Sin (7 page)

“Would you like me to bend forward and take your Commanding Officer into my mouth?” Venetia asked.

God, yes, temptress.

Marcus answered her question by suckling Venetia’s hard clit until she melted over him. She must have seen pictures of
soixante-neuf
and she knew exactly what to do. He fought for control as she gobbled his cock into her mouth. Her soft, moist lips skimmed the sensitive places on the shaft. She sucked him hard, gripping him tight in her hot mouth. Beautiful, beautiful sucking in a perfect rhythm, driving him wild.

He was forgetting his part of the bargain—he’d stopped licking her. He quickly rectified his lapse, tonguing the snug entrance of her wet pussy. She tasted rich and feminine and delicious.

She licked the length of his shaft with her tongue. Up and down, driving him mad.

Erotic art had provided a remarkable education.

She licked his balls. He instinctively tensed even as he moaned at the pleasure. But she was gentle and cradled his sac with infinite care. He enjoyed scrotum play, even though he balanced on a knife’s edge of tension throughout. When her tongue traced the seam of his ballocks, he cried her name into her quim. She treated his balls to glorious delights, tugging the fine hairs in her mouth, even holding one delicately in her hot mouth to suck it.

Oral sex never brought him to orgasm anymore—hell, he was eight and twenty, he’d experienced it too many times, had taught himself too much control, but Venetia’s enthusiastic exploration was bringing him close.

He didn’t want to come in her mouth. She wouldn’t want that. With her weight resting on his face, he couldn’t even warn her. He must practice intense control, make her come, then attend to his rigid, throbbing prick himself.

A complete assault was needed. Two hands and a mouth to take her to ecstasy. He tipped his head back to penetrate her snug anus with his tongue. She was bent over, her plush bottom jutting in his face, her puckered rosebud ripe for his tongue. He ran his tongue around the rim, gently pushed in. Her muscles slackened to let him gain entry. Then closed tight.

She was scorching. Unbelievably tight. Delectable.

He thrust his tongue deep, filling her rear, his fingers were in her pussy as deep as he dared, and he stroked her clit.

She dropped his cock from her mouth. “I can’t…can’t…”

He grasped her hand and led it between her thighs. She soon knew he wanted her to rub herself. Shyness had vanished and she masturbated with lusty abandon.

He gripped his cock, jerking it hard, ravaging the length of it. Pumped like a wild man.

“Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes!”

The scream was hers, triggering his explosion. She bounced wildly on him in her orgasm, her greedy cunny clutched at his fingers, her bum slapped his face.

His whole body went tense, and arched up. His hips launched off the seat as he came in a fierce stream. His face lifted, burrowing right into her sopping, melting, eager sex. White fire exploded in his head as his spine melted, his limbs turned to water, his very soul raced out of his cock.

Wet heat surrounded the swollen head. She’d taken him in her mouth. Each pulse of her suckling pulled on his cock, lashed him with agonizing pleasure. She was drinking his come. To please him.

Spent, exhausted, he lifted her quim off his face so he could breathe. “I’ll understand if you wish to spit.”

“I swallowed.” Her eyes showed ingenuous confusion. “Was I not supposed to? You taste quite remarkable. I liked it.”

“I’m honored that you did, my sweet.” He arched up and kissed her derriere, rewarded by her pretty giggle. Returning Venetia to London with her virginity intact might very well kill him.

Cradling Venetia against his chest as she slept, Marcus kissed the top of her tousled red curls. He buried his face in her sweetly scented hair, inhaling roses, lavender, a hint of freshness like spring rain. The scent of her sweat and earthy female juices clung to her skin. She smelled like a woman just tumbled in a meadow. He could taste her delicious juices on his lips, the flavor of his come on hers.

She’d slumbered blissfully against him for miles. He felt every breath she took, felt it in the rise and fall of her breasts against him, in the gentle movement of her back against his arm. He steadied her, so she could sleep despite the rocking of the carriage.

When had he ever let a woman sleep in his arms?

He normally sent courtesans home. Never let his mistresses stay in his bed. Over the years, his father had drummed a warning into his head.
Nothing but trouble ever results from waking up with a woman.

“W
elcome to your first orgy, Venetia.”

Marcus’ devilish grin stole Venetia’s breath as he casually relaxed back from the carriage window. He stretched his muscular arms along the back of the blue velvet seat. Fighting to hide the churning of her nervous tummy, she peeped out. Ahead loomed the symmetrical façade of Abbersley Park at the end of a long, straight gravel drive. For a house of sinful debauchery, it stood dark and solemn in the downpour. Black thunderheads massed behind it in the gray sky. Trees whipped in the fierce wind.

Instinctively, she tightened her cloak around her. She was thankful to be fully dressed. He’d been absolutely correct—it would have been foolhardy to arrive naked.

“This cannot be the place. It looks…so normal. So quiet and sedate. What will happen?”

“Sex. In every position, every grouping you could imagine.”

And he wanted her to return to London a virgin? She knew exactly what she wished to do at this orgy—have a decadent love affair with Marcus. Pleasure without penetration was quite delicious but she wanted more. She craved more—

“Rules first, before you set foot inside.”

“Rules?” she echoed.

“You are to stay with me at all times. If you stray, I can’t guarantee your safety. Remember, men at these events do not take no for an answer—not from an unprotected woman.”

“Do you mean you will never stray from my side?”

“Yes, sweeting, that is exactly what I mean. Second rule—mask at all times.”

Mask?

He turned his attention to a pocket of his greatcoat and drew out a black velvet bag. Loosening the gold strings, he reached in. Puzzled, she watched as he drew out a mask, which he dangled before her eyes by its two long green velvet ties.

This was no mere mask. Venetian style, it was an exquisite sculpture of silk-lined paper maché, feathers, paint and sparkling glass. A work of art. Silver and gold paint and glittering diamondlike ‘jewels’ decorated the face. Dark paint outlined the eyes and mimicked eyebrows. Emerald-green feathers swooped from one side.

“But why?” she asked. “No one will recognize me. I am not of their class. And they are all attending an orgy too!” But she knew, from village life, of the hypocrisy of the upper classes.

“Turn around, temptress.”

That teasing name, on his lips, made her heart pound as Marcus swung over to her seat.

How ridiculous it would be to wear a mask every day. But she was responsible for her sisters’ futures. Their good reputations depended on her discretion.

She turned to present the back of her head. With his long, elegant fingers, he fitted the mask to her face. Lined with silk, it was beautiful and a perfect fit. The almond-shaped slits allowed her to see, though not well at the sides. But the shape of the holes cleverly disguised her eyes. The curves at the bottom of the mask clung to the upper line of her lip. Silk tickled there.

“I can guarantee that this mask will intrigue every gentleman here,” he murmured beside her ear. “They’ll know immediately you aren’t a professional. Your identity will be a mystery that they will long to solve. You will have to be very careful. And I will watch you every moment.”

That promise made her tremble with desire.

Behind the mask, she felt as though she’d become an entirely new person. Sensual excitement burned in her. She felt exotic. Also free. Unfettered. She could now be anyone she wished to be. A woman of her own creation.

She must remember her goal. To stop Lydia Harcourt from destroying her.

“You look extremely seductive, Venetia.”

To her surprise, Marcus kissed her. A light kiss but even just the brush of his lips made her burn. But she knew there would be no more. No more caresses. No more touches.

She’d been restless and edgy since they had stopped at an inn in Lower Dentby and he had engaged a room. She’d hungered for more pleasures but he had refused to play. He’d led her upstairs simply to dress her.

When he’d laced her into her corset in that bedroom, she thought she’d go mad. She’d wanted—no, needed—his touch on her bare skin. She’d thought he would stroke her breasts, play with her cunny, fondle her derriere while she dressed. But he hadn’t. He’d watched her with his arms crossed over his chest until she’d needed his help with corset stays and the buttons of her gown. He’d even dressed her hair and all the while she’d stared at the large bed. He hadn’t even appeared to be aware of it.

She touched the mask, aware of how flamboyant it appeared. “Are you certain my dress will be acceptable?” A simple gown of white muslin with a square neckline and long sleeves, it was pretty but demure.

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Chartrand will think you are pretending to be a country miss as part of a sensual game.” His voice hardened. “I have no choice but to let him think that. That it pleases me to dress you like an innocent.”

With that, he settled back on the seat at her side and looked out the window.

They were almost at the house. In the gloom of the rainy afternoon, she could make out spots of crimson and circles of black streaming down the stone steps. Liveried servants carrying umbrellas. Golden light gleamed in the hundreds of paned windows—the glow from candles and cozy fires, now giving the stone house the look of a comfortable haven.

“There is one more rule.”

She turned and met his turquoise eyes.

“At all times, you must obey me.”

Before she could protest, the carriage stopped in front of the sweep of stone steps. Marcus drew up the hood of her cloak, covering her hair. “Ready, temptress?”

He swung open the door and climbed down before the servants could rush to his aid. Reaching up, he caught her around the waist and set her beside him. The hem of her cloak snapped in the breeze. At their side, a footman struggled to tame a broad umbrella.

Under its shelter, they hastily mounted the steps to the house. Venetia felt a tug of disappointment as a perfectly proper, utterly correct butler met them at the door. Was this truly an orgy? It seemed a normal house party.

Tall and thin, the butler obviously recognized Marcus. He bowed. “My lord Trent.” He bowed again to her. “Madam.”

The servant hadn’t mistaken her for a wife. Surely there were no wives at an event like this.

Marcus offered his arm. She felt reassured by his hard, solid forearm. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze as they followed the footman across the foyer in search of their rooms. It seemed an endless stretch of black and white marble tiles to glassed double doors at the end of the intriguing octagonal room. The ceiling rounded over like a dome, decorated in a delicate rococo style.

She’d only ever been in one country home as lovely as this—that of her maternal grandparents, the Earl and Countess of Warren. And that had only been because the home was open to the public that day. She, her sisters, and her mother, had been one of many families led through the ballroom, the music room, the indoor gardens, the famed gallery.

At the sight of her grandparents’ portraits—the first time she’d seen them—she’d almost fled from the room in hysterical laughter. It had felt like a strange dream.

Had her mother Olivia’s scandalous relationship with Rodesson been worth losing everything? Not just Olivia’s home but her parents, their love?

“Penny for your thoughts, temptress,” Marcus whispered.

“I was thinking about your last rule,” she murmured. A lie, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Complete obedience.”

He grinned.

They were passing through a carpeted center hall. On each wall were several doors, all painted delicate pale blue, each with a gleaming gold knob. Massive rust-red marble pillars framed the doorways, and a giant stone fireplace stood at the very end of the hall. A fire blazed cheerily behind the grate.

Once again, it all seemed so ordinary. So proper.

As they turned a corner, Venetia realized the hall was ‘L’ shaped. Before them stood the curved staircase, rendered in cream, salmon-pink, and ivory, festooned with delicate scrollwork.

“I cannot believe that behind these closed doors people are doing naughty, forbidden things,” she murmured. She could barely breathe, expecting a door to fly open. To see an orgy scene for real, to watch many men grunting and thrusting and striving for pleasure, the women screaming with ecstasy…

“They are, I can assure you.”

“Why does it matter so much to you to protect me? To help us?” she whispered. Could he even hear her over the roar of the flames in the fireplace?

His voice was equally low and devastatingly sensuous. “Because there were women I didn’t protect. That I didn’t help.”

What women? Protect from what? She remembered their very first conversation—just days ago!—in her drawing room. He protected innocents from brothels. But who had he not protected?

With the footman so close, she didn’t dare ask—

“My lord Trent!”

Perfume swirled around her, rich, spicy, intoxicating. A woman stood behind her.

Soft, purring tones confirmed it. “Does this intrigue, my lord?”

Long slender hands pressed against her sides, at the ruching that framed her breasts. Venetia froze at the reality of a woman’s hands on her breasts. Shock spiraled through her. She was too stunned to do anything but gaze helplessly at Marcus’ face.

The beautiful fingers slid up to cup and lift her bosom. The hands were warm, soft. Rings sparkled, stones of red, blue, green, and some as clear as ice. Every finger bore a ring, each set with an enormous stone.

Distracted for a moment, Venetia wondered if the stones were real—and worth a fortune.

For several seconds, Marcus merely looked at her breasts and the mysterious hands cradling them. Then he spoke, with the full brunt of noble hauteur. “Enough, Lydia, my dear. My
partner
is weary from travel. We have no interest in your games.”

Lydia? This was Lydia Harcourt? Venetia wished she could twist around to see.

But Lydia did not move her hands. Too tongue-tied to speak, Venetia realized her nipples had hardened, just as they did with Marcus’ touch. Her breasts did not care whose hands caressed them, they just enjoyed the attention.

Indeed, she was growing wet between her legs at the caress, just as she dampened when she drew such erotic scenes.

“How delightful to find you in attendance, my lord,” Mrs. Harcourt continued in a voice dripping with sensuous promise. “I thought you now eschewed these events.”

“Normally, I do,” Marcus drawled. He was playing the jaded rake to the hilt, leaving her stranded as Lydia Harcourt’s thumbs spiraled over her hard nipples. Of course, she was supposed to be a courtesan and no ladybird willing to attend an orgy would be mortified by the touch of another woman’s hands.

It did feel shockingly good. And the look on Marcus’ face, the expression of pure rough male hunger, stole her breath. He liked this. And she…she liked exciting him.

In the carriage, he’d resisted her further attempts at seduction—the touch of her fingers on his inner thigh, the brush of her lips to his biceps, flirtatious exposure of her breasts, but this scandalous display was obviously arousing him.

“I must think of something to spark your interest once more, mustn’t I, my lord?” Lydia mused in her throaty purr. “Your partner has delightful breasts, my lord.” The woman pinched—pinched!—her nipples.

“Oh!” Each squeeze set her quim throbbing. Lydia pressed against her from behind and sinuously rubbed her hips back and forth. Between her tight corset, her shock, and her forbidden sexual excitement, Venetia feared she’d swoon.

“Play along, my dear,” Lydia whispered. “You do want to pleasure your protector, don’t you? You don’t want to bore him and lose him, do you?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She understood her mistake.

Her obvious horror had piqued the woman’s curiosity. She took an unsteady breath, drinking in more heady perfume.

“I suspect her nipples taste delicious, my lord. Would you like to watch me sample one?”

Marcus!
She glared into his turquoise eyes. He wouldn’t let this continue. Would he?

“That’s enough, Lydia. Release her.” He spoke with dangerous calm.

Venetia felt her chest expand on a desperate breath as Lydia dropped her hands and stepped out from behind her. Her heart tumbled in her chest as she moved to Marcus’ side.

Lydia Harcourt was a beautiful creature. Blue-black hair arranged in a complex, elegant coiffure of curls and braids. Smooth, glowing skin. As for her figure—it was full, voluptuous. An ivory satin gown displayed the famed enormous breasts, swathed a nipped waist, and shivered over broad, rounded hips. Lydia gave a mocking smile and Venetia fought a tremble as Lydia’s appraising gaze swept over her.

Then Lydia chuckled as though at a private joke and turned to Marcus. “Very lovely, my lord. And untutored—how novel for you.”

“Cork it, Lydia.” His gentlemanly veneer vanished. “We have business to discuss.”

Suddenly, Lydia’s beauty dropped away, and she appeared hard and mercenary. Lydia dropped into a curtsy, giving him an eyeful of her deep cleavage. “Of course, my lord. At your pleasure.”

Marcus managed to appear completely bored—how did noble men perfect that expression? Venetia knew she wore her every emotion for all to see. Thank heaven for the mask.

To her surprise, Marcus bowed—a courtesy she hadn’t expected him to give a courtesan. But his voice was brittle ice. “We will see when the whimsy strikes. I dislike having my pleasures interrupted.”

Lydia Harcourt’s confident smirk wavered at Marcus’ noble disdain.

Venetia’s nerves felt strung taut, and she almost stumbled as Marcus caught hold of her waist and led her to the stairs.

Curious, Venetia watched as Marcus walked the length of the wall in her assigned bedchamber, a femininely decorated room connected to his. He moved deliberately and slowly, like a stalking predatory cat, and brushed his hand over the ivy-patterned wallpaper. Mouth dry, she let her gaze linger on his long, lean legs, the muscles bulging with each easy step. His polished knee-high boots gleamed in the firelight. Unfortunately, the tails of his coat hid his sculpted derriere.