Angel in Scarlet Read Free

chuckled. The snug fit of his sky blue satin breeches left no doubt about his feelings for her. Rarin’ to go, he was, bulgin’ against his breeches like a randy stallion and hard as a rock.
    Some people might wonder how, at twelve, I knew so much about such matters. Well, raised in the country you couldn’t help knowin’ about ’em with bulls and cows and stallions and mares and other animals copulatin’ all over the place. A person’d have to be blind. Too, country folk are a lot more frank about sexual matters than town folk. Right bawdy, they are, always talkin’ about who’s doin’ what to whom and how often. In addition to that, I read every chance I got, and Father had never tried to keep me from reading certain books. We owned all the novels of Samuel Richardson and Henry Fielding and Daniel Defoe—I’d read Roxana and Moll Flanders before I was ten, Tom Jones , too, and you got quite an education from books like that. We also had the complete works of Aphra Behn, and there were things in there that’d make you blush right to the roots of your hair. I’m not sayin’ I under stood it all, but I knew what was what and then some. Eppie Dawson couldn’t hold a candle when it came to such knowledge, even if she was already bleedin’.
    â€œI’m very glad you did come,” Clinton Meredith crooned. “It’s my birthday, you know. I deserve a special present.”
    â€œI—I really must get back,” the lady protested, though I could tell wild horses wouldn’t have made her budge an inch. She was breathing rapidly, breasts heaving against dark blue velvet, and her shoulders were trembling slightly. Oh, she was every bit as excited as he was. It just wasn’t as obvious with a woman. I clutched the tree limb with arms and knees, peering down through the frame of leaves. Both of ’em were all primed up for humpin’. Would they? I could hardly believe my luck.
    â€œNo one’ll see us here,” he said. “They’re all on the other side of the house, drinking champagne, eating cakes. Don’t be shy, Laura love. Here, give us a kiss.”
    He took hold of her arm and pulled her to him and Laura looked horrified and tried to pull back and he chuckled again and wrapped his arms around her and gave her a rousing kiss, bending her at the waist, fairly devouring her lips with his. I’d never actually seen anyone kissing like that, except in the erotic engravings, and it was something to see, I can tell you. She kept struggling and trying to get free and he kept tightening his arms around her and swinging her to and fro, their lips glued together the whole time, and it was more like they were wrestling than showing affection.
    When he finally let her go she looked all weak and helpless and he looked triumphant and pleased with himself and she sank down on the marble bench and stared at her lap and he moved around behind her, smiling to himself, his eyes full of … of something I couldn’t quite recognize. It was like he was the hunter and she was the prey and he had her in his sights and was ready for the kill. He leaned down and curled one arm around her slender white throat, drawing her back, resting his cheek against hers, and his free hand reached around and slid into the bodice of her dress and one of those large, milky teats popped out with his fingers curled around it, squeezing the soft flesh. The nipple was bright pink and seemed to grow, seemed to strain as his thumb and forefinger pinched it.
    Jemminy! It was exactly like one of them engravings come to life: him in satin and lace, her in velvet, him leerin’, her pantin’ with lips parted, eyes closed, long silky lashes flutterin’ against her cheeks like tiny black fans. He squeezed her nipple harder and she moaned and arched her back and it looked like they were going to start copulatin’ any minute now. Eppie Dawson was