Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “Do you do this often, then?” His voice was cool, but his grip tightened at her waist.

  “Never.” The brush of her thighs against his as they turned in graceful slow loops around the floor seemed patent contradiction.

  “Should I be honored?” A certain insolence colored his words.

  “If you wish,” she tranquilly said. “I prefer the concept of mutual pleasure.”

  His reaction to her last two words was immediate. She could feel it. “Could I interest you in a view of Judge Parkman’s new garden?” Adam brusquely queried, turning them toward the terrace doorway.

  “It depends on the view.”

  His head snapped around from a swift survey of an exit route, and he found her smiling up at him.

  “I’m serious,” she said, but a teasing impudence gleamed from her eyes.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he gruffly declared. “Do you need a wrap?” A nearly forgotten politesse.

  “How chivalrous,” she said with a smile, “but I think we’re both comfortably warm. It must be the dancing.”

  “Or uncomfortably warm,” he muttered, gazing down at her with heated black eyes. “And dancing has nothing to do with it.” They’d reached the border of the dance floor, and with an edginess Flora found equally tantalizing and disturbing, he wordlessly guided them around two potted palms to the terrace door, pushed it open, and pulled her outside.

  He stood on the flagstones, his hand firmly gripping hers, scrutinizing the garden that was almost bare of flowers this early in the spring; the foliage of hedge and bower consisted only of half-formed leaves. A decision apparently made, Adam turned toward the back of the stone mansion, moving less swiftly so Flora could keep up. Then, leaving the terrace, he walked across the carefully raked gravel of the back drive into the dusky entrance to the carriage house. With the large double doors open, the spring moonlight illuminated the front third of the interior, which Adam carefully noted before moving farther back into the shadows.

  He seemed to know where he was going, for he strode surefooted to a landau set against the wall, abruptly swept her into his arms, and deposited her in a tumble of violet tulle on the wide satin-upholstered seat.

  “Should we put the top up?” Flora murmured, stripping off one long kidskin glove as Adam unlatched the lacquered door and stepped into the open carriage.

  He shook his head. He’d selected the landau for its roominess and open top; he’d made love in enough closed carriages to know the merits of space. “Will your father look for you?” he asked as he seated himself beside her and slid into a comfortable sprawl.

  “Not since I turned eighteen and came into my own fortune.” Her smile was pale in the dim light.

  “You’re very unusual,” he softly said, gazing at her.

  “You are too. You must know that.” She was unbuttoning her second glove at the wrist.

  “One’s constantly reminded,” he dryly said, stretching his arms above his head, then relaxing again. “Acting Governor Meagher and his drunken volunteers are currently dividing their time between Con Owen’s Saloon and their inebriated pursuit of Indians.” He shifted his posture slightly. Restless, he was questioning the wisdom of his libido-driven actions. “My clan is trying to stay out of their way.”

  “You sound resigned.”

  “Armed and alert, actually. It’s safer.”

  “Are you in Virginia City often?”

  He shook his head again. “I prefer my ranch, but Judge Parkman’s a friend.” He sighed. “And of course Isolde was added reason.”

  “Has she truly gone off with the baron?” Flora’s voice was hesitant as she slid the second glove free.

  He didn’t answer for several moments, and Flora thought she’d overstepped politeness again. Then he laughed, a warm, intimate sound in the darkness. “I certainly hope so.” He turned to her and, raising his hand, touched her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers. “This is a mistake. You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. Our garden promenade wasn’t a sensible idea. We should go back inside.”

  “We should.” Her voice was hushed, her mouth only inches away as she let her gloves slip through her fingers to the carriage floor.

  He drew in a deep breath of restraint. “Lord, you’re tempting.…” Her skin glowed in the shrouded moonlight. Her shoulders, unsheathed arms, the swell of her breasts above the low neckline of her gown, seduced the eye; the opulent jasmine scent of her perfume enticed his senses.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered, because she couldn’t help herself any more than he.

  “No.” But he didn’t move.

  “Then I’ll kiss you.”

  He could feel her breath light on his lips and hard, insistent desire pounding in his brain. “How much time do we have?” he softly said, capitulating.

  “You know better than I.” Her words held a hushed double entendre.

  “It’s not going to be enough time.” He felt like staying with her, in her, over her, possessing her for limitless hours—a startling, unique sensation he consciously ignored. “You’re not sixteen now.…” Wary, guarded, it was a masculine question. And his last, he knew, regardless of her answer.

  If she responded, he didn’t hear, because her hands were suddenly on his face, drawing him closer, and when her lips touched his, he was already unbuttoning his trousers.

  He moved her under him swiftly, pushing her voluminous skirt and petticoats aside, his mouth hard on hers, the sharp-set urgency of his need astonishingly matched by hers. She tried to help him unbutton his trouser buttons, but he said a harsh “No,” against her lips, impatiently brushing her hands aside as impediments to his haste. When his erection was free, he entered her immediately because he couldn’t wait a second longer, and then he moved her upward on the cushioned seat, half lifting her, half driving her higher by sheer force of penetration. She cried out, breathy, wild, impaled, and she fiercely clung to him as exquisite sensation quivered through every nerve and receptor, deep inside her and in her brain and fingertips and on the hot surface of her skin.

  In the darkness of the carriage house, the elegant landau rocked and swayed, only the sounds of lovemaking and squeaking springs audible as Adam Serre indulged his partner’s wanton desire and his own turbulent lust. He whispered softly to her in his mother’s language, astonishing words he’d never said to a woman before. And she kissed him hungrily, as if she were greedy for the taste as well as the feel of him.

  There was no explanation for the ravenous need she incited in him, no previous guidelines in his memory to measure such overwhelming desire. But he knew he didn’t want it to end, these sensations that were inexplicably acute, intense. As if a fever possessed him. Don’t stop, his mind recklessly ordered—never stop.… The rhythm of his lower body echoed the unbridled litany reverberating through his brain. His breathing was harsh, his eyes shut against the ecstasy bombarding his nerves as he drove into her voluptuous body, submerged himself in her flesh until they both trembled desperately on the brink. And sensational moments later, he’d slowly withdraw only to plunge in again and then again with heedless, unrestrained fury.

  Flora met him eagerly with her own fierce arousal. She should have known when she first saw his eyes that he was capable of this wildness. And she sighed with pleasure and kissed him and purred in contentment. After their initial frenzy had abated, he partially undressed her, unlacing, unhooking, untying so her full breasts gleamed pale under his hands, so he could taste their sweetness. “It’s my turn,” she said after a languorous time, climbing on top of him, reaching for a diamond stud on his shirt front. And when she’d divested him of those garments in her way, he found her small hands inventive, and ultimately her mouth when her warm tongue licked a sensational path downward.

  Like adolescents they were frantic in their intoxication, insensate to the vulnerability of their locale, focused on the lavish joys of arousal. They made love in numerous and varied positions, versatile, imaginative, playful. And much later
when Adam rolled Flora over on the seat and began to mount her from behind, she looked up over her naked shoulder and, faint from another recent climax, whispered, “You needn’t … be … so selfless.”

  Already plunging into her sleek passage, he buried himself inside her before he said on a suffocated breath, “I’m not doing it for you.” And holding her waist firmly between his large hands, he drove in deeper.

  She moaned, her soft cry trailing away in a breathless, heated sigh.

  Neither seemed to breathe for a lengthy interval, too intent on registering the minute degrees of pleasure inundating their senses. But their mutual pleasure eventually came to an end, because Adam hadn’t completely abandoned caution even in the extremity of passion. And they’d been absent too long. So as Flora began peaking once again, he allowed himself release at last, forcing her wider, penetrating so deeply, she whimpered in heated response, and he joined her in tumultuous orgasm, pouring into her in shuddering ecstasy.

  Only the rasping rhythm of Adam’s breath filled the silence, for neither was capable of speech. And then Flora gently touched his sweat-sheened forehead—a small, possessive gesture as he lay above her. “You’re remarkable …,” she murmured. Sublime contentment drummed through her senses. “I think I’m going to like Montana.” She felt him suddenly tense under her hands and softly added, “Don’t be alarmed. That was a thank-you, no more.”

  She could hear rather than see his grin in the shadowed interior. “Consider it my distinct pleasure, ma’am. I’d forgotten how friendly the English could be.”

  “I’m half-American too.”

  Ah, he thought, that was the extraordinary heat. And charming frankness. But despite a powerful temptation to stay comfortably submerged inside her delicious warmth, Adam recognized the ticking away of their last secret moments. He kissed her lightly, then said with genuine regret, “We have to go back in.” And easing himself off, he sat up and began buttoning his shirt. “You probably need my handkerchief,” he courteously offered, reaching into his pocket to pull out the plain linen square.

  “How sweet,” Flora whispered, drowsy from the sustained violence of their passion, reclining still, disinclined to move, her body throbbing in small, blissful pulsations. “But why don’t I use one of these dozens of petticoats I’m wearing instead?” She stretched languidly. “Later, though …,” she murmured. “When I have more energy …”

  “Now, bia,” he softly contradicted, the Absarokee endearment uttered in a husky whisper. “We don’t have time for you to revive.” His evening clothes were speedily restored to order—a specialty honed to perfection during years of casual seduction. Equally adept at undoing ladies’ petticoats, he managed to untangle Flora from one petticoat, lifting her easily to expedite the procedure. But when he began to wipe away the residue of their lovemaking, issues of time suddenly lost their urgency. Contemplation of her silky thighs and enticing bottom, the enchanting promise she offered in her languid pose was almost more than he could endure. Shutting his eyes briefly against his fierce urges, he drew in a sharp breath, said, “Sorry,” on an explosive exhalation, then kissed her gently and set her carefully on the seat opposite him. “Stay there now. This isn’t worth a scandal in your life.” But when he caught a glimpse of her shameless, alluring smile, he laughed at her coquettish impudence. “I really wish I could,” he added with a grin, “but trust me on this one.”

  Beneath the teasing and lassitude, Flora understood his dilemma. “Maybe later,” she softly said, and began arranging her gown into some semblance of propriety.

  Ten minutes later, their clothing composed, they approached the terrace door. The spring night was cool enough to keep the other guests inside; no one else had chosen to brave the chill temperature. Stopping at a secluded corner, Adam checked Flora’s appearance one last time. Patting a ribbon in place, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, he smiled at her like a fond father. “Now, stay by my side, and no one will dare say anything to you.”

  “Are you dangerous?”

  “Not to you.” His voice had changed. She hadn’t heard that warding-off tone before.

  “Would you harm someone over this?” It was a sudden, curious thought.

  “Your father, you mean? No.” His voice had returned to its normal nonchalance.

  “But you might injure someone else? Surely our time together was harmless.”

  “Of course it was. Don’t worry. We shouldn’t have any problems. No one ever challenges me directly.” That warding-off voice again.

  “Why?” Her question was automatic; she already knew the answer just looking at him.

  He paused, wondering how to respond to a woman he barely knew. Complex reasons impelled his enemies, not the least of which was his Absarokee blood. But his adversaries rarely confronted him face-to-face and never without a small army at their back. “It’s not easily explained,” he simply replied.

  “Have you killed people?” Her brows had unintentionally drawn together in a faint scowl.

  “It doesn’t really matter, right now.” His smile was remarkably bland. This wasn’t the time to analyze their disparate worlds. “All we have to do now, darling,” he softly said, “is walk in, ignore everyone staring at us, and see that your father is assuaged.”

  “Papa will be fine,” she quietly said, sure of her father’s unconditional support.

  “You can do no wrong?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He may not so easily excuse me.”

  “He excuses all my friends.”

  It turned out Adam Serre was right about his authority. Although numerous glances took note of their entrance, of Flora’s tousled hair and the occasional crushed bow on her gown, their leisurely passage across the ballroom went unobstructed. No one spoke to them.

  “I’m impressed,” Flora whispered as another guest smiled at them in acknowledgment of Adam’s nod. She grinned. “And you’re not even armed.”

  “Now I’m not armed,” he quietly said. “Everyone understands the distinction.” He didn’t smile back. And she wondered at the reputation of a man who could intimidate so effortlessly.

  “Could you take any woman from this room with equal impunity?”

  He glanced down at her, not with surprise but with sudden recognition, as if his thoughts had been elsewhere. “I don’t coerce women.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, then.” Spare, unornamented words, softly uttered. “Are you sure your father won’t be upset?” he added as if the incongruous subjects shared some common sentiment.

  He was genuinely concerned, Flora thought, fascinated by his complexity, or maybe simply distracted.

  “Perhaps you could intimidate him too,” she teased, allowing him the distraction.

  A faint smile appeared on his handsome face. “I’ll leave that to you, bia. You’re fierce enough for both of us.”

  She found herself blushing.

  “I’m not complaining,” he said, amused at her embarrassment. “Believe me.”

  “I don’t have any complaints either, Monsieur le Comte,” she lightly replied.

  “I don’t use my title here. But thank you.” He touched her fingers lightly as they lay on his arm. “Thank you for everything.”

  When they found George Bonham in the billiard room, their conversation had nothing to do with their disappearance from the party, but rather with the earl’s plans to purchase horses from Adam. After some discussion of diverse schedules, arrangements were made to meet at Adam’s ranch in two weeks.

  Adam left Judge Parkman’s home very soon afterward. He found it impossible to socialize with equanimity, the extraordinary sensations he’d experienced in the carriage house difficult to disregard. He found he no longer cared to smile and talk of trivialities. Troubled by his singular reaction to Flora Bonham, he wished to escape her presence and his disturbing feelings.

  Perhaps the contentious style of Isolde’s departure today had taken its toll on his emotions,
he thought, exiting the mansion with relief, or maybe he was responding with his normal weariness to fashionable society. Perhaps he simply missed his home and daughter. The only thing he was certain of was that he wished to leave Virginia City immediately, tonight. And forget Flora Bonham. After his wretched experience with marriage, his interest in women was purely physical, and Flora Bonham, despite her fascinating conversation and captivating sensuality, didn’t fall into the category of transient pleasures. Unmarried women like Flora generally expected more than an amorous interlude. Or if they didn’t, their fathers generally did.

  And he wasn’t inclined to be anyone’s gentleman suitor.

  But he found himself bothered on the long ride home by her statement that her father excused all her friends.

  What exactly did that mean?

  How many men had there been?

  Was she as sensational with all her “friends”?

  He shook away the heated anger and the damnable longing, forcing the nagging question aside when it slipped past his defenses. He didn’t need her, he reminded himself. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want any women after so recently delivering himself from a miserable marriage. And now he had all the time in the world to forget her.

  Chapter Two

  In the following days Flora found Adam Serre much on her mind. Despite the bustle and activity of packing for their journey to the Absarokee1 villages, evocative memories of the night at Judge Parkman’s keenly affected her concentration. Normally so efficient that her father had long ago relinquished the organization of their expeditions to her, she found herself duplicating lists, forgetting simple tasks, conducting interviews for needed staff with a curious disregard for replies. All because she would suddenly see Adam’s smile in her mind, or remember the feel of his hard body or the sensation of his warm mouth on hers, and any continuity of thought would abruptly cease.

  On more than one occasion her father remarked on her unusual abstraction.

  “There’s just so much to do, Papa,” she would evasively reply, forcing her mind back from heated memory, aware of the true reason for her preoccupation. Equally aware that such ardent infatuation was a novelty in her life. She’d never been so intensely attracted to a man. As a beautiful woman familiar with male adulation, she’d long ago acquired the habit of casually dealing with lovesick suitors, earning herself the sobriquet Serene Venus within London’s elite society. Her affairs of the heart were conducted with playful nonchalance, detached from excessive feeling—unlike her current tempestuous emotions apropos the hot-blooded Comte de Chastellux. With him an overwhelming, irrepressible lust impelled her. She smiled, thinking how appropriate the word in conjunction with a man so skilled, so spectacular in stamina, so reckless that he made love in dangerous proximity to a houseful of guests. Her smile widened as she sat at the small bonheur-du-jour in her sitting room, the lists before her forgotten.