Sin (18 page)

“I have no idea.”

“And there’s Sarah,” she continued, “Well, Sarah did not strangle Lydia. She was hanging upside down with candles in her derriere and—”

A discrete knock sounded on the connecting door. “It’s ready, milord,” called a feminine voice, and then another door—the one from his room to the hallway—clicked shut.

Marcus’s heart pounded, blood roaring in his head, rushing to his cock. “Enough for now. Come with me, Vee.”

“But we must—” She broke off as he lifted her into his arms.

Venetia gasped in surprise as Marcus carried her into the opulent dressing room attached to his bedroom.

An enormous claw-footed bathtub stood in the center, thick towels piled around it. Steam rose from the water and hung in the now humid and hot room. The fire roared, so one wouldn’t be chilled while bathing. Lit wall sconces added a golden glow to the reddish, sensual light of the fire. Drapes were drawn shut, closing out the dull and dreary outside world. Closing out the loud, driving storm—the shrieking wind, the explosions of thunder, the pounding rain.

Closing out past tragedy and looming disaster.

Her heart raced as he set her on her feet. “But we must assess our suspects and—”

“You’ve had too many shocks today, love. I wish I could get you out of here. Send you somewhere safe.”

“I wouldn’t go. Protecting my family is my responsibility, not yours.”

For a moment, there were shadows in Marcus’ eyes, but then he smiled wryly. “We are both covered in soot. We can’t appear in front of the others like this. I insist we bathe.”

“Together?”

“A warm bath, a loving embrace is the best medicine for shock. Searching for murderers is not.” He was laying his jacket over the back of a wing chair. His white shirtsleeves and pale waistcoat set off his lightly tanned skin, his blue-black hair. He was unspeakably beautiful. Worthy of a thousand portraits.

His eyes twinkled wickedly. “I am looking forward to ensuring you are deliciously clean. Everywhere.”

She watched his long-fingered hands undo the simple knot of cravat, then toss the starched cloth, and quickly open his waistcoat. He smiled and motioned toward her buttons, which ran down the front of her day dress. “We should get in before the water cools.”

Her breath caught at the thought. “Am I to wash you?” She wanted to. Wanted to touch him everywhere with soapy hands.

He began to peel down his small clothes. A smile tugged at her lips as he carefully worked them over his erect cock. It wobbled, bucked up toward the sky. He gave it a stroke as he stepped out of his underclothes.

She wanted to lose herself in this exotic moment. She whisked off her gown, light demi-corset, her shift.

He straightened, nude, sleekly muscled. As perfect as a statue of a male god. “Turn around as you roll down your stockings. I love the sight of your naked derriere.”

His eyes were brilliantly blue-green, his hot gaze scorching her. It wasn’t his title that made her obey. Or his lordly dominance. It was the knowledge that she excited him.

Suddenly, she realized she could think of them as just Marcus and Venetia—not rake and innocent, earl and commoner, peer and artist. A man and a woman…a woman who needed comforting arms and a man well capable of providing them.

She presented her bare rear and slowly rolled down her silk stockings. Nude, she turned to face him. His eyes blazed with desire as he swept his gaze along her body. He held out his hand and led her to the tub. Even the sight of his bare feet was strangely erotic. Her breath caught as she watched his snug rump flex and relax with each step, the cheeks hollowing to hard, tight globes.

His strong hands slipped around her waist. In one easy motion he lifted her over the side of the tub and lowered her in. Luxuriant heat teased her toes, then they dipped into the steamy water.

He held her there, his biceps bulging into large mounds. “Is the water right?”

“Blissfully perfect,” she breathed and at her approval, he lowered her in. She held tight to his muscled forearms as she sank down onto her bottom. Her fingers touched the raised lines of veins, tangled in his dark, silky hairs.

It was sheer heaven to be engulfed by the hot, spice-scented water. The tub was so deep that water lapped at her shoulders and her breasts floated. Her nipples tightened and the dangling tendrils of her hair dampened. Her hair swirled in the water, tickling her neck and shoulders.

Marcus reached down and cupped her cheek. His thumb traced her lips, and she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and took his thumb into her mouth. Sucked it, licked it, watching his eyes all the while. In the rich golden glow, his eyes were like flawless aquamarines—the color she still had yet to capture exactly.

He slung his leg over the edge of the tub. She released his thumb, moved to give him room.

And then he was in with her, lowering his beautiful body beneath the silvery, rippling surface. A sigh of pure pleasure escaped his lips as he sank down. He tipped his head back, letting the water soak into his raven-black hair. The steaming water covered his chest to his hard, brown nipples. His black curls plastered to his broad chest. Groaning, he ran his wet hands over his hair, slicking it back. Droplets sprayed on her and landed on his high cheekbones, his sculpted lips.

He dropped his hands back to the water, and swept his arms through it, to rest them on the sides of the massive tub. Waves lapped over, her breasts bobbed in the water. She glanced down to see that his cock waved in the water too as Marcus shifted and reached for a cake of soap. He grinned. “You are a truly delicious sight when wet, Vee.”

Men saw the same sight with different eyes than a woman. When she had bathed in a few inches of tepid water in a tin tub back home, she had felt more like a drowned rat than a vision. But Marcus, nude and wet, would be beautiful in any setting.

He lathered soap on his hands until a white froth covered them. An exotic jasmine scent filled the air.

“Flowery soap for a gentleman’s bath?”

“It was known I wouldn’t be alone.” Water sloshed over the tub’s rim as he slid over to her. She held her breath as he washed her shoulders and her neck. As he dabbed froth on her nose and chin. As his smile wrapped around her heart like a warm embrace.

He covered her breasts with his soapy hands. She sighed with unspeakable delight. With great attention, he washed them. He cupped and stroked them, until they must be squeaky clean, but he didn’t stop. Foam covered her nipples—he blew it away. She felt the brush of his breath through every nerve, in the throbbing of her cunny.

“May I wash your chest now? Is there any soap appropriate for you?”

With a laugh, he took another cake of soap off a towel and handed it to her. A fresh bar that smelled of sandalwood. As she turned in the tub, lathering her hands, she realized they would carry this scent, the scent he would wear.

Shyly, she pressed her hands to his chest. She roamed over his pectoral muscles and felt his nipples harden beneath her fingertips. Daringly, she even washed the long, soft hairs in his underarms, and sighed at the earthy, intoxicating scent there.

He groaned at that, and then she swept her hands up, to his magnificently straight shoulders, perfectly proportioned, perfectly symmetrical. She had to move closer to him, and he spread his legs to allow her knees to slide closer. There it was. A small scar that her fingers had found.

“A beating,” he said.

“With what?”

“Riding crop. Broke the skin.”

“A sexual game?”

“No. My father’s rage.” He turned his head to kiss her hand as she made soapy circles on his shoulders.

She could see he was trying to distract her. It must hurt him to speak of it. She washed his right arm, amazed as she always was by the hardness of his biceps. All the black hairs on his forearm streamed down his lightly tanned skin. She stroked his wrist—was it as sensitive as hers?

He moaned as she washed him there, then massaged his palm.

“I love your touch, Vee. You are truly an artist in sensual matters.”

He so easily touched her heart. He soaped his hands again. Slick with suds, his hands gently washed her belly.

He winked. “Now, sweeting, you will have to stand so I can wash between your thighs.”

To support herself, she had to brace her hands on his shoulders. He rubbed soap through her curls until they were frothy with it, then splashed warm water on her to rinse. The water teased her clit, dripped off her lips, rolled in tickling rivulets down her thighs.

He gazed up, locks of blue-black hair plastered to his forehead. Droplets of water clung to his long, curving lashes. Venetia arched her hips forward. In answer he grabbed her bottom and pulled her cunny tight to his face. His lashes closed completely, his tongue danced over her clit, lapped, then circled with long, strong strokes.

She loved this…the hard pressure, pushing, abrading…

He coaxed her foot up. Unsteady, she balanced it on the rim, then his strong hands held her derriere, giving her the confidence to open herself to his questing tongue.

He licked her everywhere—her clit, her lips, her passage. He dropped his head back, lifted her onto his face and licked the rim of her anus, around the soapy outside. Shivers of pleasure consumed her. If he stopped holding her, she would fall.

She was drowning in this. She bent forward, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

He found her clit once more, suckling, mercilessly teasing.

She closed her eyes. Water splashed. Rivulets ran from her lips, nipples, fingertips, down her thighs, teasing her skin. She rocked over his mouth, knowing now what she wanted. No longer content to linger and explore.

This was heaven—to hold beautiful shoulders, to feel like a queen while taking pleasure with the most gorgeous earl in existence…

But it was so much more.

His fingers drove into the soft skin of her buttocks as his tongue played. He pulled her against him in the rhythm she wanted. Needed. She danced with him. Driving. Pushing.

Pleasure grew, built, burst—!

The orgasm rippled over her, lush, vibrant, perfect. She sobbed with it. Grasped wet, raven hair. Held him tight, through the mad swaying of her body. Through the wild pleasure. Bone-melting pleasure.

She feared she might fall, but he lowered her carefully.

“Now you must stand while I wash you,” she urged.

With a surprisingly shy grin, Marcus obeyed. Water sluiced off his lean hips and long legs as he stood. A steady stream ran off down his cock and dripped from his tightened ballocks.

Venetia tried to commit the sight to memory. To paint—for her own pleasure.

The soap made her hands slippery and she slid her palms along the length of his cock, tracing bulging veins, the fascinating shape. He moaned and shut his eyes at her touch.

Splashing water along him, she rinsed him clean.

The cheval mirror reflected them. His gaze went from her to the mirror and back, hot, admiring, lustful. She grasped his hips, toyed with his cock with only her tongue. He tasted of soap. The lush, ripe taste of his cock had been washed away and she ached for it. Even his balls, usually earthy and rich, tasted of clean water and fragrant sandalwood.

Clutching his hips, she took one of his ballocks into her mouth and held him there, swirling her warm tongue around its delicate shape. She stroked his anus, toyed with his cock, then teasingly released his sac and gobbled up his cock once more. Wantonly determined to please.

His fingers clawed through her hair. His hips thrust.

She sucked him deep, as deep as she could, sliding his length in and out. She wanted to pleasure him. It excited her to please.

He moaned hoarsely. Threaded his fingers in her hair and gently acted as guide. “I love your tongue wrapped around me like velvet. God—”

He began drawing himself in and out, urged her to bob on him. He murmured, so low she barely heard, “I love fucking your face, sweet angel.”

So deliciously coarse. She groaned around him. She found his tight anus, his ballocks, and teased both. Suddenly, his cock swelled in her mouth. The head grew taut, bursting taut. With a rush, his come spurted onto her tongue, into her mouth.

She drank it, sucking it all out, and he collapsed forward. “Vee, you know how to make me your slave.”

He was so tender with her afterward. He lifted her from the tub, wrapped her in the embrace of a thick white, warm towel. She stood before the blazing fire while he fashioned a smaller towel into a turban around her hair. “There.” He let the towel drape on her shoulders and nibbled her ear lobe.

She turned in his arms, still holding the towel tight. He wore a matching one draped around his hips, the lean bones of his hips jutting above it.

He began to massage her towel against her skin, drying the dampness. He rubbed it against her quim in a way that made her legs shudder. He dried with extra care between the cheeks of her bottom.

“You make me forget,” he said softly, “I’m supposed to be a reformed rake, Vee. There is something about you that tempts me as no woman has ever done.”

“I don’t believe that,” she whispered. She didn’t want him to think he had to make those romantic statements a rake always did.

“You condemn me for being a rake, don’t you? You are judging me on what I was.”

Yes, she was. But that was how a clever woman protected herself. He had been a rake, he would continue to be a rake. He would
always
be a rake.

“I have never known greater intimacy with anyone, Vee, than I’ve known in just a few days with you.”

I’ve never known greater intimacy with anyone than I’ve known with you.

Venetia stared at the blank page facing her. Her hand, holding the charcoal to the pristine white surface, trembled. Marcus thought she was napping in her room, but she could not sleep. She flipped back to her sketches of the orgy. She began to work on those, to add more detail to the quick, loose pictures she’d created. It soothed her to draw. Gave her comfort. Let her gain control of her shock, her whirling thoughts and emotions.