Sin (21 page)

And they were alone—in his room.

“You could—you could go inside me again.” Seductively, she lifted her hips from the expanse of wrinkled silk, and she swung her lush ass in a tempting circle. Her ass—that had so recently clamped tight around his prick. She kept her face buried in his bed, obviously too shy to ask bluntly for his cock in her arse.

He knelt on the edge of the bed, beside her lovely, naked spread legs. Now he was exploring in a realm where he wasn’t an expert.

He heard the seductive music of her quick, shallow breaths, and it called to him. Lured him. He could have lost her today. A second later—

Bracing his arms on either side of her rounded hips, Marcus ran his tongue over the bountiful expanse of her warm, soft ass cheeks. He licked them thoroughly, from the swell at the base of her spine to the sweet crease between her bottom and the backs of her shapely legs. She squealed and moaned and gripped the sheets. A glance down the length of lovely legs showed her toes curled into the mattress.

She wanted him, as much as he needed her. It was more than her innocence that spoke to his soul. He knew that now.

Heavy as lead, rigid as iron, his cock bobbed as though nodding its approval. He was naked, his prick launching out from his groin, longer and thicker than he’d ever seen it.

He eyed it critically.
Don’t begin to think you make the decisions.

His groin tightened of its own will and his cock lifted again, as though mocking him with another saucy nod.

“Marcus?” Venetia’s voice was soft and hesitant.

The servants had brought both the vial of oil and their chests of toys here. All stood on the bedside table, the glass winking and the brass gleaming like gold in the muted candlelight.

He left the bed. Lifting the lid of the box, he let it clunk against the wall.

God, he wanted to do this. Suddenly, he understood. He would lay himself completely vulnerable to Venetia. Reveal his most forbidden fantasy, because he knew she would give him acceptance.

Delving into the box, he closed his fist around the double-ended dildo. The cool ivory filled his grip and he shuddered in both lust and agony at the thought of what he intended to do with it.

Venetia watched Marcus return to the bed, taut with anticipation. Without a word, he sat beside her hips. She moaned as he spread oil over her tight anus. Each soothing stroke relaxed her, sending a wave of weakening desire through her. Something cool touched her back—the wand shaped like two cocks, carved ivory inlaid at the base with facetted glass. He skimmed her spine from neck to bottom, making her squeal.

She half-rolled to find him spreading oil on the curved tip of the wand. “Are you going to put that in my bottom?” Her voice was a breathy whisper as she watched his palm roll over the smooth, carved head.

A spicy idea blossomed. “If you wished, you could make love to me with that in my bottom. You could slide your cock inside me and fill me completely…”

Now she understood exactly what men thought of when looking at
The Page Turner
. The suggestion both shocked and excited.

The wand pushed between her cheeks. “Can you imagine two men in this bed with you?”

She closed her eyes, speared by the forbidden image of herself captured between Marcus and another man—another dark, powerful man, one who’s face was hidden in shadow. Dark brows, sensuous lips, sculpted cheeks—like Marcus. Marcus would be kissing her everywhere, eyes heavy-lidded with arousal…

The wand pushed between her cheeks. “Tell me your fantasy. Tell me what you would wish two men to do to you. In fantasy, nothing is forbidden. Imagine you are painting a picture…”

“In a picture I would do something shocking, risky.”

“I know that risk excites you.”

Did it? It must—she was soaked, fiery hot, in pain with needing him inside. The orgy, the disguise, the risk of losing her heart, the scandalous encounter with three women, the luscious pleasures with Marcus—all those things only seemed to stoke her lust.

“What would be a risky scene for your picture?” he asked.

“A stolen moment. A mad moment of passion. Perhaps a betrothed woman dances at her engagement ball with a man she once loved but knew she could never have. Now that he is about to lose her forever, he craves her. As they waltz, he whirls her out to the terrace. They find shadows, seclusion. He presses his advances with dazzling kisses, forbidden caresses. She should stop him, but she is immobile with desire and fear and love. Her skirts are lifting—she’s worn no drawers—”

“Don’t stop, Venetia,” he begged, rocking the wand against her entrance.

She remembered the three jades, stuffing their passages full. She grasped her cheeks and opened herself for him.

His breaths came in urgent pants. “God, looking at you like that—tell me more. The other man comes out to the terrace to find his fiancée. What does he discover?”

He eased the dildo inside her, just a little, enough to stretch. To entice. From behind, he slid his hand over her slick quim. She squirmed against the pressure of his cupped hand. His tongue skated over the swell of her buttocks, the touch both tickling and exciting, making her giggle and sigh.

“More story, angel. Please.”

“He finds his rival on his knees before his fiancée, the rogue’s wicked tongue turning her into a boneless puddle of desire. She is leaning back against the balustrade, weak and melting. And then she spies her betrothed and her heart pounds in fear. For once she lays eyes on him, as fair as her former love is dark, and she sees the pain, the shock in his large blue eyes, she knows she loves him. And has lost him.”

“But she hasn’t, has she, sweet? Now roll over for me.”

He bent to her breasts the instant she did, suckling one and then the other. All the while he eased the wand in and out of her bum, until she was clutching the sheets by her hips, arching, digging her heels in.

“Are you all right? It doesn’t hurt?”

He gave long easy strokes, until his knuckles grazed her bottom. “No. No, it’s good.” She shut her eyes and let her head loll back on his pillow, in the rumpled dent he’d left. The satin pillowcase smelled of his unique scent. Inhaling left her heady with desire. Her body smelled of him, too, his skin, sweat, all blended with spicy fragrant oil.

“What happens on the terrace?” he urged huskily. “Tell me more.”

She couldn’t believe her words had him enthralled, the way he claimed her pictures did. The scene was real to her now. She was just a voyeur to her characters. It didn’t matter what she thought he wanted her to say. She could only report the lush vision she saw.

“Her fiancé sees the love shining in her eyes.” Venetia closed her eyes, imagining tears welling, blond curls dipping over a bare shoulder, lips parted on a sob of pleasure. “Anger and pain are tearing at his heart. Now he must decide what to do. Call out the knave who is suckling her cunny? Take a pistol and blow the man to kingdom come? The bold rogue is still devouring her, forcing her to moan in pleasure, yet her fiancé has never been harder. Never has his need been more urgent.”

“Understandable,” Marcus teased. Then he caught his breath. “It’s up to the hilt, sweet angel, and it is huge.” His throat groan sent ripples of excitement through her. He spoke as though awe-struck. “Every fat inch is inside your delightful bottom.”

She was slick, so wonderfully slick from
his
words. Slowly she pumped up and down, pleasuring herself with the wand while he held the other. Her quim ached to be filled by it, but what she truly wanted was his cock inside her. It was rigid, standing tall, weeping in readiness.

He bent and kissed her clit, his dark hair feathered over her mound. Tantalized by her erotic tale, she arched beneath him, driving the toy deeper.

“Wait, temptress. I want to join you.”

Join her? Mystified, she watched. He drizzled golden oil into his palm, then stroked the length of the other wand, turning it slick and glistening. He poured another dollop onto his finger and reached behind his back. To his buttocks.

Heavens, it was more erotic than anything she’d drawn. Than anything she’d seen downstairs. She couldn’t breathe. His face contorted with agony as he rubbed the oil in his own entrance. He looked breathtakingly beautiful, with his raven hair drifting over his half-closed eyes, his mouth firm and tense. His head bowed forward as he massaged his opening and she knew he found the same pleasure she did.

Holding the other wand erect, he gently coaxed it to his bottom and lowered on it. The motion pushed the wand in her in a way that made her whimper. Intense, but oh so good.

He stopped, his hair dusting across his intense eyes, concerned. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head, and he groaned, pushing further. With a cry of “Oh God,” he straightened fast. Slowly, he slid it in again. Eyes wide, she watched his fist wrapped around it as he sank and rose, up and down until they were joined together, the double-ended cock buried in both of them.

Joined in the most scandalous, intimate way. Balanced on his knees, he guided her hand to her clit. “So, temptress, get to the moment where the two men take her together.”

She understood he wanted her to touch and play. But she was curious. “What does it feel like for you?”

“Like you perhaps. Intense. Full. I’ve never done this.”

That startled. “Never?”

He took hold of his shaft and jerked his hand along the unyielding length. She’d painted women pleasuring themselves, never men. What a spectacular image she’d missed.

“Never, love. I’ve had fingers and tongues used on me in anal play. But I’ve never been penetrated. You tempt me to live out a pleasure I’ve never tried.”

She did? “But why me?”

“Because you are delightfully curious and because I trust you. Now, tell me your story and make me explode.”

How could she resist that? He began riding the cock, moaning with each bounce, and his motion rocked the cock in her bum, thrilling her until she couldn’t speak.

So he did. “Her fiancé would take her virginity, would he not? Her special gift. And the other rogue would pleasure her up her ass. Her betrothed would enter her first, slowly, easing her to his size, before breaking her barrier.”

“And the rogue would enter her arse, first with his fingers, and then, lovingly with his cock. He would feel her betrothed’s cock pressing against him though the thin wall of her flesh. Feel the heads slide by each other, feel each thrust and pulse. She would be in ecstasy, the hands of two men on her breasts, their mouths—”

“Marcus! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

She arched back, letting the orgasm take her, command her, propel her to heaven. “Oh, I love you! I love you so much—”

“Venetia, Venetia—angel. I’m coming with you.” He let his head drop back, his throat a column of straining muscle and he clutched his cock tight. The bed shook as he pounded himself on the wand and drove it deep into her. She exploded once more, half-blind with it. The last thing she saw was a white stream shooting from his cock to splatter on his flat stomach, his tensed forearm, his big masculine hand.

“I—” But his words dissolved in fierce moans. “God, God, God.”

Slowly, her senses returned. She felt as though she was suspended on a summer’s breeze, floating back to earth and—

What had she done?

She’d said she loved him.

“L
et me guess, love. You regret what you shouted in the heat of passion last night.” Marcus dipped a soft washcloth in the basin of steaming water brought in by the maid.

Clutching the bedpost, Venetia bent over and presented her bottom for him to bathe. He saw her reflection in the cheval mirror. Pert breasts tipped with taut nipples. Parted lips. Half-closed eyes. Wildly mussed hair hanging down her back.

“Ooh,” she gasped as he brushed her snug anus with the hot cloth.

He made soothing, gentle circles with the warm, soapy water. “Professing love happens often at the moment of climax, sweet. Many men do it—and then panic.”

She giggled, ducked her head, so her thick auburn hair shielded her face.

Rinsing the cloth, he cleansed the slick oil from her anus. She looked so tempting in this position. He’d love to enter her slick cunny from behind, and thrust long and slow and hard until her quim climaxed around him. He’d love to see her up on her toes, the sleek muscles of her legs flexed as she pounded back against him, taking his cock to the mouth of her womb. God, he wanted it—the one desire he couldn’t indulge.

Restraint. Hell, if he could avoid brothels and orgies he could resist this temptation. He gave her bottom a light, teasing pat. “Ah, sweetheart, you don’t really think you are falling in love with me?”

She turned, still bent over, beautifully framed by her hair. “It frightens me that I might be.”

He laughed and gave her one last careful wipe. “Not afraid of blunt words are you, even at my expense?”

“It’s a very foolish thing to do, to love hopelessly. I promised I would be much too careful and too wise to ever let my heart be broken.”

He kissed her rounded back. “All finished, love.”

But she waited, watched as he washed himself with another cloth. As her bold, appreciative gaze raked over his naked chest, his groin, his legs, his nipples tightened and his cock swelled, as though determined to make a good showing. She reached out and slid her fingers along the shaft. He liked the way she treated it as though it belonged to her.

He didn’t want to break Venetia’s heart. His own heart felt strange—it hurt when he thought about this time being over, when he thought about saying good-bye to Venetia.

After the urn fell, terror had rushed through him. So close. It had been so bloody close.

He could have lost her.

“You aren’t in love with me, Vee.” Limned by candlelight, glowing after sex and sleep, she shone like a gem. “I was always told I was unworthy of the love of a good woman.”

“Who ever told you that?”

On the bedside table, a plate of ripe strawberries beckoned. Beside, fresh cream sat in swirls in a gold bowl. Delivered by a footman when the maid brought wash water. Now it promised distraction. “Lie down on the bed, Vee.”

She swung around the column and fell onto the downy mattress. She struck a beautiful pose, arms outstretched, breasts pointing high, legs half-tangled in the silk sheets. “Marcus, how could you be unworthy of a woman’s love? What a preposterous idea.”

Settling down on the edge of the bed, he reached for the bowl of cream and gave a shrug. He dipped in one perfect, large strawberry. “My mother warned me I was. My father had broken her heart and I had, in all ways but one, an even wilder reputation than he.”

She sat up, outraged. “Your father gave you Rodesson’s books when you were eight! You can hardly be blamed for growing up to be a rake, too.”

With the berry, he dabbed dollops of cream on her nipples, sculpting them into foamy peaks. He sucked them clean and held the berry for her to take a bite.

“Mmm!” Her eyes closed in pleasure. A drizzle of juice ran down to her chin, and he scooped it up with his fingertip.

“Lie beside me,” she whispered, after swallowing.

He cuddled by her side, and fed her the rest of the berry. She was small, her toes reaching his shin, her head tucked against his shoulder.

“I can assure you that you are most worthy of love.”

He reached for another berry, swirled it in the cream. “My mother warned me not to marry a woman who loved me—not to break her heart. I think that’s what drove her mad—she turned all her passion for him into hatred and it consumed her.”

Venetia snuggled close and stretched her arm across his chest. A simple embrace, infinitely comforting.

“There’s something I’ve never told anyone…” He’d never even told Min this. But he wanted Venetia to understand. Against his stroking palm, her hair was soft as down, touching it an indescribable pleasure. Her heart thumped gently against his skin. She would feel his heart beating, too.

“There was a girl. A girl of a good family. My father liked to seduce country virgins and most went to his bed willingly. He paid them generously, money that became dowries to tempt husbands. But this girl was of the ton. Ravishing. Naïve. She got pregnant and panicked. She tried to be rid of the babe and it didn’t work, so she thought of causing a miscarriage in a fall. Broke her neck.”

“That’s a terrible tragedy! Your father…didn’t he care?”

The fire crackled, flame licking at dry logs. Closing his eyes, Marcus remembered finding his father passed out by the hearth in the library. “He got bloody drunk, is what he did.”

He caressed the waves of her hair. “I remembered my first thought—was the sod dead? I found his pulse, then flipped him over in disgust. Having his skull hit the floor roused him and, for once, he felt the need to explain himself to me.”

His father’s eyes had been glazed. Then they’d locked on his, pleading. He remembered his father’s words.
The hell of it is, lad, is that I loved her. Always did. But the other…can’t control it…it is hell.

Only after several minutes, did he realize ‘her’ was his mother.

For some men, lad, the demon is drink, or the roll of the dice…for me it is innocence.
The earl had struggled up, leaning on his hands. Sweat, or worse, had plastered down his gray hair.
Couldn’t resist. Couldn’t. I knew the cost. Knew she hated me, more and more. You can’t imagine what hell it is to be possessed by the devil.

“What did you do?” Venetia whispered, her breath a warm whisper across his skin.

“Rage drove me,” he admitted. “All that maudlin rubbish was about his guilt. He wasn’t really remorseful over that girl’s death. I wanted to smash my fists into him. Instead, I shoved him forward, in case he was sick. I wasn’t going to let him escape his conscience by choking.”

He’d snapped in fury, yelled at his father, “Bloody hell, you’re not possessed by the devil.”

His father had wiped at uncharacteristic tears. Then his mother’s cold voice had arced through the room. She stood in the shadow of the doorway.
It’s indulgence,
she’d stated.
That’s all it is. He ruins those poor girls for a fleeting moment of pleasure.

Marcus, you are just like him,
she had spat
. I despise you, just as I despise him. You will marry, of course, and I pity the woman you do, for you will only destroy her. You are not worthy of a woman’s love. I don’t even think of you as my son.

His mother had not spoken to him after that for two years—long after his father’s death.

Strawberries and cream awaited but he needed to do this. “When I met you, Vee, I desired you—hell, I hungered for you. That morning you came to me to ask me to come here, it was all I could do not to ravish you in every way I could imagine. And believe me, sweeting, I can imagine many forbidden ways. I worried that it was the novelty of your innocence that enticed me so much. That I had the same weakness as my father. But here, with you, I realized I’d met many delicious young virgins in the ton and never once had one made my control snap. You were the only one.”

She lifted to gaze down into his eyes. “Perhaps it’s the orgy.”

“It’s not.” Gently, he rolled her onto her back. “But right now, I wish to see you covered in cream.”

He coated her quim with cream and feasted. The combination of sweetness and ripe, earthy woman proved delicious. Reaching up, he handed her a berry, and delved his tongue into her to taste her hot juices along with the cool cream.

Giggling, she urged him up. Supporting his weight on his arms, he obeyed and let her feed him the berry, with her taste still on his tongue. He swallowed tart juice and feminine honey.

“I do like sex when it also involves sugary treats,” she whispered.

Charmed, he laughed. He bent to kiss her. His iron rod of a cock bucked as their lips met. His juice damped her belly and his. So easy to lower himself, to slide into her, bury his cock in her heat, join them. So tempting to make love to her—

Pounding on the door rattled it in its frame.

Hell, what was this? Marcus gave Vee a last quick kiss, before jumping down from the bed. He should tell whoever it was to go to the blazes—but the interruption had saved him from breaking Vee’s maidenhead.

He grabbed his robe from the floor and held it against his crotch as he opened the door.

Swansborough stood on the other side, wearing hat and greatcoat. “Chartrand has gathered an armed mob—he’s gone to flush out the murderer amongst the gypsies.”

“Christ Jesus, the man is insane.” Marcus flicked a glance at the pistols Swansborough held at his side.

“One is for you. Would you help me stop this madness?”

Drums beat a wild tattoo in her breast as Venetia ran with Marcus across the damp lawns. A nightmare had come to life and she was plunging into its vortex. The rain had stopped but a thick fog enveloped the grounds. Men charged across the grass, through the swirling mist, carrying rifles, pistols. Grooms, footmen, noblemen—all driven by revenge, maddened by drink and bloodlust. Racing to the woods—to the poor band of gypsies camped there.

Venetia’s half-boots slid and slipped but Marcus’ hand gripped hers tight and he held her up, kept her from falling when she stumbled. She tried to speak but the wind tossed her words uselessly behind her.

What was she to do? Resolute, determined, honorable to the point of heroic madness, Marcus planned to stop Chartrand and his armed men.

How? How could two men, Marcus and Lord Swansborough, stop a mob?

The gusts tore at her bonnet, pulling at the ribbon at her throat until she was choking. She clamped her hand on her hat to hold it on. She wore her mask still, amidst this insanity. It was as soaked from the fog as her cloak and bonnet and hair were. Through the curtain of gray, she couldn’t see more than dark shapes. Shadows running across the gardens. She clung to Marcus’ hand. They reached the dirt lane that ran at the base of the lawns—now a mire of thick mud pocked with the deep plunges of footprints.

“They’re armed! What can we do? There’s nothing we can do!” Her incoherent, desperate words tumbled out between burning gasps, unheeded by Marcus as he followed the grassy edge of the lane.

Perhaps he couldn’t hear. And she could barely speak. Her chest was on fire, her throat a torch. She sucked more mist than air into her lungs and sputtered. Trees shrieked in the wind, the men’s shouts were a maddening pounding in her brain. The sounds of violence and hell. Marcus never let go of her hand—she’d insisted on coming, he’d been too afraid to let her stay—even when they reached the black void of the woods, where the close trees forced him to divert to the waterlogged path.

Mud sucked at her boots, clung to the soles. In two steps, her feet were as heavy as full coal buckets. Impossible to lift. She pitched forward, Marcus pulled her up and his momentum hauled her free. He caught her with both hands as she took those sudden stumbling steps. Then he raced off again, gripping her hand tight, as though he didn’t doubt she could follow, as though they were one in this—equal of courage and determination.

What was he going to do? He’d be shot. Killed. Chartrand was insane—he couldn’t be stopped. What of the gypsies? There must be many of them but unarmed, with nothing to save them against rifles. Women and children as well.

Boots crunched between the trees. Shadows slipped between ancient trunks, barrels of weapons pointing their way.

A woman’s scream sliced the curtain of rain. Guttural male shouts. Crashing of branches. Marcus’ hand clasped tighter and she surged forward with him, rounding a bend in the road. She’d never known such terror—not even at the crash of the urn at her feet. In the middle of a group of tents, men battled. Great coats swirled around some—the gentle-men—and the others wore ragged bright colors. Those were the gypsies, fighting for their lives. They fought with branches, with knifes, swinging at the Englishmen. Color flashed though the mist as mothers grabbed their children’s arms and dragged them back. She saw the desperate way the mothers held tight to their babes.

A shot exploded, a boom like the sound of Hades rising in the midst of rural England. Venetia screamed and Marcus hauled her back, to the shelter of an oak.

No—he was trapped with her. Forced to protect her. But what good could he do? She couldn’t even see Chartrand! Men grappled and fought. Boots and fists collided. Bodies tumbled in the mud. Horses shied, dancing about the melee, hooves raised, heads thrashing.

“Stay there.” Marcus pushed her back against the tree.

He pulled away.

Another shot. She saw Marcus’ instinctive duck of his head, saw him turn. Bark exploded above her head—the tree jolted as though it would rip its roots from the ground. Her knees jellied. She sank to the ground, where it was wet and covered with rotten leaves.

Marcus’ face was stark white. He stumbled to her, crouching as he came, hands outstretched. Shot! She’d been shot at. There was no pain. Only shaking. Horrible shaking. Her teeth chattering.

His hands were warm on her cheeks. His face blurry and indistinct. His voice—she tried to answer—
I’m alive. Alive. No pain. No pain at all.

Blackness closed in.

Pain sliced into Marcus’ heart as he cradled Vee, warmed her, stroked her face and spoke to her—trying to rouse her. He stared at the hole ripped through her bonnet. Mere inches lower—