him moan and beg. Make him regret he didn't take what she offered.

  She came up behind him and slipped her arms around his hips and pressed just the tips of her nipples against the hot skin of his back. Just the very hard tips, rubbing them lightly back and forth so that he felt the softness of her breasts in contrast to those hot hard tips.

  She felt him stiffen, and smiled to herself. All men were alike. A hard nipple, her questing fingers ... yes, that was next—find him where he lived: she slipped her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, working them against his hips, all the while keeping her nipples just touching his back.

  His muscles rippled, tightened.

  Her fairy fingers slid all over him, inch by inch, over and under, squeezing him and teasing the thick ridged tip that poked out his trousers so deliciously.

  He could not be so immune to her touch. She grasped him hard and tight with her one hand, and slipped the other between his legs to take hold of his scrotum. It was taut, ripe, full in the palm of her hand.

  "Let go of me." His voice was barely a rasp.

  She was affecting him, she knew it, and he resisted her. How could he resist her?

  She slid her hand up to the bulbous tip of his penis and held him there, stroking them there, rubbing her fingers all over the ridge, stroking him there, stroking them there.

  "Let go of me."

  She shimmied her breasts against his naked back and pumped his shaft. "I don't want to," she whispered. "I love your size. You're so long and strong and hard. I'd love to feel that much penis inside me."

  "Let go." There was steel in his voice now.

  "I'm naked for you, wet for you, ready for you. Just poke your gorgeous penis where we know it will pleasure us both ..."

  "Damn you—" He grasped her hands and wrenched them away from his body. "Damn you ... Get dressed."

  She hated him. "That's amusing. I am dressed. So why don't you just fuck me?"

  That did it. That question he could deal with. He felt himself coming under control to the point where he could face her. "You're a whore."

  She was taken aback by the virulence of his tone. No one had ever characterized any woman in the Valley as a whore.

  "And you're a man ..." She put as much venom into the word as she could. Not that it fazed him.

  "So we understand each other. Get dressed."

  "This is as dressed as I get when I'm in male company." There, that angered him again. He didn't like bold women, bad women, insolent women.

  Naked women.

  Did he require a woman to be dressed when he came to her bed? Did he like burrowing and furrowing before he embedded his naked penis in her naked sheath?

  The thought was intriguing—to be wholly covered ex­cept for those two naked parts wet and hot slipping and sliding one into the other. She went hot, imagining it, imagining his hands seeking, stroking, wriggling into her cleft, parting her labia so that he could insert himself, fit himself just there, just...

  She edged toward the sofa. This was the challenge now. To have him. To have that long hot length of him inside her and to bring him to moaning groveling surrender.

  There wasn't a man she knew who was immune to a woman strutting her nakedness. Nor was he by the look of his straining penis. He was just in better control of his an­imal nature. And he didn't care that his lust was obvious or that he wa
s perversely in command of it.

  She perched on the edge of the sofa, her back arched, her legs spread, her breasts thrust forward, her nipples, tight prominent points of enticement.

  "Your penis tells me you want my body even as you scorn it. You want to bury yourself hard right"—she flut­tered her fingers between her legs, grazing her bush and then poising them there—"there, as deep as you can root into me. Your penis wants my pussy. And I want your penis. So let your penis fuck me and you stay out of it al­together."

  "Bitch." He wheeled away. So now he had a naked mouthy bitch of a whore sitting on his couch displaying every inch of her body to him and demanding he fuck her.

  Not likely. No matter how his body was reacting to her blatant nudity.

  He picked up her gauzy gown and tossed it to her. "Cover yourself."

  "Unlike most women, I never dress for a man," she said with that maddening insolence. "I don't play games with a man whose penis I want. I come naked and ready to fuck."

  He turned away again. There was no way to keep watching her and not want to fuck her. She was as tempt­ing as Eve, as gloriously sexual, as intensely seductive, her body, the apple. He had only to bite to wholly lose his soul.

  "Fuck me," she whispered, cupping her breasts. "Just come over here and rub your penis all over my nipples. Let me lick it and suck it even longer and harder. You let me fondle it an awfully long time, you know. You liked my hands on your penis. You loved how I fondled your head like that. You liked it too much. So now let me fuck that penis until there's not a drop left. Until I squeeze you dry. I want it all inside me ..."

  Her voice was hypnotic, the images seductive, mesmer­izing, too voluptuous and real; his penis spurted urgently; he stepped toward her, ready to strip himself and abandon all the foreplay to jam his throbbing head tight and hard into her hot wet hole.

  And she smiled.

  And in that moment, he perceived that every word had been memorized, and had been practiced on dozens of men dozens of times solely to make them submit.

  And that even the most meaningless coupling was more meaningful than this paltry show, if he surrendered the most valued part of himself to this soulless woman who valued nothing.