The Pearl Page 12

  As she massaged his anus, she took his penis into her mouth again, drawing it slowly to her throat until he was hard as a rod of hot iron in her mouth.

  Then he felt something on him, something cold and round. She had the string of pearls again and he knew at once she was going to put them inside him as he’d done to her.

  “Don’t,” he said, tensing. “Please?”

  “Don’t what? Don’t do anything I want to the whore I paid for?” She gazed down on him, there on his back, subject to her entirely. Softly, almost—but not quite—tenderly, she said, “Are we still pretending you don’t want this?”

  He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was too much to ask of him. Except she wasn’t asking, was she?

  “Let me do it or tell me about you and Wendy and Charlie,” she said. “Your choice.”

  Arthur slowly spread his legs wider. He lay there on the floor, burning for the reason anything burns—because someone had set it on fire.

  Carefully, she pushed the first of the pearls inside of him. The first few felt small and strange but not painful. More and more and then even more. The tight hole opened to take them, stretching as she filled it. She took his cock into her mouth again, drawing it in deep, then deeper. More and more pearls. He’d lost count of how many were inside of him. Ten? Twelve? The sensation changed. He felt an oddly pleasant fullness. His hips were tighter than ever. The deep inner muscles inside of him were clenching at the pearls, gripping and releasing them and gripping them again. He breathed fast breaths, quick pants as one bead after another entered and stretched him.

  Regan’s mouth was on his cock, sucking and pulling. He felt assaulted on two fronts. It was almost more than he could take, the pleasure so sharp it almost hurt. His head fell back as a bead rubbed against that little organ inside of him, that sensitive nub of tissue that pulsed as the pearls pushed and kneaded it.

  More pearls. He had to spread his legs wider. His head came up in a sudden spasm of pleasure. The most beautiful woman in the world had his cock in her mouth and his arse was filled to the brim with a king’s ransom in rare pearls. Nothing in the history of the world ever felt so decadent.

  His head fell back again, and he came with a powerful release that rose from the depths. He ejaculated hard into Regan’s mouth, and as she swallowed it, she withdrew the pearls steadily, stoking his orgasm on and on and on…

  He emptied himself into her as she emptied him out, a dual release that felt obscene even as it was happening to his own body. When it was over and the pearls were out of him, he felt like a hollow shell. His quick breathing slowed, and he melted into the floor. His strength was gone, his will, his ego. He was a body spent, well-used, finished off.

  Regan leaned forward and kissed him on his bare stomach. He hardly felt her lips.

  A long time passed, or maybe only a few seconds before she rose up over him, her hands and knees on either side of his shoulders and thighs.

  “You liked that,” she said, meeting his eyes. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, I liked it.’”

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh, “I liked it.”

  He laughed at himself, at how much he’d like it. God, he was a whore, wasn’t he? Or was he just a Godwick? Regan wrapped the pearls into a tissue.

  “Those are officially the most expensive anal beads in the world,” he said.

  “Sir Jack gave them to me,” she said. “He liked me to wear pearls. Tarts, he said, wear diamonds. Ladies wear pearls. I disagreed but didn’t want to argue the point.”

  “Why still wear them?”

  “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I really can’t tell you how much I enjoyed shoving them up your arse.”

  “If only you could have shoved them up his.”

  She smiled, almost laughed, and it was the truest, sincerest, most honest smile he’d seen on her face yet. Unguarded, open, happy.

  Arthur wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, kissing her mouth, tasting himself on her tongue. When the kiss stopped, she smiled down at him again.

  “Go to sleep,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  One more kiss, then she rose up off of him leaving him on the floor, wet and shivering from the power of the orgasm she’d given him. He heard her in her bathroom, heard her come back to the room, heard the hushed rush of the sheets and the sigh of the mattress as she lay in her bed again.

  Arthur said softly, “If Lord Malcolm is trying to play matchmaker, are we going to let him?”

  Say yes, he thought. Say yes, say yes, say yes. Please say yes.

  After a tense silence, Regan finally answered, “Over my dead body.”

  The one small, miserable comfort Arthur took in those words was how unhappy she sounded when she’d said them.

  7

  Afternoon Tea

  Almost a week passed before Regan summoned Arthur again. It felt like the longest week of his life.

  He waited for the doorbell all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but it never rang. Eventually, he got stir-crazy. When Charlie didn’t answer his messages, Arthur met up with friends from Sandhurst instead. They lifted weights at the gym until they were almost sick. He continued to tax himself all week, running in Hyde Park in the cold rain. At night, he visited every last one of the Godwicks’ art galleries in Greater London on the pretense of “checking on things” for his parents.

  The more time that passed since that strange night with Regan, the more he managed to convince himself what had happened with the book was nothing but a coincidence. Arthur and Regan had been having intense sex. Maybe the walls had rattled, jostling the book from the shelves as the guard had intimated. No denying it was strange that it fell open to a painting of a woman in a pearl necklace, but life was strange sometimes.

  And, yes, those “sometimes” often involved Lord Malcolm’s portrait…but still. No need to go mad. Yet.

  When he arrived home from his Saturday morning run, he was halfway to the shower when his phone buzzed in his hand. He didn’t recognize the number. Usually, he wouldn’t have answered it. Only the hope it was Regan made him accept the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Tea at four on my terrace,” Regan said.

  Arthur sat down on the second storey landing, sunk down really, so relieved to hear her voice it was humiliating. He’d been aching all week to hear from her. And now she was on the end of the line and he knew he would have waited a year if she’d made him.

  She continued, “If the weather’s nice enough we might fuck al fresco, but as it’s London, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Al Fresco, and I have no interest in fucking him on your terrace.”

  “Did I give you permission to be funny? I don’t recall.”

  Arthur gave a cocky laugh. “You haven’t even asked me what I’m wearing.”

  The silence at the other end of the line was potent. Needling Regan was his new favorite pastime.

  “White tee, in case you were wondering,” he went on. “Been running. Very sweaty. I turned the heads of many women and gay men between the ages of forty-seven and ninety-eight. Want a pic? I’ll text you.”

  “Why are you in a good mood? It’s annoying me,” she said.

  “Why are you so cross? You’re the one who gets to fuck me tonight.”

  “Are all the Godwicks like you?”

  “Clever? Charming? Desperately attractive?”

  “Obnoxious. Sardonic. Insufferably arrogant.”

  “I get it from my father,” Arthur said.

  “Give it back.”

  “What happened to your redcoat? Zoot? She who lives to insult me to my face at my front door?”

  “She has today off. Do you think I’m a monster?”

  “Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

  She was silent on the line, silent but for a soft exhalation that he almost felt in his ear.

  “Four. Tea. Terrace,” she finally said. “Don’t be late. We have a brief window of good weathe
r, and we’re going to enjoy it.”

  “I won’t be late.” Before Regan hung up, Arthur said her name.

  “What, Brat?”

  “Have we decided to pretend the thing with the painting of the pearl necklace was just a coincidence?”

  When he’d woken up on her floor on Tuesday morning, she was already gone. He hadn’t had a chance to discuss it with her yet.

  “Have you ever heard the name Violet Jessop?” she asked.

  “No. Should I know her?”

  “She was on the ship the HMS Olympic when it accidentally hit the HMS Hawke. She was on the HMHS Britannic when it hit a mine. And she was also on the RMS Titanic when it hit the iceberg. Coincidences happen. I’ll see you at four.”

  She ended the call. Arthur stripped and while showering, decided to never go boating with Violet Jessop.

  * * *

  He arrived at The Pearl a few minutes before four. Traffic had nearly made him late this time. He ran to the lift and urged it upward as fast as it could carry him. Being early was one thing, but being late… He marveled at how well-trained he was. She’d broken him down faster than he’d imagined possible; now, on their fifth date—if you could call it a date—Arthur was powerless against her.

  And he loved it.

  He was being foolish. What would happen to him once their pact was over? Every time he considered asking her if she thought there could be something more between them, he remembered her words—over my dead body—and gave up on that dream. It was easier for both of them to keep their emotional distance. Their relationship had an expiry date, anyway, regardless of the ten nights they’d negotiated for. When January rolled around, he would be leaving to serve his country.

  The door to the penthouse was open. Immediately, the hair on the nape of his neck picked up. Another intruder? He called out for Regan, but there was no answer.

  When he stepped inside, he saw that she was sitting on the terrace. He breathed a deep sigh and locked the door behind him.

  Hanging above the fireplace mantel was a new painting—a woman in a fine blue afternoon gown, sitting at a table on a garden terrace, looking at the viewer, an invitation to have tea with her.

  The same scene Regan had set up on her own terrace.

  Regan was sitting at a small round table outside, a white tea set before her. Her dark-blue dress was ankle-length, but it had a slit that revealed her lovely thighs. He opened the door and let himself onto the terrace.

  The sun was out, though clouds threatened in the east. And it was warm, warm enough he was more than comfortable in his light jacket. The garden terrace was far more welcoming by day and without a bloodthirsty raven perched on the railing. The small trees and ferns out here were so thickly clustered, he and Regan could have sex out here without anyone seeing. Like a little sky-high Garden of Eden.

  Regan took her sunglasses off and pushed them up onto her head. She glanced at her watch. “One minute late,” she said. “You’ll be punished for that. You may pour.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘Hello, how do you do?’” he asked playfully.

  “Hello,” she said. “You’re late. Sit.”

  With a graceful—yet somehow still sarcastic—wave of her hand, she indicated that she would allow him the honor of sitting in the chair opposite her.

  He was about to apologize, but something in her grey glinting eyes told him it would only mean digging himself a deeper hole. Arthur sat and picked up the teapot, poured two cups. He had to admit he liked seeing her like this, full of mischief and malice. Even if it was directed at him. Who was he kidding? Especially if it was directed at him.

  “I saw the painting you hung over the fireplace,” he said. “That’s our artwork we’re role-playing today?”

  “Eva Gonzalèz,” she said. “French Impressionist painter. She studied under Manet, his only formal student, he saw such promise in her.” Regan lifted her teacup and took a sip. “Died at age thirty-four—in childbirth.”

  “That’s tragic,” Arthur said. “I imagine that was the fate of a lot of female artists.”

  “We could spend all afternoon listing the names of talented women who died in childbirth before they could make their mark on the world, but that wouldn’t make for very pleasant conversation.”

  “I didn’t know you were capable of pleasant conversation,” Arthur said. “Not complaining. Just stating a fact.”

  “Only because you like when I torment you.”

  “Tea and sandwiches and cake aren’t my idea of torment,” he said. “Maybe you should take some lessons from Vlad the Impaler or the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Your girlfriend Wendy fucked your brother, didn’t she?”

  Arthur sat back in his chair, but didn’t answer.

  “There’s a girl here, Lily,” Regan went on. “She was Charlie’s favorite. She and I had a talk this morning about some things he’d said to her. My God…that must have hurt, didn’t it? Your first girlfriend takes your virginity and then fucks your baby brother.”

  “Maybe the Spanish Inquisition could take lessons from you,” he said.

  She rested her elbow on the chair arm, her chin on her hand, the picture of beauty and innocence. A picture that was worth a thousand lies.

  He’d been stupidly happy to hear from her today. God, he was an idiot. Did he really think he could make her like him by sheer charm and willpower?

  She smiled at him. “Do you think I wanted you here just for afternoon tea?” she said. “I’m tired of knowing everything about you but still knowing nothing.”

  “Imagine how I feel.”

  “I don’t care how you feel, only how I feel.”

  “Just when I’m starting to think you’re human.”

  “I can’t afford to be human,” she said. “Tell me. What happened with Wendy? Is it worse than I think?”

  Arthur’s stomach knotted up and lodged in his throat. “She was the daughter of the old curator at one of Mum and Dad’s galleries,” he said. “I met her at a party. My parents threw us together, thought we’d get on. We did. I found out later she’d asked my mother to introduce us. Wendy’s short for—”

  “Gwenivere, yes?”

  “Gwendolyn actually, but close enough. Really, I should have known better, but Mum’s a romantic. She thought it was sweet.”

  “Very sweet. Social climber, I imagine?”

  “Did Charlie say that?”

  “Educated guess. When a girl asks a countess to introduce her to her eldest son, she’s probably not trying to sell him a timeshare in the Maldives.”

  Regan held out her cup, demanding he pour again. He did so and felt a flash of real anger at her. Was it because he didn’t want to dredge up the old agony? Or because he didn’t want to slander Charlie to her? Maybe he just didn’t want Wendy here, with them. And now she was. The clouds moved in. The day was ruined.

  “She was beautiful,” he said, remembering how his sister had said she looked like a younger Billie Piper with brown hair. “And smart. Funny. Mature. She worked at the gallery, too, so it was like she was already an adult. I don’t know if I was in love with her or just sick of being a virgin.”

  “Bit of both I would guess.”

  He shrugged and went on: “We spent hours on the phone, talking, texting. When we had sex the first time two weeks later, it didn’t feel like two weeks. I felt like I’d known her for years. She wasn’t even upset when I was hurting her. We laughed about it. It doesn’t hurt a bloke’s feelings when your girl teases you over having a cock too big. Eventually we made it work.”

  “What went wrong?” Regan’s voice was smooth and cool and clinical, the voice of a psychologist examining a patient.

  “I loved her. First mistake. I trusted her. Second mistake. We spent time with Charlie together. Biggest mistake.”

  “Trusted her with what? Wait.” She lifted her chin off her hand, narrowed her eyes at him. “You told her, didn’t you? What you like?”

  “She asked.”


  “She asked about your sexual fantasies?”

  He nodded.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I…tried to explain it like knights and ladies. How a knight would swear to do anything for his lady, serve her in any way she asked. Basically worship her. I was trying to come around to, you know—being treated the way you treat me. Tied up or blindfolded or just…servicing her. She said that was very interesting, and she would think about that.”

  “Did she pat you on your head?”

  He turned his teacup on the saucer, turned it round and round but didn’t drink from it. “On her birthday I decided to surprise her, go over to her house, take her flowers. Her Mum let me in, let me sneak upstairs with my stupid bouquet. I was in the hall, outside her door, and heard her in her bedroom, talking to a friend on the phone.”

  He was back in that hallway again, flowers in hand—honeysuckle and roses, the scent of their cloying sweetness tickling his nose.

  God, fuck, why did I have to go and pick the pervert? I think he wants me to tie him up and spank him or something. Should have known. That entire family is just a load of whores. Even the mother. Especially the mother.

  Silence followed as her friend on the phone said something in reply. Then Wendy laughed and spoke again.

  Yes, he’s gorgeous but no one’s that gorgeous. Nearly killed me not to laugh in his face. Like, really?

  Silence again.

  You’re right. The brother seems normal, at least. And he’s mad about me already. Boys that age are so easy. You give them one smile, and they think you want to have their babies. At least if I ever need cash, I have something I can blackmail a future earl with. “Hand it over, Arthur, or I’m telling the world you like being spanked by girls.”

  “Then she laughed,” Arthur said. “She laughed and laughed and laughed.”

  Regan stared at him without expression.

  “For the record,” Arthur continued, trying to make light of it so she wouldn’t see how mortified he’d been, “I have no interest in being spanked. Slapped, maybe, but not spanked.”