“Are we running out of time?” Lying beside him on the soft hay offered a kind of rare, exotic pleasure, as if they’d known each other as children or were isolated from the modish conventions of their world.
Reaching out, he ran a light fingertip down her arm. “Stay as long as you want. I’m very good at excuses.”
“So I needn’t feel rushed.”
“Take your time.…” His fingers trailed over her rib cage; they were warmer than her skin, his body temperature degrees hotter, the pads of his fingers slightly rough like a working man’s—a curiosity she didn’t doubt in French noblemen.
She lay her hand on his for a moment, the size of his dwarfing hers, and then she moved his bronzed fingers downward while he watched with calm, dark eyes—over her stomach to the coppery damp curls between her legs.
“You’ve had intercourse,” he quietly said. “Look.” And he slid his finger down through the silken curls, down the translucent runnels of sperm on her inner thigh.
Her hips moved at his soft command, at the heated feel of his fingertips spreading the sticky fluid over her skin, and instead of looking down, she gazed at him and softly said, “A man forced me to have sex with him.”
His brows rose in brief surprise, and then he smiled. “And you resisted?” he softly queried, following the traces of moisture upward again, to their reservoir.
“I tried.” Her lashes had drifted low, and she saw him through their lacy shield, the familiar pulsing deep in the pit of her stomach beginning.
“I don’t know if I should believe you.” A small chastisement infused his voice. “You obviously had sex with the man.” His lean dark fingers gently parted her pouty pink labia, slowly stretching the entrance. “I see sperm everywhere.”
“I didn’t have any choice. He was too strong. He held me against the wall, pushed my skirt up, and forced himself inside me.” Her voice turned husky. “He was so large.”
“But not too large to fit … here.…” With infinite care he slid three fingers into her sticky sweet passage, very slowly, so she’d feel the lingering penetration. “Was he large like this?” he asked when his fingers were completely submerged.
“Larger …”
With some difficulty he added a fourth finger, gently expanding the entrance until it had stretched sufficiently to allow access. “Like that?” he murmured, stroking the distended tissue surrounding his knuckles.
“I think so,” she answered in a stifled, breathy murmur, the throbbing in her vagina pounding in her brain and toes and shuddering nerve endings.
“But you don’t remember precisely.” Adam’s erection was rock hard, and it took enormous self-control to keep his voice level.
“Everything was … very … heated.”
“Did you like it?” In just such a tone might a church elder catechize a transgressor.
“I can’t say,” she replied, flustered and nervous.
“Are you embarrassed?” That same cool voice.
“Yes … oh, yes.”
“Because sex is illicit?”
She nodded, her eyes tightly shut.
“If no one saw you, you needn’t worry.”
“But a man came in.” That small horror in her voice he’d heard at the time. “I was mortified.”
“But no one can see you now. And I promise the man who saw you will tell no one. How does this feel, Lady Flora?” His fingers were moving inside her with more ease now, her intense arousal lubricating the passage, his gliding motion effortless.
“Extremely … pleasant, Monsieur le Comte.” And she sighed in blissful rapture.
“You can open your eyes. There’s no one else here.”
“But you can see me.” Hesitant, delicately put, like a young lady of purity.
“I find you delectable. And I’m not scandalized by your behavior. Open your eyes so you can see the fierce lust I’m feeling. Look at me,” he ordered, his tone suddenly exacting.
Her eyes opened—burning iridescent amethyst.
And he more amiably said, “Look at this. Do you want it inside you?” He measured the stretched fabric over his arousal with a gliding fingertip.
She took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t.…”
“But you want to,” he said, his voice like velvet, “I can tell. Here … come here,” he murmured, drawing her hand to his erection. “Touch me.”
“I couldn’t.” She resisted the pressure of his grip, her hand trembling with the effort.
“I’ll help you,” he softly offered, sliding his fingers free from her slick vagina.
“No, please!” she pleaded, suddenly bereft of the exquisite manipulation.
“Hush, sweet,” Adam soothed, touching the peony tips of her nipples with a brushing caress, her dampness on his fingers, cool. “You’re going to like this better,” he whispered, forcing her palm hard against his arousal. “It goes in deeper.”
With her gaze focused on his erection, she whispered, “What must I do?”
He smiled at her capitulation. “Unbutton my trousers,” he softly said, leaning back on his elbows.
“Must I?”
“If you want to feel me inside you,” he pleasantly said.
She sat up then as if suddenly resolved and reached over, her small fingers struggling with the concealed placket, the sturdy twill fabric of his riding pants stiff and unyielding.
“You aren’t very proficient at this.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him, guileless and proper. “I’ve never done this before.”
“You’ll get better with more practice,” he assured her. “Here,” he said, shifting his position to help, easing the fabric aside, “put your fingers around the button like this now and then slide it free.”
Of course he was an expert at unbuttoning his trousers, Flora thought, hot temper flooding her mind. Fractious, temperamental whenever she was reminded of his legendary reputation with women, perhaps grudgingly resentful of her own intense attraction, she went motionless and in a different voice—a cool, pragmatic voice—said, “Why am I doing this?”
“Because it amuses me,” Adam murmured, “and it makes you hotter than hell. What did I do now?”
His unperturbed tranquillity affronted her. How often had he played the game? How many times before had he casually responded to a heated encounter? Why was she drawn to him so powerfully when no man before had ever stirred such feverish desire? “It doesn’t matter,” she disclaimed, taking exception to his far-flung fame and her own ardent response, as if the word “button” had suddenly triggered a caviling list of enigmatic offenses.
“Tell me.” His tone was soft, cajoling, untouched by temper.
How soothing his voice, she thought, as though she needed petting. Could she as equably repress all emotion? Had she not always in the past? Had she not earned her sobriquet Serene Venus for just that accomplishment? “If you must know,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, “your reputation for vice and indiscriminate debauch frustrates me.”
“What makes you think it’s indiscriminate? And your eager lust annoys me too, if you wish to argue libertine propensities.” He was surprised it bothered him. He was even more surprised to hear himself admit it. He generally preferred worldly women.
A dilemma of sybaritic equity, then, Flora drolly mused, and she found herself suddenly smiling. “Does this happen to you often?”
“This, you mean?” He grinned at her nakedness.
“Debating principle in the midst of lust, Monsieur le Comte,” she countered with an impudent lift of one brow. “The extent of your libidinous repute is well-known and not in question.”
His smile was delectable; she could almost taste the sweetness on her lips.
“I see,” he softly whispered. “And no, of course not. You’re the absolute first where the subject of debate has—er—intervened. Should we compare the nuances of our frustration and annoyance, or would you rather … um … deal with them in a more gratifying way?”
“
Don’t you talk with women?”
“Always,” he glibly lied. “Do you with your lovers?”
It stopped her for a moment. She didn’t or hadn’t; none had sufficiently interested her beyond the pursuit of passion. Could it be Adam Serre’s attraction wasn’t exclusively physical? “Yes, certainly,” she replied, as capable as he of artful response.
“We still have forty minutes,” he softly said, glancing at the small timepiece he’d slipped from his vest pocket. “What would you like to talk about?”
It was as though his quiet words stroked her skin, her senses, her libido. How could he so blatantly exude sexuality in a few innocuous words? How could his tone so perversely be suggesting something quite different?
“Only forty minutes?” she breathed, a tremor of susceptibility quivering in her voice.
“More if you need it,” he murmured, understanding her answer, beginning to unbuckle his belt.
She watched with heated anticipation while he slipped the buttons free, a throbbing lust dominating her senses, her appetite for him heedless of the profligacies in his past, her body seemingly immune to carnal scruple.
Then, leaning back on his elbows, he quietly said, “Why don’t you take it out?”
And when she obeyed, when her fingers first closed around the hard shaft, he sucked in his breath and groaned. He was enormous, she thought, and hard—as if he’d not recently climaxed.
His erection lay arched against his belly, against the rumpled tails of his shirt still haphazardly tucked into the loosened waistband of his trousers, the swollen tip visibly pulsing, the distended veins throbbing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Flora’s breathing had altered in the past moments as she gazed at his splendid proportions.
“Touch it,” he murmured. “Take it between your hands.”
“It’s very large,” Flora whispered, beyond denial of her vaunting need, wet with desire, tantalized by the engorged size. She took the rigid length in both hands, running her palms up the warm, velvety skin; then, circling it with her fingers, she exerted pressure, gliding downward to the stem, stretching it until the shiny throbbing crest flared high. Lowering her head, she heard Adam’s soft moan when the flourishing tip first touched her mouth, and another when it slid over her wet lips and her tongue glided down its length, and his deep sigh of pleasure when the crown came to rest against the back of her throat. His hands came up to cup her head, to hold her while the agonizing rapture flooded his senses.
Moments later he pushed his fingers through her hair, sparking static, destroying what was left of her chignon, hurtling pins into the hay and onto the blanket in a cascading shower. Then, wrapping the waves of her hair around his knuckles with swift, abrupt sureness, he measured the rise and fall of her head, setting the rhythm, eyes shut, his head thrown back so the muscles of his throat were cast in relief, his breathing a harsh, raspy staccato as the feverish delirium peaked.
It was almost too late when he forced her head away and he lay panting for breathless seconds, wondering where she’d learned such incredible technique.
“And now it’s my turn.”
Flora’s provocative words breached with volatile impact his tempestuous preoccupation, and it took an incoherent moment to deal with the sentiment. A second passed, then two before his gaze assessed her. “You seldom wait to be asked, do you?”
She was balanced on her knees with her palms resting on her thighs, her tumbled hair framing her face, lying in disarray on her shoulders, her lips glistening, incarnadined, the mouth of a fellatrice. “Not usually,” she said, knowing what she’d done to him, knowing he was as eager as she for consummation.
“Then be my guest,” he insolently said, lightly holding his stiff, gleaming penis upright. “I know you’re familiar with the drill.”
“Would you prefer a postponement?” Flora queried, her insolence matching his.
“Come here.”
“Are you asking me now?” Her smile was shamelessly cheeky. “I wouldn’t want to broach any carnal etiquette.”
“I’m telling you.”
“I’d rather be asked.”
“I’m asking, then.”
“Politely.”
“Would you please bring your sweet body here, Lady Flora?”
“Where?”
“Right here,” he said in a repressed murmur, his gaze moving from her to the relevant portion of his anatomy. “Please.”
Her smile held the sunny glow of triumph.
But she’d no more than lowered herself down on his blatant erection, when he rolled over, taking her with him, and proceeded to ravage her undocile body.
They mated as if they were out to annihilate each other, consumed by their ravenous passions and greedy lust—in turn possessive and bewitched, seduced and overwhelmed, enraptured and devoured, first he on top and then she, moving from position to heated position, until they lay at last in the shipwreck of orgasmic release, breathless, sweat-sheened, shaken to their core.
Both experienced, they recognized the rare mystery of the bond that joined them.
And they smiled at each other like secret conspirators.
“I think I need a nap,” Flora lazily murmured, so drowsy her eyelids felt weighted. The fragrance of the hay perfumed the air, the illumination from the clerestory windows suffused the loft in a delicate golden glow, the narcotic of the sun’s warmth drifted through her senses.
“I’ll carry you to your room,” Adam softly said, brushing away a damp lock of hair from her temple.
“No, I’ll walk … in just a minute or two … but—”
“Not right now,” he helpfully finished with an understanding smile. Flora Bonham was less accustomed to his profligate life, perhaps less familiar with sleepless nights. In the end he found enough scattered hairpins to roughly restore her coiffeur, remarking with a grin as he smoothed her hair into place with his fingers, “I’m going to have to begin carrying a comb until you leave Montana. Anytime I’m within a mile of you, I’m like an out-of-control adolescent.”
“And I’m more than grateful …,” Flora softly said, her smile so tempting he quickly gauged their remaining time against the risk of exposure. But cautioning himself to prudence, he began dressing her instead. Swift moments later he lifted her into his arms and made his way to the stairway. “This is getting to be a habit,” he teased, moving across the stable yard toward the house, “my dressing you and making you presentable. Luckily as a father I’ve experience dressing little girls.”
“And big girls too, no doubt.” But she said it facetiously, not in anger.
“Only one big girl,” he softly corrected.
“There are times I adore your facile charm,” she murmured with a smile.
“While I find you adorable and remarkably facile in any number of charming ways,” he whispered.
“Good,” she cheerfully retorted, “then I don’t have to feel guilty about having you carry me when I’m perfectly capable of walking. Although I suppose I really should walk,” she went on, glancing at the narrowing distance to the house. “Everyone will see and wonder and gossip …”
“Do I detect a certain lack of conviction?” Adam noted with a perceptive smile.
“It is embarrassing.”
His heavy brows rose fractionally as he gazed down at her. “But not too embarrassing.”
She blushed. “If you weren’t so insatiable, I wouldn’t be so tired.”
“I accept full responsibility,” he gallantly said, rather than debating varying degrees of insatiability. “Will two hours of sleep help?”
“Heaven on earth,” she pronounced with fervor.
“In that case I’ll postpone the picnic until afternoon.”
“Are you sure?” A touch of anxiety echoed in her voice.
“I’ll explain—something to Lucie,” he said with a grin. “Something acceptable to a three-year-old. And it wouldn’t do to have Cloudy see you so completely worn out. She wouldn’t approve.”
/>
“Of what?” Flora’s voice had taken on an acerbity; she categorically disliked censure.
“She wouldn’t approve of my lack of hospitality to a guest. And I’d suffer the consequences.”
Flora laughed. “You’re afraid of her.”
He grinned like a small boy caught out in a prank. “Let’s just say I’m suitably impressed with the power of her punch. Additionally, she’s an important, stable influence in Lucie’s life, which I greatly appreciate. Now, put on your best swooning pose, because I see Mrs. O. and two servants peering at us from the entrance porch.”
“Why did I swoon?” Flora whispered, as if the servants could hear across the gravel drive.
“The heat.”
“Adam, it’s seventy degrees.”
“Something you ate?”
“And put an onus on the cook’s breakfast?”
“Good God,” he muttered in exasperation, “since when do I have to offer explanations to my staff?”
“How very French.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He cast her a searching glance.
“Everyone knows of their arrogance.”
“Perhaps they have reason to be arrogant,” he roguishly replied. “Shut your eyes, we’re almost there. I’ll take care of everything.…”
Flora’s lashes fell as if weighted with a bloat of hippopotami, gladly relinquishing the role of savior to Adam.
“She twisted her ankle in the stable and fainted away,” Adam briskly declared as he ascended the shallow bank of stairs leading to the porch.
“Oh, dear, I’ll fetch the doctor,” Mrs. O’Brien exclaimed, moving toward Adam with a solicitous expression on her round face. “The poor dear. Is it swollen? Do you think it’s broken?”
“It’s only a minor injury, Mrs. O. I’ll send for the doctor later if necessary. These society ladies faint at the smallest discomfort. They’re always needing to be rescued”—he repressed a yelp as Flora pinched his arm—“from some disaster,” he finished through gritted teeth.
“Not sweet Lady Flora,” the housekeeper declared, defending her favorite houseguest.
Pure Sin Page 8