Wild Nights

by Sharon Page

  The need to confirm Colin’s safety in the most basic way possible stirred, fanned by her awareness of their limited time together and the approach of dawn.

  She rested her forehead on his back, trying to rein in her desire, but couldn’t. “Colin?” she said huskily, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her body to his, rubbing her tight nipples against his back, unable to say more.

  Colin’s chest expanded—once, twice—as though he labored under some strong emotion. He spun around to face her, his face stark with carnal hunger. “That was inspired, Alana! You were wonderful!” He rained kisses on her cheeks, peppering them between words. “Absolutely wonderful.”

  She caught his stubbled jaw between her hands, craving a fuller kiss, a deeper possession. “If I’m so wonderful, shut up and take me!”

  With a wild whoop of exultation, Colin bore Alana to the grass, more than willing to obey her command. How he wanted this spirited, delicious woman!

  This time she allowed him to strip her completely, leaving her pale body glowing in the moonlight like some faerie queen awaiting her mortal lover, her sable hair spread under her shoulders like a cape. Her nipples pebbled in the chill air, pouting at his delay.

  He flung off his own clothes with reckless haste, eager to feel her naked against him. He knelt between her thighs, his swollen cock aching with anticipation. He plunged into her, growling as she clasped him in a snug, creamy grip. A surge of life energy slammed into him at her gasp of pleasure.

  Colin crowed in laughter, pressing fervid kisses on Alana’s smooth throat and shoulders and breasts. Exhilaration coursed through him, powering his frenzy with the heady knowledge of their survival.

  They’d vanquished the necromancer, and all because of her quick thinking.

  Alana welcomed him with matching ardor, meeting his thrusts with breathless abandon. Her nails bit into his shoulders as she clung to him, her slender legs locking around his hips.

  The sounds of their mutual pleasure filled the darkness. The steady slap of wet flesh. The sighs and moans of delight. The grunts and groans of desire.

  Wave upon wave of her excitement flooded his senses, recharging his spent reserves. And still she gave of her enjoyment, purring her gratification as her body clenched and fluttered around him, milking his cock with the beginnings of her release.

  He adjusted his angle to better tease her clit, rolling his hips to vary his pounding motion. It wound the hunger mounting in his balls to singing tension. He forced it back, wanting to savor her lust.

  With a husky prayer to Flidais, Alana spasmed around him, her climax triggering his own release.

  Raw pleasure exploded from his balls, searing his nerves with carnal fury. It shot out his cock in a blaze of delight that should have sent them up in flames.

  He threw back his head, howling his ecstasy into the night. Challenging any who dared take his woman from his arms.

  Boneless and euphoric from Colin’s lovemaking, Alana snuggled deeper into his embrace, wrapping her legs tighter around his hips and soaking up his male heat. Despite the chill in the morning air, she couldn’t bestir herself to dress, not when Samhain Night would soon be over. She wanted to savor every perfect minute with Colin that she could. Who knew what would happen after the sun rose?

  The eastern sky lightened slowly, bringing an end to Samhain and a return of society’s rules. The first tentative bird calls soon melded into a chorus of territorial twitters.

  The pungent odor of bruised leaves joined the musky scent of sex and sweat, an unusual blend Alana would always associate with the memory of this night.

  In the gray light, she saw that they lay in a large circle of fresh growth: flowering white clover surrounded by red-berried hollies. In the middle of the clearing, just a few feet away, was a tall grassy mound—all that remained of Bryce and his simulacra. The spaces between the trees were empty, the sprites gone until next Samhain.

  A warm, bristly kiss on her shoulder, right on the sensitive spot where it met her neck, told her Colin was awake. A blunt nudge at the juncture of her thighs told her he was more than ready to greet the day.

  She welcomed him into her body, relishing the slow glide of skin on skin and the lack of all demand, content with the sweet give and take. They flowed together, rocking gently, savoring the gradual approach of pleasure.

  This time when they kissed, Colin lingered, taking his time as he explored her mouth, his tongue capturing hers in a lazy tangle, his stubble a sensual rasp on her face.

  Alana caressed his shoulders and broad back, reveling in their lean strength. She fluttered her inner muscles, milking his thick length inside her as he pumped her with leisurely strokes.

  Her climax broke through her with the sweetness of an afternoon shower in summer, soothing in its restraint. A dreamy outpouring of delight. Welcome contrast to the violence of Samhain Night.

  Colin signaled his release with a soft gasp. The rhythmic jerks of his cock inside her strung out her pleasure like silken pearls on a gold wire, delicate and precious. A fragile bliss neither of them wanted to risk with speech.

  The first streaks of dawn were painting the sky in pinks and golds by the time Alana untangled herself from Colin and dressed, plaiting her hair in a simple French braid. The yellow streams of light gilded the grass-covered mound, lush with un-seasonal greenery.

  Bird calls filled the clearing, a sound of such reassuring normalcy that she sighed, finally truly convinced that the nightmare had ended.

  “It’s over.” Papa Dare was safe. Her little cottage was destroyed, but it could be rebuilt. Even better, she would have time to rebuild it, now that Bryce was gone.

  “Is it?” Colin’s hand touched her cheek, tilted her chin up to look into her eyes. His golden gaze held an invitation, warm with unspoken meaning.

  “What do you mean?” Alana’s heart picked up speed, its loud beat ringing in her ears.

  “It’s only over if you want it to be.” His light tenor was vibrant with promise as his thumb glided over her bottom lip. “I’ve got a big bed. You’re welcome to share it.” By the meaningful quirk to Colin’s lips, he wasn’t offering merely a place to sleep.

  As the morning breeze caressed her damp sex, Alana decided his offer had merit. Everything else could wait. Stepping into the circle of his arms, she pulled his head down for a kiss. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  Here’s a sneak peak at Sin,

  by Sharon Page, on sale this month!

  Chapter One

  What would her jaded lord do with his hands while the lovely courtesan knelt between his legs and kissed him intimately?

  Venetia Hamilton tapped the end of her brush against her lips as she studied her watercolor painting. Even though her earl—yes, she’d decided he was an earl—was a most experienced man, this time he’d met his match in the delightful auburn-haired woman pleasuring him.

  She couldn’t resist smiling at her imaginary earl’s downfall in the arena he believed he reigned supreme. Since his lordship was so steeped in vice, so bored by customary sensual acts, he’d begin with definite ennui, merely an onlooker to his own seduction.

  In his right hand, Venetia sketched a glass of fine champagne. In his left, since he was in the theater box of the pretty woman, she gave him a peeled orange the size of an ample breast, large enough to fill his strong hand. No, he would not touch the woman, she decided. But in his expression … there she could show not only the desire, but the growing wonderment as his heart began to open, to unfurl, to delight in the pleasures bestowed upon him.

  She turned her attention to the audience, for her earl was receiving these daring caresses to his intimate parts in full view of the Drury Lane theater. Ah, the expressions told the tale—the matrons pretending to be scandalized, but really enraptured by his magnificent proportions, his exquisite form, his handsome face. Envy on their husbands’ faces. And the leering looks of the mob in the orchestra.

  Now she must tackle the earl’s expression. Capture
perfectly the growing astonishment on his face as this act that he must have experienced a thousand times—at least—became new and special and wonderful once more …

  She took short, unsteady breaths as she stepped back from naughty fantasy to the reality of her tiny studio. When she drew, she became one with the scene—not a participant, but a figure in the shadows, holding a brush, telling a life’s history in one erotic moment.

  Her body hummed with desire, ached with it. She should be ashamed to admit it, but she wasn’t at all as proper as her mother had raised her to be. She was, after all, her father’s daughter.

  With a sigh, Venetia plopped her brush in the jar and swirled it until the water blushed pink, lit by the fragile spring sunlight that spilled through the paned window. The only raven-haired scoundrels in her life lived on the canvases stacked on the narrow shelves of her studio, all safely hidden beneath muslin covers.

  She knew perfectly well that love was a woman’s folly. That rakes never truly reformed—

  A sharp rap on the door had her almost knocking over the water glass. The rap came again. Followed by a breathless, “My heavens, Miss Hamilton!”

  She had to take the time to turn the easel so her painting faced the wall and Mrs. Cobb burst through the door just as she hid the scandalous picture.

  Mrs. Cobb puffed from the jaunt up the stairs. Her cheeks blazed red, her cap was askew. She held out a card. “There is a gentleman to see you, mum. A gentleman calling upon you alone!”

  “Which gentleman?” Her father? Rodesson outwardly appeared to be a ‘gentleman.’ But he wouldn’t dare visit.

  Her housekeeper pushed her cap upright. “The Earl of Trent, mum! I put him in the drawing room. Tea? Should I put the kettle on?”

  Venetia’s heart tapped a frenzied dance in her chest. She pushed her chair back, snatched up the studio key, and crossed the floor in a heartbeat to take the card. Her thumb slid over thick, textured vellum embossed with a crest. Her gaze fell to the title, in bold text. It did indeed read THE EARL OF TRENT.

  She slumped against the doorframe in disbelief. How could the earl know who she was?

  Mrs. Cobb lurked over her shoulder, demanding a decision on tea as Venetia locked the door to her studio with shaking hands.

  “N-no tea,” Venetia stuttered. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the hallway in the most unladylike way. But if she was running into disaster, she wanted to get it done with.

  Plodding footfalls told her Mrs. Cobb was following but couldn’t keep up.

  The most preposterous notion dawned as Venetia sped down the stairs. What if her father had gambled again, hoping to win his vowels back from the earl? What if this time Trent had won her at cards?

  Reaching the open drawing room door, she stopped, smoothed her skirts, and gulped down steadying breaths. She must be careful. If she ruined her reputation, she ruined her sisters’ reputations. Maryanne, Grace … they at least deserved a chance at the lives Mother hoped they would lead—marriage, children, happiness …

  The earl, she noted, had found the only warm spot in her chilly drawing room. As soon as she stepped inside, the cold seeped through her dress and wrapped its icy fingers around her bare neck. Since she never received guests, she never heated the room. At least a fire now crackled in the hearth.

  His lordship stood so close to the licking flames, she feared a spark might set his trousers alight. His left elbow was propped on the mantel, between the unfortunate bric-a-brac left by the previous tenant—two candlesticks shaped like nude women and a bronze of his favorite mount.

  Venetia closed the door gently behind her, then stopped short, still clutching the doorknob.

  The earl balanced an open book in his large gloved hand and he lazily flipped the pages. The faint sunlight cast a bluish gleam on his coal-black hair and slanted across his straight shoulders. Even in a casual stance, he easily topped six feet and she couldn’t help but admire how his midnight-blue superfine emphasized the taper from wide back to narrow waist and lean hips. Skintight trousers displayed magnificent legs and disappeared into Hessians with a mirror finish.

  She arched on tiptoe to spy around his broad frame. Pictures. The book did indeed contain pictures but she couldn’t see the detail—he stood too far away. But Tales of a London Gentleman was bound in burgundy leather, in exactly the same shade as the book lying across that massive hand.

  The earl paused at a plate, then turned the book in his hand to study some detail that had caught his fancy. A flush prickled along the back of Venetia’s neck.

  He moved to capture the light more fully on the page, and she saw his profile. Raven hair, darkly lashed eyes, patrician features, and wide, firm lips.

  Her stomach pitched to her toes. Trent was the dark-haired gentleman who had appeared in her father’s pictures. The man she’d copied for her book. She’d thought him an invention of her father’s brush. But since he stood before her in the flesh, obviously her assumption had been wrong.

  It made sense. Rodesson attended brothels and orgies and hells. Why wouldn’t he base his pictures on actual patrons? On the actual scenes he had witnessed?

  The titles flew through her whirling mind. The Fair Lady Bound. The Jermyn Street Harem. The French Kiss.

  Even The Trapeze in which the nude lady had been seated on a suspended bar over the gentleman’s upright—

  Venetia pressed her hand to her churning stomach. Her father had changed Lord Trent’s appearance, she saw that now. She, in utter innocence, had decided to make her gentleman more handsome. By horrific accident, she had succeeded in making him look more like the actual man.

  A soft groan spilled from her lips.

  The earl looked up sharply and she stared into vivid turquoise eyes, the color startling and beautiful in contrast to his long sooty lashes and straight black brows.

  That extraordinary shade had not appeared in her father’s pictures. Could she capture it? If she blended cobalt blue with a touch of—

  “This is my personal favorite, Miss Hamilton. I think you have caught my likeness perfectly in this one.” Dangerous amusement rippled through Lord Trent’s seductive baritone and his deep masculine voice held her transfixed. “You have a remarkable talent.”

  A remarkable talent. She felt a warm flush of pride, even as her knees almost buckled.

  “My-my lord.” She managed a curtsy, a wobbly one, her plain gray skirts crumpling as she dipped. “I am afraid I don’t understand to what you are referring.”

  He closed the book. His brows arched over those turquoise eyes—cerulean blue would do it, blended with a dab of yellow oxide—

  “Your book of erotica in which I play the starring role.”