The Deadliest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “I need you,” she said softly.

  “But in what way? And why? To get to Faron?” He stared at her, and then let her go so suddenly she stumbled back against the low damask-covered chair. Glaring at her, he said softly, “Know this. I want you. For yourself. And that too has nothing to do with Faron—which makes me the bigger fool.” Before she could respond, he strode out of the study, slamming the door.

  Julia didn’t wait but charged after him, running down the shadowed hall, her blood pounding in her ears. She bunched her skirts in her fist, his last words echoing in her soul, until she collided with him on the stairs.

  “I believe you,” she said simply, almost out of breath.

  “In the morning you will wish that you hadn’t.” He forced the words through a tight jaw.

  “I don’t want to talk about that now.”

  He turned toward her then, his hand grasping hers, his fingers wrapping painfully around her wrist. Nothing softened the severity of his features. No seductive smile. Not even a flicker of conceit at a game easily won.

  “I won’t say this again,” he said softly. “If you pursue this, I shall take you to my bed. And you will regret your decision.”

  She had known from the first moments in the cork-lined room at Eccles House that it would end that way. His words made it real. It was exactly what she’d been obsessed with since he’d first touched her. She was strong enough to see the truth, and refused to lie to herself. “I don’t want to think about regret right now. Although I know,” she whispered awkwardly, “that I am not the most beautiful of women, or what you are perhaps accustomed to.”

  His eyes lowered and she felt as if she would explode under his scrutiny.

  “You know nothing of me or my reasons, Julia, but know this. I want you. You.”

  Julia stopped breathing as he closed the distance between them. “Christ, I want you like no other woman I’ve known,” he said. His fingers slipped from her wrist to her neck, caressing a slow path up her spine. He drew her nearer until his mouth pressed against the side of her neck. “You have no idea how beautiful you are. How you have invaded my thoughts, my blood. At first I thought it was the situation, seeing you at Eccles House, so unaware of your own sensuality. But it is more than that, and I still don’t fully understand what it is you do to me.”

  She knew who he was—a strong man, a reckless man, who had traveled the known world, powerful and heedless, taking what he wanted, treading where others feared to go. She knew he had taken his pleasure with many women, women far more exotic and skilled than she could ever be. And yet he desired her. Julia Woolcott.

  Nothing else mattered. Suddenly she was in the midst of a wild delusion, but she didn’t care. She tilted her face to his, her lips parting in unspoken longing, as though she could deny herself no longer. His lips met hers, tasting of warm brandy, and she leaned into him, pliant and supple as all resistance fled her body. His name spilled from her lips without volition when he swept her into his arms and carried her up the staircase and down a wide hall. He didn’t stop kissing her, and only paused to push open his chamber door, then kicked it closed behind him.

  Julia barely felt her feet touch the ground as he pressed her back against the door. A small smile of satisfaction curved her lips when he leaned his forearms on either side of her and lowered his mouth to hers once again.

  She felt a shiver of fear at his touch, but he was too quick for her and dispelled her trembling by slowly drawing her into his arms. “Are you sure you want to do this, Julia?” He placed his hand under her chin, tilted it, and gazed into her eyes, studying her face.

  It came to her again that they were strangers, that her senses were spiraling out of control. She felt weak when he placed his lips upon hers, ran his tongue sensuously between them. He traced her mouth with his wicked tongue, and with such subtle persuasion she stifled a whimper. One kiss followed another, on the side of her neck, on the lobe of her ear, on her shoulder. Then he raised her hand and placed it over his mouth and kissed the palm, licked a slow path to the inside of her wrist.

  She struggled to find something to say, to tell him that she was falling, drowning in sensation already, and she knew they had scarcely begun. Images flashed through her mind. The naked men and women at Eccles House, their bodies slick with oil, offering themselves to each other.

  Strathmore did not let her hand go when he stepped back from her. There was no doubting the passion in his eyes, the warring emotion in the tense line of his jaw, or the way he swallowed hard before he said, “We shouldn’t be doing this. You have never been with a man and I have no right. As much as I want you, tell me that I’m not wrong about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, hoarsely. “Or perhaps it does because I may never get a chance again…to know this…to lose myself.” The words would not come, her confession of need and desire. Any further thoughts of piecing together sentences completely vanished when Strathmore placed his hands on her waist and rocked her into his arms. Desperately, she closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind, unable to hide the restlessness she felt when he caressed the swell of her breasts beneath the prim wool of her gown.

  “How lovely you are, Julia, don’t ever forget that.” Miraculously, the tiny buttons of her bodice gave way, revealing the simple corset and shift she wore beneath. “I want to see you naked. Your beautiful body.”

  Questions were left hanging unanswered in the air. When he kissed her again, her lips parted and she settled more deeply into his arms. “Answer me, Julia.”

  Her heart pounded. “Yes, I want to be naked for you, free and open, to learn…” Once again, the images of Eccles House heated her blood. She knew it was desire talking, and suddenly she wanted to tear off all her clothes, to feel his hands on her naked bottom, her bare hips, allowing him to play with every hidden curve and crevice.

  Strathmore sensed the turmoil beneath her inchoate yearnings. Placing an arm around her shoulders, he walked with her into the room, the candlelight throwing into sharp relief the dark blue walls lined with books and exotic sculptures, darkly mysterious stone carvings next to glittering scimitars. The carpet beneath her feet was of a great age, patterned in a faded turquoise color with sweeping gray ferns. There were deep, comfortable chairs in black and blue silk damask and a mountain of cushions cascading from a low divan onto the floor. Also, tables of dark, rich woods, a heavy screen, and a large four-poster bed, draped in heavy damask and lined in plum-colored silk. It had been turned down to display crisp white linen.

  Julia had not found Alexander Strathmore in the rest of the town house, but she had found him in the dark, exotic richness of his bedroom. They stopped at the foot of the bed. He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. “Words only go so far, Julia. You know that more than anyone else. Prove to me you want this.”

  She waited for him to move, to make a gesture, to feel his hands upon her. Then understanding dawned. Much had been said between them—lies, subterfuge, deception—none of which had a place in that dark, masculine room. Her actions would speak louder than any words, telling him it was her decision alone.

  She moved behind him and slid her hands across his shoulders, his jacket sliding easily from his arms. Dropping it carelessly across the divan, she allowed herself to rest her head against his back, caressing his wide shoulders under the white linen shirt he was wearing. She walked around to face him again. He raised his chin and she understood, undoing the ivory buttons at his neck with aching deliberation. Holding herself back, she resisted spreading the fabric across his chest to expose the hardness of the muscular body underneath.

  He held up his wrists wordlessly, never taking his gaze from hers. She removed the studs with surprising deftness, before sweeping the shirt from the waistband of his trousers. Her hands trembled and she was afraid he would stop her. She was drunk with desire. To hide her intoxication, she moved behind him again and raised his shirt, running her hands over his strong back. Slowly he reach
ed around, grabbed her hand and pulled her in front of him. They stood for an instant, their breaths coming in tandem.

  All she wanted at that moment was his hands on her breasts, his fingers biting into her flesh. She felt out of control, as far from Julia Woolcott as she had ever been.

  “Don’t stop now.” Despite the simple words, there was an intensity in his voice she had never heard before. She pushed back a wave of awkwardness, imagining what she looked like, dressed in her wool and taffeta day gown, with its high lace collar and boned bodice, looking every inch the unmarried, unwanted maiden. She found it quite shocking, and didn’t want to look into a mirror to see the two of them, he half-naked and she fully dressed.

  “It must be your choice, Julia,” he said. “You need only to believe that whatever we do sexually, you will always be safe with me. I will never let you come to any harm.”

  His eyes darkened as her fingers trembled on the row of buttons at the back of her gown, her own breathing hoarse and tortured to her ears. Her fingers parted muslin and traced soft cotton up her spine until the fabric parted, cool air on warm flesh. Julia heard herself murmur something when he slid both hands inside the back of her dress, molding her flesh and then sliding the material from her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a rush, matching her sharp intake of breath.

  Her eyes fluttered closed as she stepped away from him, determined to prove to him that she acted of her own free will.

  Chapter 10

  Julia Woolcott stood in front of him in her slippers, with their demure pink satin straps, wearing only her undergarments. Her chemise, beneath her corset, came just to the tops of her long thighs, and hidden from his view were her breasts, tantalizingly high and firm, the raspberry nipples visible beneath the thin fabric.

  Alexander Strathmore shook his head, trying to calm the pounding in his ears, a burst of passion and depravity mixing in his blood. What was it about the woman? He had been fooled by the elegance of her features, the reticence and reserve marred only by those full lips—until the evening at Eccles House when he had been given a glimpse of the sensual side of her shockingly erotic beauty.

  The irony was she hadn’t a clue. He held back, taking in the slimness of her waist, her narrow hips. He tested himself, slowing his breathing, walking slowly around her, enchanted by her bottom, high and round and beckoning. He caressed the cheeks, separating them, running a finger provocatively along the smooth skin. Unable to resist, he bent to lick a spot.

  Julia swayed beneath the assault, beneath his unwavering gaze. She took a nervous step away from him, instinctively tried to cover herself. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “I am unaccustomed to this,” she said.

  “I shouldn’t doubt it. Do you wish to continue?”

  He could see the starkness of desire and insecurity clouding her eyes.

  The cream of her shoulder warmed to his touch. “You have a beautiful, perfect body, Julia, made for erotic play.” He took her face in his hands, feathering light kisses onto her lips. “There is no shame in this. I can’t stop looking at you.” He touched her cheek, the bridge of her nose, returning to her mouth. She slid her tongue between them and licked his lips, nibbling at them, giving in to him and to herself.

  At that moment he wanted nothing more than to loosen his trousers, flick them open, and release the tension in his iron-hard shaft. He hadn’t had a woman in months, he told himself, but that was no reason to explode like a randy schoolboy.

  Mercifully, she stepped back from him, releasing him only momentarily from his own personal hell. Languid blue eyes beseeched him, desire mingling with courage, driving her hand to loosen the satin ties of her corset. She let the stiff material slip from her shoulders and down her arms to fall on the floor. He was mesmerized, watching every naïve and innocent move with a focus usually reserved for a target caught in the crosshairs of his pistol.

  She let one chemise strap fall and then the next. The small eyelet hooks gave way with agonizing slowness. The cotton slid off her breasts and down around her waist, her hips, her thighs, and slowly to the floor. Driven by shyness or desire, he didn’t want to know which, she closed the distance between them, placing her arms around his neck.

  “I know there is no shame in this,” she breathed into his chest. “And it’s what I want. With you.” Her fingers fluttered on his shoulders.

  He didn’t answer but picked her up in his arms and laid her on the bed, quickly shrugging off his shirt and his trousers until he was naked beside her. She didn’t look away, and her fingertips angled toward him as if she wished to run her hand over the length of his body.

  “You are the one who is beautiful.”

  He had been called many things in his life, but beautiful wasn’t one of them. He grinned, hoping the levity would take inches from his erection. He was a big man who wanted to be between Julia Woolcott’s legs. And she was a virgin. Damn it to hell.

  He pressed his lips to hers briefly, holding back, before letting his mouth trace the indentation between her ribs. The scent of warmed lavender flowed over his tongue. His tongue darted into her navel, her breathy inhalations the only reply he needed.

  Her breath caught when he slid his hands over her hips, his warm, large hands caressing the length of her bared thighs and calves. A sigh followed and she sank her fingers into his hair just as his mouth brushed over the tenderness of her inner thighs. He remembered what she had seen at Eccles House and her highly vaunted literary interests. “Surely this isn’t so unusual, Julia,” he murmured into the chestnut curls at the apex of her thighs, finding her soft and wet.

  “I’m not certain,” she moaned as he parted the moist folds, breathing in her scent.

  “Not certain of what you’re feeling?”

  She was so tense, so on the verge of an orgasm, she could not answer, save to open her thighs further, allowing him to savor her. He grasped both her hips to bring her to the touch of his mouth and tongue. With fluid strokes he roused her, tasted her, sending her over the edge. She tensed, her hands in his hair, suspended in eternity, until she let out a small tortured cry.

  The sound filled him with a strange lust, stoking his desire to bring a surfeit of pleasure. He slipped fingers of each hand on either side of her center until she was completely open, entering her for the first time with his tongue. He probed, madly and deeply, making a feast of her.

  Her fingers dug hard into his shoulders until, unable to keep silent, she came again with a low keening wail. He kissed the inside of her thighs, then worked his way up her body, his lips tracing a wild path. He nipped her flesh, reaching her breasts, the dark pink nipples and nimbus, stirring in him a lust he had long forgotten.

  Julia Woolcott shared his hunger. Bone melting satiation shone in her eyes as she slipped her arms around her neck and drew his mouth to hers. “Thank you,” she panted. “Thank you. I never knew. Would perhaps never have known.”

  He silenced her words with a kiss to her forehead, the high curve of cheekbones, the sweep of her jaw. He was aware that she welcomed his hips against hers and the hard, hot erection between her thighs. It was ridiculous, outlandish, unreasonable—but he had never been so hard in his life.

  Alexander Strathmore, who had sampled every erotic game available in the east and west, was famished for her sex. The virgin, far from a sophisticated temptress or exotic seductress, had simply exploded in his arms, responded to him with an ardent, honest simplicity that was dangerous.

  He hated himself for it, but he could no longer wait. He parted her thighs, licked the arch of her rib cage and the succulent side of a breast, his fingers going where his tongue had been before, to that small, tight place drenched with need. With gentle, caressing fingers, he opened the deep rose of her inner lips, pushing himself up on his elbows and easing himself slowly into her. With one hand caught in the heavy silk of hair that fanned the coverlet, he cupped her head, drawing her mouth to his, eager to absorb her slightest whisper of pain.

 
; She was too small, too tight around him. But he was too far gone to stop.

  His hand at her lower back, he lifted her hips toward him and thrust. Shallowly. Then more deeply. And then again, staring at the intricately carved headboard to gain some semblance of control. He counted the rollicking satyrs, the rosy nymphs, and the frolicking unicorns. Fighting for control, he paced himself in a gentle, coaxing rhythm until she opened around him.

  His incursions slowed to extract the most tantalizing pleasure for them both, increasing the tempo until he felt her orgasm once more, warm, wet, and slippery as silk coating his hardness. Her body went taut and she called out in a frenzy of passion when he chose his moment to impale her to the hilt. His fingers bit into the slender hips where he held her. He paused, watching for any sign of pain or discomfort. Her response was to raise her hips more closely to his, urging him on. Her eyes closed as he began a new rhythm, fast and merciless, his body slick with power and need, drumming into her until he knew nothing else.

  The world disappeared, leaving only the dictates of his body, and the bone-crunching, mind-numbing passion that finally released them. He tore out of her body just in time, releasing his seed on the smoothness of her thighs.

  They slept then, not so much from sensual excess as from a reluctance to permit the real world to intrude. When he awoke again, he was relieved to see no light behind the heavy damask curtains. The candles had burned low, telling him that he’d slept for only an hour.

  Julia lay on her back, both hands flung over her head, her breathing as innocent as a child’s. Only the smear of blood on the pristine whiteness of the linen beneath her dispelled the illusion.

  Strathmore bit back a curse almost at the same time as he unwisely allowed his eyes to travel over her body. Impossibly, she still held him in thrall, as though he had not just come with a fierceness that made his teeth ache. The dark allure of her nipples drew his hands and mouth inexorably to her breasts. She murmured low in her throat, her eyes opening slowly before shuttering again with a languorous sensuality that stunned him.