Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  She was trembling now, not with fear or embarrassment, but desire. She wanted this, this illicit passion with Jude.

  She felt his finger atop her bottom as it lightly traced her cleft, down to the slick petals of her sex. Parting her with one hand, he ran his finger along the edge of her wet folds, only to trace the opening of her body.

  “Let me taste you, Isabella, as I have dreamed about all these nights.”

  His tongue flicked out and Jude closed his eyes, savoring the taste of Isabella’s arousal. She squirmed, made a strangled sound deep in her throat. He didn’t know if it was shock or delight, but he didn’t care. He could not stop. She was wet, her sex pink with desire, hot with blood that rushed beneath her silky skin. He raked his tongue along her from the bottom of her folds to the top, where he flicked the nubbin of flesh and felt her body go taut. He repeated the action again, this time ensuring that her pleasure would be increased by swirling his tongue in slow circles around her swollen bud.

  She moaned and he tasted the rush of arousal from her body. She was so responsive, so hot in his arms. “A thousand times better than what I have dreamed,” he whispered, kissing her swollen sex and bringing her back to him so that he could lower her to the carpet and gaze into her passion-glazed eyes. “You have the sort of body that lures a man to his doom, Isabella.” She smiled then, a dazzling, womanly smile that temporarily blinded him. “Touch me,” he begged in a voice he could barely comprehend was his.

  His plea, needy and haunting, pierced her fuzzy mind. She did as he asked, sliding his shirttail from his trousers and running her hands up the wide width of his back. The muscles tensed, flickering as her fingers traced each contoured ridge. He helped her remove his shirt and Isabella couldn’t help but marvel once again at the sight that greeted her. Chiseled chest and abdomen, the muscles bunching, reminding her of rough-hewn stone. A sprinkling of black, silky hair swirled around his nipples and down his belly, intriguing her, so that with her index finger she followed its path to where it disappeared below the waistband of his trousers.

  He groaned deep in his throat, only to have him capture her hand in his and place it against the buttons of his fall front trousers. Pinning her with his stormy gaze, he helped her to undo the buttons. “I want your fingers touching me. I’ve waited too long to feel your touch.”

  She must be crazed to be doing this, surely this was beyond sinful. But when he brought her hand into the opening of his trousers and placed her fingers around his rigid length, Isabella could feel nothing but wonder. How could something so forbidden feel this right?

  “Move your hand up the length of me, Isabella.”

  His voice was gruff and commanding and she found herself responding to his mastery. Her hand slid up the silky length of him, and he jutted out his hips, pushing his erection farther into her hand. His eyes flashed to her face before he focused them on where her hand stroked him. She studied the way his hips moved, slow, assured, an ancient rhythm she knew she would soon be part of. He pulled away and stood beside her, stepping out of his trousers, his erection finally freed from behind the black cloth.

  Before she could touch him, he came down atop her, covering her body with his, his lips, soft and nipping, roamed over her throat and shoulders before skating along her breasts.

  Gliding her hands through his hair, she tousled it, watching as the shining threads slipped through her fingers. Her breath hitched and her fingers tightened in his hair when he slipped her nipple into his mouth. His tongue darted out to lave and flick, hardening the sensitive flesh to an almost painful peak, making her forget her every thought.

  His fingers trailed down her belly, where they circled her navel, his lips followed, then his tongue. “Let me make love to you,” he whispered. “Let me show you how well we can know what is in each other’s hearts.”

  “Yes,” she answered. This is what she wanted. What she had always wanted.

  He coaxed her to open her thighs for him and slowly pushed his fingers inside her. Oh, God. She cried out, covering her mouth with the back of her hand when she felt more wetness pool deep inside her. What was he doing to her?

  “You like that, don’t you,” he asked, his voice deepening with passion. “I like to hear your cries, Isabella. I want to feel your desire on my hand.”

  His fingers continued to stroke her sex and she allowed him to widen her thighs. She was exposed and she could feel his hot stare on her. “I want to put my tongue to you.”

  The flat of his tongue raked hot along her, teasing and licking. Her back instinctively arched when his tongue circled her in short, firm strokes. She cried out again, smothering the sound with her hand when his mouth covered her fully, drawing out a moan that sounded foreign to her.

  He refused to stop and instead continued to lave and build her up again to a peak that was almost painful in its intensity. Her hips began to move and he no longer had to hold her still, she was grasping him to her, greedily taking all he would give her.

  “Jude,” she panted, gripping his hair. “You must stop.”

  “Not yet,” he said, drawing his tongue up the length of her sex and pressing it against her swollen clitoris. “I want to make you come this way.”

  Raising her shoulders from the floor, Isabella looked down to find Jude’s black head between her pale thighs. A strangled sound escaped her throat and he looked up, his eyes wickedly gazing back at her as he slowly licked her. Another muffled cry whispered past her lips and he grinned seductively, still holding her gaze as he continued to pleasure her. Unable to help herself, she reached for him.

  He licked fiercely until she felt her body tighten, poised upon a foreign precipice, when he eased himself up on his knees and bent between her thighs, his fingers dancing along her wetness. She thought she would surely die of pleasure as he slipped his fingers deep inside her, watching while he stroked her, his eyes blazing as she unconsciously whimpered, her body undulating as he rubbed his finger at the crest of her curls.

  Then something far thicker and firmer began to stretch her. Closing her eyes, she fought to relax, to savor the feel of him sliding, inch by inch, into her body.

  “You’re incredibly wet, so extraordinarily beautiful.”

  “Jude.” His name was ripped from her throat.

  He groaned, filling her further, his fingers biting into her hips. “Open your eyes, and say my name again.”

  And she did, just as he thrust his way deep inside her, imbedding himself fully.

  Jude could barely move, could hardly even think, save for luxuriate in the exquisite feel of Isabella’s body clamping tightly around him. It had never been like this, never this slow and sensual, a feast for his senses.

  His hips began to push and, gaining in confidence, Isabella’s began to move against him, matching his rhythm. He was totally imbedded inside her, yet he couldn’t get close enough or stroke deep enough to satisfy his craving for her.

  He watched her arch beneath his strokes, her lashes fluttered closed, fanning against her cheeks, her breasts moving in time to his thrusting. He inhaled her scent—soap and feminine arousal. He felt her rounded hips rotate beneath his hands, felt her thighs encase his waist, could almost taste the sweet nectar of her breasts, could still taste the muskiness of her sex against his tongue.

  He cried out, long and deep, and with a rough shout and a final deep, penetrating thrust, his seed splashed deep inside her.

  For minutes they sat, clinging to each other, arms clutching and hugging—faces buried in each other’s necks—a fine sheen of perspiration trickling down her back and his chest. Slowly he came back to earth, and saw that Isabella was still secured in his arms.

  She was satiated, replete. The faint chiming of bells from the hall clock signaled an hour had passed since he looked up and found her there. She had come to him. And he wasn’t letting her go.

  “Where are we going?” she mumbled as he covered her with his jacket.

  “To bed.”

  “Oh,” she
said through a yawn, then snuggled up to him as he lifted her in his arms. “But I should be going home, the hour.”

  “It’s early enough that we have hours yet to love one another.”

  She was still satiated, still flushed from his lovemaking, and his heart swelled again.

  “Will you tell me your story, then, Isabella? Tell me what you’ve dreamed of Death doing to you.”

  “No.” She squirmed in his arms, embarrassed.

  “I have wondered about it, you know. Tell me.”

  “No.”

  He kissed her and whispered, “I’m going to make you.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not!”

  “Will you not tell me more?” Black asked as he lay with her in his bed.

  “There is no more to tell.”

  “So the maid comes to him for three nights and tells him a story. And he releases her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do they make love?” he asked. And she blushed, and he kissed her.

  “Well…I suppose so, but I didn’t write that. It’s sort of…implied.”

  “Are you afraid of the words, little love,” he asked wickedly. “I could help you write it, help you to know what Death was thinking as he was watching his lover.”

  “Could you?”

  “Mmm,” he whispered as he kissed her ear. “I could. This is how I would start…

  Passion hot and scorching rushed through his veins as his hungry gaze took in the picture of his lover, her pale limbs outlined against the black velvet while shadows cast by the fire danced across her creamy skin. The crimson silk hugged her luscious body and he stared at her, wondering how her breasts would look. How they would feel, taste…

  Swallowing hard, Death approached the chaise longue, his eyes roving every inch of her, admiring her lush thighs, the roundness of her hip, the full, heavy breasts that strained against the ties of her gown.

  He wanted her.

  It wasn’t merely a need to make love to her, or to kiss her senseless. He desired her, craved her, with a possessive passion that frightened him.

  Resting his thighs against the curved arm of the chaise longue, he looked down at her, her glorious curls in disarray, her blond lashes fanned lightly against her cheek…he could think of nothing other than waking her slowly with passion.

  “Jude,” she moaned, now thoroughly aroused. But he continued, whispering in her ear as he began to act out the love scene with Death.

  Unable to resist temptation, he leaned over the arm of the chaise longue and stroked the hair from her face. When his fingers trailed down her cheek she instinctively curled into his hand. He smiled as she mumbled something unintelligible. His fingers continued to trace a path to her neck, where they, he was chagrined to admit, shakily reached for the fastenings of her gown, parting the lace ruffle to expose the pale globes of her breasts. His breath caught as he realized she was completely naked beneath.

  A log cracked and sparked in the hearth, sending a flicker of light shadowing along her thighs, illuminating the curls that lay nestled between her legs. He itched to part her and taste her. To waken her with his mouth.

  Forcing himself to take things slower, Death concentrated on removing the gown from beneath her. Once she was naked, he untied his cravat, his appreciative gaze traveling up and over her as the starched linen slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor. He hardened further when he saw how the bloodred silk evocatively contrasted against her milky skin, outlining her curves.

  His demons were screaming to be fed, and tonight, he promised, he would sate them. He was powerless, both mentally and physically, to control them—and for tonight, he had no wish to.

  His shirt landed atop his cravat while his eyes once more moved up the length of her legs. He remembered the way they had felt against his waist—soft, welcoming, infinitely feminine. He imagined his hands pressing into their softness while he plunged into her, her husky moan welcoming him, telling him she needed him as much as he needed her.

  Sighing heavily, she turned onto her back, her breasts bouncing with the movement. Trailing his hands up the length of her waist, he stopped to cup them. They were full and heavy, the nipples already peeking out from between his fingers. Unable to resist, he pressed her breasts together, kissing each firm bud before circling the areola with his tongue.

  Death’s lover moaned sleepily, arching her back, thrusting her breasts farther into his mouth. He groaned when he felt her hands steal behind her head, her fingers busy clenching his hair.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I couldn’t stay away,” he murmured against her mouth before sliding his tongue inside. Indulging himself, Death opened his eyes as he kissed her, watching his hands, the skin much darker than hers, cup and squeeze her breasts. She moaned, angling her hips invitingly. His hand stole down her belly where he kneaded a path to her curls. It was powerful visually to see his large hand stroke her. It was a feeling of ownership, of possession. She was his, and he wanted her to want him as fiercely as he wanted her. Damn it, he wanted her to moan and writhe for him. Right there on the chaise longue, her smooth skin rubbing mindlessly against the velvet.

  He said not a word as he tore his mouth from hers and walked to the side of the chaise longue.

  He captured her wrists in his hands. Pressing them together, he held them above her head. “I need you, Bella.” Her fingers gripped his hand and her legs clamped tightly together when his finger slid into her. She whimpered as he parted her and slid his finger along the length of her sex.

  “I’ve longed for the taste of you, aching to be inside you. I will not deprive myself of the pleasure any longer.”

  Death could feel his demons nipping at his heels, driving him to satisfy his needs. He wanted to brand her with his passion. To leave his mark so that she would know that she belonged to him, and only him. Mine, his brain screamed.

  Isabella cried out when he raked his tongue down the length of her. “So sweet,” he murmured, his finger slipping inside as his breath caressed her wet flesh. “So damn sweet. And mine, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, lost in his touch, in the story he weaved. And then he began to move his fingers inside her, and he whispered again, making her more aroused as he continued with his story.

  She began to pant and twist beneath his ministrations. Death loved how she raked her hands through his hair, tightening her grip as he increased the pressure and the rhythm of his tongue. She moaned for him again, and this time he couldn’t help but look up at her while his mouth loved her. She was beautiful in her passion, writhing beneath him, searching for fulfillment. The fulfillment only he could give her.

  It was more than he could have ever hoped for. But then this was Isabella. His match in every way.

  He pulled her up to straddle his hips, his fingers sinking into her thighs as he slowly lowered her onto him. Her body arched as she accepted his thrusts. He loved watching her body move in time with his. Loved how her hair glistened in the firelight, the ends rubbing against the velvet in time to his strokes.

  Kneeling on the bed, Death placed her back against his chest, twining her arms around his neck so that her fingers were grasping his hair. He brought her atop his lap and slid inside, rocking slowly as he moved his hips in a rhythm that was both slow and seductive.

  His finger stole into her curls and she whimpered in appreciation. “Now,” he whispered into her ear as he felt her bottom still and tense as he stroked the nubbin of sensitive flesh. “Take all of me inside you.”

  She sunk farther on him, totally impaling herself on his length. He heard her suck in her breath, and he nipped at her ear as his finger continued to tease her sensitive flesh. She tightened then jerked in his arms, her bottom provocatively grazing his thighs. He smiled into her hair as the soft cries of her release splintered the air, and he watched as her face softened into exquisite bliss.

  Isabella was still limp in her climax when Jude pressed her forward until her breasts graz
ed the sheets. He stroked his fingers down the length of her back to her bottom. He repeated the action, this time working up from her buttocks to her neck, his erection stiffening further as she quivered beneath his touch. Gooseflesh rippled along her spine, sweeping along her back and down to the soft globes of her perfect bottom.

  “I love you,” he said, stroking her damp flesh. Bringing her hips back to him, he filled her completely in one fluid thrust. She moaned deeply as he pulled out, filling her again, his fingers biting into her hips as he repeated the movement.

  Jude was mindless now, watching and listening as he made love to her. The bed creaked and groaned under his thrusts, the sound of skin against skin heightened his senses, driving him to the precipice. An almost primal surge of possession engulfed him.

  His seed spilled forth as he continued to rock against her, her warmth enveloping him, caressing and tightening around him.

  “I won’t ever let you go, Isabella,” he said against her hair. “No matter what happens, you’ll always belong to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “BLACK, we have to talk.”

  “I thought we had shed all secrets.”

  “No, I meant Lucy. Last night. This pendant she keeps raving about.”

  He groaned and fell back, and it was then that Isabella saw the brand on his chest that was obscured by his silky hair. It was the shape of a Templar cross.

  “Knighton mentioned the Brethren Guardians. Does it mean anything to you?”

  He watched her.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” He glanced away, but she wouldn’t let him evade the question. “It’s true, isn’t it?” she asked. “The story of the three Templars who were entrusted with three artifacts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your family carries a pendant. That’s what Lucy had.”