Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3) (22 page)

He laid his other hand along her collarbone in
what could only be called a blatant, sexually possessive manner. The skin
crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so slightly.

Something had just happened. She didn’t
understand what it was. If only she could think, she would be able to reason it
out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and flowed out between
her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex throbbed as if it
were a beating heart.

Coherent thought was impossible.

He shifted and throbbing heat seared her, even
through their clothing.

His erection.

Its long, thick weight was more substantial
than William’s.

Ruel brushed his fingers against her back.
Tugging, pulling.

Undoing her laces.

She froze and placed her hands on his chest.
“Don’t.”

The gown slipped and she automatically clutched
the dark purple silk to herself.

He took hold of her wrists, easily circling
them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let the gown fall away.”

He used the voice. The one from the dreams she
only reluctantly admitted to herself. The very confident, commanding tone that
the nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover
who would press her down and—

“I want you to remove the rest of your garments
and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”

She threw a glance at the divan, her favourite
spot in this whole house. The image his words conjured—her, lying naked on the
crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt into her brain. Her inner muscles
contracted several times—hard. The folds between her legs swelled and grew
slicker.

Of course, despite her wayward dreams, she
didn’t really want to do something like that.

Couldn’t possibly.

She barely knew Ruel. Yet there was that innate
sense that she could trust him. That she could give in to his whims and it
would be safe. A secret shared between them. Temptation tingled through her,
increasing with every beat of her heart.

Reckless.

She had never been reckless in her life. A
trembling began in her legs.

She turned back to him. His features were tight
with desire, his stare commanding and compelling. She wanted to be reckless
with this man.

“The door is locked. The others aren’t going to
come in here—the gentlemen are all occupied with fencing and the ladies are
busy with their watercolours.”

She’d never allow herself the luxury of
surrendering to this. For this was pure emotion and it would be giving him too
much of herself.

“I won’t do it.” She had intended to make her
tone resolute. That thready, pleading voice couldn’t possibly be hers.

“It would please me.” His firm tone sent a new
wave of lassitude through her limbs.

Need twisted in her lower stomach and a fresh
cascade of wetness slicked her intimate folds. It slid down her inner thighs.

Wait—How had they come to this moment? Where
the devil was the reserve and sexual coolness that had driven William into
other arms? This virtual stranger held some kind of special power over her.
God. It was unthinkable. It was terrifying.

“No.” Her strident denial echoed jarringly in
her ears.

He released her wrists.

She pulled the gown up high and clutched it
tight. She wanted to run. She should run. But his large, strong body still
stood between her and the exit. Would he really attempt to stop her if she
tried to flee? Her heart pounded at the thought. Because she knew that if he
put his hands on her and stopped her, especially if he did it as forcefully and
firmly as he’d behaved thus far, she’d melt for him.

What a revelation! She’d never suspected such a
creature existed in her secret heart, waiting for someone to come along and
draw her out.

“You’d better leave now.” She pushed the words
past her shaking lips.

Also
from Natasha Blackthorne

The
Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne

Intimate
Secrets (Book One)

Catriona,
Lady Blayne is recovering from a most delicate situation. Driven to the brink
of madness by love for her late husband, a young man too ill to meet the
demands of the marriage bed, she teeters on the brink of scandal. Now she must
face the carnal temptation personified by her husband’s cousin and heir, James,
the new Lord Blayne. His sensual appeal, contrasted with his iron will and
stern self-mastery fascinates her. She can’t help but ask: what if sensual
indulgence is the only way out of her darkness? However, she is not free to
explore the idea. There are those who seek to control the young widow, keeping
her imprisoned through emotional manipulation and physical coercion. With her
growing restlessness, the very people she loves and trusts the most are
becoming an increasing danger to her sanity and safety.

James
is determined to protect Catriona—but he will not soften to her again. She
rejected him once and James can’t risk losing his heart a second time. As heir
to the Blayne baronetcy, he must marry a woman socially and politically
appropriate. Such a scandalously self-indulgent lady as Catriona won’t do. Yet
the pretty girl he once knew has grown into a beautiful, curvaceous woman that
is every man’s dream.

Especially
his.

Erotic
Romance; Regency Historical; Elements of Sensual Domination, Spanking and Light
Bondage; Rubenesque Heroine; Character-Driven Story with Angst and Strong
Internal Conflicts; Standalone Long Novel.

Reader
Advisory: The characters discuss issues of abuse which took place in the
heroine’s backstory. Frank sexual language & period appropriate sexual
slang and general bedchamber naughtiness.

She
had escaped her captors. Those who watched her.
Now Sunny stood by James’ bed, listening to the distant chime of the clock in
the vestibule.

One
single chime.

Soft
snores issued from between his parted, sensual lips. Despite the late hour, he
still wore a shirt and trousers. His collar lay open.

She
picked up the hem of her nightdress and pulled it up, over her head, then
tossed it aside. Cool air made gooseflesh erupt all over her. Tightened her
nipples. She shivered then noticed a bottle on the night table. She picked it
up and sniffed it. Whisky.

She hated whisky. But her mouth and throat were so hellishly dry. She put the
bottle to her lips and took a tentative swig, coughing and sputtering then
shuddering as the burn of liquor spread through her. The fire was thrilling.
Stimulating. Forbidden to her. She took another drink. And another. When the
bottle was drained, she replaced it on the night table. The bottle teetered and
she caught it. The chamber seemed to tilt and turn.

She
closed her eyes and licked her lips, waiting for the giddiness to ease. But it
wasn’t passing too quickly, so she sat on his bed. Though the bed rocked, he
made no sign that he’d noticed.

She
considered the way he lay in the bed, as though he had flung himself there. She
frowned. What cause had he to drink himself to sleep? Was he troubled by
something?

What
could possibly affect a Rock of Gibraltar that much?

He
groaned softly in his sleep.

She
smoothed the hair off his forehead, lingering a moment over the surprisingly
silky texture of the inky black strands.

She
slid her hand down the crisp linen shirt, down to the bare, hard flatness of
his abdomen.

Once
again, James moaned in his sleep. Sunny lay beside him and leaned close to his
face. He snored softly between slightly parted lips and the scent of whisky and
musky male sweat overwhelmed her.

She
placed her mouth on his. His lips were soft yet firm. She pressed her lips to
his more passionately. The lack of response sent a wave of frustration through
her. She slid her hand down the cool linen of his shirt, down to where the
shirt ended. The warmth of his flesh, the hardness of his muscled stomach, the
line of coarse hair, it all set her pulses pounding.

She
slid her hand further down, down, down, edging beneath the waistband of his
trousers, searching until her fingers met the coarser, prickling hair and then
the smooth warmth of his cock.

She
caught her breath.

His
erection swelled against her hand, making things very confined beneath his
fall.

He
groaned.

She
did her best to stroke him in the limited space.

He
groaned louder, harsher, rolling towards her. He grasped her hair, and the
brush of his fingers sent tingling chills down the back of her neck. His hold
tightened and he held her head in his grip.

Dull
pain spread over her scalp and gooseflesh erupted along her nape, down her back.
The sensation made her nipples harden and ache. She arched her back, pressing
against his chest. The crisp linen of his shirt abraded her tight peaks. He
pressed his lips to hers more firmly, definitely changing the balance of power
between them.

She
was no longer kissing him; he was kissing her.

Intense,
delicious pressure.

He
slid his hands down her back.

His
touch sent waves of shivering pleasure through her. She writhed and the crisp
linen of his shirt stimulated her nipples, sending sparks of fire shooting down
deep into her belly. He slid his hands down to cup her buttocks, holding her
writhing body still. Pressing her to his erection.

He
was huge and so hard.

“Wench,”
he muttered.

Did
he think she was a tavern wench? Is that what pleased him?

He
thrust his hips, grinding his throbbing heat against her aching nub. She was
growing wetter and wetter, dampening the skin between her thighs.

He
kissed her more intensely, the taste of whisky and carnal fire on his tongue as
he stroked it against hers, sweeps of wet, sensual velvet. The stubble on his
cheek scraped hers. She thrust her tongue back against his. He gripped her hair
harder and deepened the kiss, in his ardor sucking away her breath.

She
put her hands to his chest and pushed.

He
lifted his mouth.

“James…,”
she said breathlessly. Inside she was tingling, her blood thrumming. She gulped
for air, still tasting the exquisite, fiery elixir of his kiss and wanting
more. His whole body went stiff.

“Sunny?”
His voice rang with disbelief.

He
pulled away.

“No,
no…” She grasped his shoulders and tugged with all her might to bring him back.

He
propelled her from his body and spun her to face away from him so fast that her
stomach lurched and the chamber seemed to spin. She gasped, trying to catch her
breath, to regain her bearings. His cock pressed against the softness of her
buttocks, rock hard and pulsing heat. She arched backwards, pressing herself
against that glorious erection.

He
shoved her further away from him…

His
hands were like bands of iron, holding her wrists.

She
tried to turn in his arms but he held her fast.

“Hold…still.”
His words came between heavy pants.

She
struggled all the harder but, truth told, she relished in his restraint.

It
made her feel safe.

Odd,
the restraints Dr. Meeker used when administering treatments never made her
feel safe. They were a torment to her.

Confusion
made her feel dizzy once more, and dry-mouthed fear tingled to life within her.
The urge to flee sent her into an erratic beat and she wrenched her arms,
trying now with desperation to free herself. She kicked backwards and shrieked
a curse at him.

He
seemed to freeze for a moment. Had she shocked him?

She
kicked and pulled harder. One of her wrists came free, her arm flying free. She
turned, halfway, and on instinct, let her hand continue flying. It made sharp
stinging contact with his chest where his shirt gaped open.

His
grip tightened on her remaining arm. Fear-fueled rage energized her. She
reached for his face, clawing him.

His
curse burnt her ears.

Something
made contact with her buttock. The sound echoed sharply in the room. Shock hit
her, made her freeze. In the next moment, a fiery sting spread over her bottom.

Rage
overtook her fear, so strong, she screamed with it and kicked her legs and beat
at his chest with her fists.

She
cursed him roundly, demanding that he let her leave. Now.

He
laid several more spanks on her posterior. Several very sharp spanks. Stinging
pain spread over her buttocks.

She
whimpered, stunned into stillness for the moment.

Still
holding one wrist, he rolled her onto her back and flung a leg over hers,
locking her into place.

She
tried to resist him again but she was growing tired, her struggling becoming
more like flailing.

And
the maddening thing was, he simply watched her.

Watched
her fight, watched her grow weaker.

Eventually,
she went limp in his arms. Exhausted.

“What
the devil, Sunny?”

“Let
me go!”

“You
want to go?” he asked, as though she hadn’t just spoken clear English.