Read Online Addicted by Charlotte Featherstone - Free Book Online Page A

ladies lying about, makes the scene that much more debauched, don’t you think? That ought to make the old goat twist in his grave. But enough of my father, the duke. Come and have a drink, old boy,” Wallingford slurred drunkenly. “We’ll only have so much longer before we shall have to return to my father’s insipid ball. We’ll need fortification.”
    “I’ll pass.” Lindsay watched as Wallingford reached for the hand of a young serving girl dressed in silks and veils. He pulled her atop his lap, his claret sloshing over the rim of his goblet, landing on the young lady’s exposed cleavage.
    “Oh, look,” Wallingford drawled, his eyes glistening wickedly. “A new way to sip your evening tipple.”
    Male laughter erupted in the room as Wallingford bent hishead to the girl’s bosom and licked the trickling red liquor as it dribbled between her breasts. Instead of acting shocked, the girl, obviously a professional courtesan, giggled and clutched his face to her décolletage.
    “Come, let us see what else we can have dribbling between these,” Wallingford purred as he raised himself onto unsteady feet, his gaze never leaving the large ivory mounds of the courtesan’s breasts.
    Lindsay looked away from the departing couple. He had witnessed more drunken debauchery at his father’s hands than he cared to recount. He had no wish to see Wallingford make an ass of himself—nor had he a wish to follow him down the drunken path of nothingness.
    Searching the room and seeing that several other men had sequestered themselves with other willing women, Lindsay sighed and plucked the incense stick from the wood-and-brass holder. Waving it under his nose, he let the curling tendrils caress his skin before inhaling the scent, dissecting the pungent fragrance like a connoisseur. The aroma was rich, earthy with a touch of moss and sandalwood. Definitely Turkish. Nothing smelled quite as potent as Turkish opium.
    Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the settee, glancing at the clock. It was not quite midnight. He had a bit longer yet before he would meet Anais on the terrace. He thought about her and how she had looked standing naked before him in the stable. What a beauty she had been with her honey-blond hair lying loose around her shoulders and her wide blue eyes, eyes that were always full of life and mischief. Mentally he conjured up the memory of her full, rose-tipped breasts and the delightfully rounded mound of her belly. He had not spent enough time worshiping her belly, nor had he allowed himself to linger over the soft space between her thighs.
    He had stared at the soft triangle of space where her lush thighs grazed together and the downy curls of her mons connected. It was a mysterious space, a place where he was drawn, a place for his mouth, his fingers, his cock. Lord, but he was hungry for her. He’d had her twice two nights ago. Instead of abating his desire, it had only fuelled his need for her.
    How long it had been since he’d desired to have her in his bed? He’d been sixteen. That was how long he’d been fantasizing about Anais. Fourteen long, agonizing years—seeing her, hearing her, being next to her. So many years of yearning, of imagining her face on the women he’d bedded.
    He’d waited too long, he sighed, tossing the used stick atop the table. He’d wasted too many years. But he’d been uncertain—of her and himself.
    Up until two nights ago, he hadn’t known what she truly thought of him. Her letters to him while he was away at Cambridge had always been warm and personal while staying just on the side of propriety. He hadn’t been able to glean what truly lay inside her heart, although he had spent many a night rereading every letter she had sent him, searching for the slightest sign that she returned his affection.
    He in turn had started countless letters, declaring his love for her, his physical need for her. But he’d only balled them up and flung them into the fire,