Diamonds in the Rough

No matter how much she wanted to fuck Wilson, and how much her body—satiated or otherwise—cried out for him, it simply could not occur. And she had a shrewd suspicion he wouldn’t even ask her to oblige.

Despite their thorny history, her cousin had never seemed to doubt her intelligence. Seven years ago they’d been a pair of blundering, clueless ingenues, but now they were both adults. And well informed, both with a clear idea of the results and repercussions of heedless rutting. Wilson might be arrogant, manipulative, impatient of those less brilliant than himself, but he wasn’t an unfeeling beast. Which, it had to be said, some men in society were.

Wilson would never expect her to put herself in real jeopardy to satisfy his lust.

At Sofia Chamfleur’s discreet establishment for women, devices of rubber were employed. French letters, which ensured there were no unfortunate consequences to secret pleasure. Adela even possessed a small tin containing several of these essential and useful items herself, although thus far, she’d never contemplated needing them outside the walls of Sofia’s quiet Hampstead mansion. Simply having them at all was a defiance. A secret way to thumb her nose at a society that seemed expressly fashioned for the advantage of men over women, despite a member of her own sex on the throne. They were a talisman of the freer life to which she aspired, and to some extent actively pursued.

But with no French letters about her person at the moment, she would have to take Wilson in hand if she planned to bring him off.

Finally managing to stir herself, Adela straightened up. The black swathes of her skirt dropped neatly into place, and apart from her unbuttoned bodice, she appeared decent.

Working on doing up her buttons, her fingers shook. Pleasurable aftershocks, and the heat in her rear made her fumble. Wilson’s sharp, pale eyes followed her every tiny movement, and that didn’t help, either. He was still close enough for her to feel his breath upon her, and leaning on the desk, with his hands in his trouser pockets, he made no attempt whatsoever to hide his erection. Ever contrary, he seemed to be flaunting it.

“I expect you want me to do something about that?” Adela nodded at the excitement in his trousers. No use prevaricating.

“That would be most pleasant. Most pleasant indeed.” Wilson’s voice was bland, but his face was more telling. A strange amalgam of a cool scientific, detachedly observing his own physical phenomenon...and infuriating masculine smugness. They were all like that, men. The handsome boys at Sofia’s house were inordinately proud of their own equipage, even dedicated as they were to the service and pleasuring of women. Something Wilson would readily discover if he reneged on their agreement and opened her portfolio.

There were sketches of Yuri and Clarence and Lionel—her three favorites—among her drawings, all in a blatant state of nudity and arousal. These works were destined for the pages of the journal Divertissements, or as commissions by private buyers, regular and wealthy patronesses of the beaux in question, all of whom had generous funds at their disposal.

This secret career as “Isis,” the noted erotic artist, was how Adela had been clandestinely bridging the gap between the pittance allowed to her mother, herself and her sisters by her eccentric, misogynistic grandfather...and Mrs. Ruffington’s social aspirations, and the maintenance of a standard of living to which she was accustomed. Adela might be frugal in respect of her own requirements, and young Marguerite was naturally wise, but Mama and Sybil hadn’t a clue about money, except how to spend it.

Adela’s art income was a necessity, and she couldn’t jeopardize it by revealing its provenance to Wilson.

She decided on a direct frontal attack. The best way to distract even a polymath genius, if that genius was male. “I won’t fuck you, so you can forget about that.”

“I don’t expect you to, Della. I wouldn’t want to compromise you with a babe out of wedlock.”

Adela looked sharply at him. He’d edged a few inches away from her now, but seemed to have retreated much farther than that. His voice was cold and his eyes looked angry. About to speak, Adela hesitated. What had caused the sudden reaction? Was it simple annoyance? Or pain? What?

“Hah, if Mama were here, she’d probably throw you bodily onto me thirty seconds after she’d finished screeching and wailing and having the vapors because you’d compromised me.” Adela almost laughed. She could imagine such a thing really happening. “Anything to compel you to marry me. It was her primary goal in accepting this weekend’s invitation.”

“I don’t doubt it. But she’ll be disappointed, even if you aren’t.” Wilson’s beautiful mouth thinned into a hard chilly line. It was as if they were right back to those days at Ruffington Hall, when he’d come out with all manner of blunt, apparently unfeeling utterances, sometimes, she suspected, purely for effect. “I don’t plan to marry and I’ll never be a father.”

How can you be sure?

The question balanced on the tip of her tongue, but his silver-blue eyes kept her silent. Had he wanted to sire a child on his mistress, that woman, and been refused? Was that the true cause of their parting?

“Grandfather won’t be pleased. He’s pinning all his hopes on you, now that our line of the family has produced nothing but useless women who drain his resources.”

“Not entirely useless. Not from my standpoint.” Heat stirred in the silver now, like pale hot metal. Clearly, Wilson still possessed his youthful facility to shut away unpleasant thoughts as quickly as they’d occurred. He glanced down at the bulge in his trousers with a mercurial wink.

“You’re atrocious. Indefensible.” Yet Adela still found herself smiling, and drawn to him like iron to a magnet. She flicked her gaze to his groin, wondering, wondering. It was seven long years since she’d seen what lay behind that fine worsted, and no doubt the best quality woolen jersey of his undergarments, but she could still recall every particular detail. Her first ever sight of a man’s rampant member. She’d drawn it from memory often enough.

Oh, dear. I’m weakening.

If Wilson hadn’t been watching her like a raptor, she’d have clutched her hand to her bosom to calm her inner fluttering. He must not know how susceptible she was. She could accept his knowledge of her as a woman of physical needs, but her finer emotions must remain impenetrable.

And for that, she needed to quit this room as soon as possible. Which required that she dispatch Wilson to erotic oblivion as quickly as she was able, and then flee with her portfolio. To stay longer was to risk playing tricks with her mind, and making one afternoon seven years ago into yesterday. Her emotional equilibrium was a hard-won prize, and she wouldn’t sacrifice it for a few moments of dalliance.

She could purchase her dalliances with no attendant complications. To tangle them with Wilson was to flirt with disaster....

* * *

WHY AM I TREMBLING? This is Adela, not Coraline. She’s a cautious spinster nowadays and probably as inept and fumbling as we both were seven years ago. She probably hasn’t seen a cock since she last had her hands on mine.

Used to the sophisticated caresses of Coraline, and before her, a very small number of experienced women, Wilson wasn’t sure what to expect of Adela. Granted, she had a rather unexpected and tantalizing interest in erotica, but with no husband and no suitors that he was aware of, what practical experience could she have had since they’d last been together?

And yet she’d been responsive to his touch. And willing in a way that took his breath away. Her only resistance had been to him, not the pleasure. She’d actively courted his caresses...and the spanking.

As if she’s used to them...

He dropped his hand to his crotch, ready to ply the buttons, but before he could, Adela dashed his fingers away. No dithering near-virgin would be so confident. His heart skipped and his cock throbbed heavily, even while the snake of suspicion stirred.

Where did all this confidence come from? Was there some secret swain in his cousin’s life? He followed the doings of the Ruffington women, but there was no scandal attached to them, nothing of a risqué nature. They lived relatively quietly, and were certainly not a part of any set that he moved in. But to be this assured, Adela must have had her hand on a man in the past seven years, despite her lack of prospects.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” she said crisply, attacking his fly without a hint of hesitation, as if she whipped some lucky fellow out of his trousers on a daily basis.

Wilson clamped his teeth together. Biting down on sudden, twisting jealousy while Adela made short work of his buttons, and then his linen within.

Who the devil has she been toying with? I’ll have to investigate.

Then his resolution dissolved. Warm, assured fingers settled on his flesh and gripped him in a clever light hold, bringing his erect cock out into the cooler air.

No room for thought now. His universe contracted into just a hand and a cock, a woman’s slender grasp caressing his aching flesh. Wilson groaned and braced himself against the desk. His knees seemed to turn to paper, and he could barely stand up. When Adela slid closer, and centered her finger and thumb above and below his glans, his hips bumped forward, pushing his eager loins at her.

“Oh, Della, Della...”

She took his breath away, stroking and teasing, delicately rolling the head of his cock and massaging the sensitive areas with all the skill of a practiced courtesan. Silky fluid flowed from his tip, and he shook his head and closed his eyes as she reached down into his drawers to cup his balls.

Oh, God, he was going to come any second. He wanted to shout, but he knew not what. This torment was too exquisite; he needed more than just an instant’s worth. He wanted it to last, to go on and on. Maybe forever.

Yet still, in one of his mental compartments he was still thinking, frantically thinking, thrashing around for explanations. How in heaven’s name had Adela learned to handle a man like this? Even if she did have a sweetheart, she was no Coraline, no high demimondaine. Yet her touch spoke of a legion of enslaved lovers, discarded yet still begging her to return to them. The shadow of the woman he’d so recently considered marrying hovered over him, but he closed his eyes and compelled her back from whence she’d come, angry, yes, angry that Coraline had intruded at this moment. He didn’t want to think of another woman when the woman he was with could do that with the tip of her finger.

Wilson bit down hard on his lower lip. He had to last, even if Adela was intent on driving him clean over the edge.

“What were you doing in here, Della? Surely you didn’t pick the lock just to play with the praxinoscope?”

His voice was high and strangled, and he couldn’t keep his hips still. They jerked convulsively, wafting forward, seeking more and more of the divine ministrations of his cousin, the unexpected love goddess.

“Oh, so you saw that....” Her fingertips teased and twirled. Wilson fought, fought hard for control. “I’d heard that the earl had a collection of erotica and I wanted to see it. The praxinoscope was simply an amusing bonus.”

“But why would you want to see lewd drawings?” His fingers twitched, preparing to drag her hands off him before he screamed and howled. He wanted to close his own fingers around hers so she never, ever let go. “I would have thought that by now you’d have grown out of youthful curiosity.... It’s not exactly a ladylike interest, is it, erotica?”

Adela’s laugh was sharp and derisory. Her hand stilled. “Good grief, you men. You’re all the same. You have no comprehension of the inner life of a woman.” She gave him a narrow look, one that made him feel small, even while he was rampant. “And I thought that you were different, Wilson. A man of vision...yet it seems you’re just as narrow in your views of women as the rest of your sex.” She started to pull away, but he caught her hands and held them on him.

“Please...please, don’t stop, Della,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I was making unsupported assumptions. It’s just...”

What the hell was she doing to his brain? He couldn’t think straight. The compartments were all collapsing into one blind, yearning mess. Not even Coraline had ever done this.