Bound for Sin

by Tess LeSue

  She’d never been naked outdoors before. It felt deliciously sinful. The breeze slid over her bare skin like a caress, and she was intimately aware of every last inch of herself. The moonlight shattered and rippled on the water as she crept in. The water was cold, but wonderful all the same. It made her feel alive. The stones pressed into her feet, and the gentle current sliding by sent shivers through her.

  Her instinct had been right. The water only reached her waist. She sank into it and pulled her knees up to her chest. Oh, it was fresh. Icy fresh. It made her skin sing. She pulled her hairpins out, not caring if they were lost, and dunked her head under. Working her fingers through her tangled curls, she savored the feeling of getting clean. As the grime washed away, she felt renewed.

  She swam in the little stream until the moon was lowering toward the mountains. She might have stayed in all night if she hadn’t been afraid that moonset would plunge her into darkness and leave her stranded, not knowing where the tent was. She should have brought the lantern with her, she thought as she stepped out of the stream and back into the night air. Now that felt fresh.

  There was something wickedly delicious about the feeling. Her nipples were hard and aching from the cold. She ran a hand over her chest and felt a spark ignite inside her. Her gaze wandered to the pale smudge of the tent at the edge of the field. He’d planned to seduce her in there. Desire came so suddenly it took her breath away. She gathered up the quilt and wrapped it around her shivering body. The chill of the stream had made her tingle, but it seemed her body couldn’t tell the difference between cold tingles and lust tingles. Or maybe she was feeling real and genuine lust . . .

  He meant to make love to me tonight.

  The tent, the lamplight, the flowers, the wine, the nest of quilts . . . Oh my. She was besieged with visions of how his seduction might have played out. Kisses. Oh, she remembered how his kisses felt . . . Her mouth tingled. Her breasts grew heavier, her nipples harder, the aching more intense as she entertained the visions. The memory of his tongue flicking against hers . . . She slid a hand inside the quilt and touched her own damp skin lightly. She shivered as a firebolt shot through her. As her fingertips brushed over the firm plumpness of her own cleavage, she remembered the look in his eye when she’d revealed herself to him that time by the river. She took her nipple between her fingers and felt the firebolt shoot again. Her belly tightened. She felt herself grow slippery wet.

  She bit her lip and circled her nipple with her fingers, enjoying the sparks cascading through her. He was sprawled on the rug right over there . . . There was no reason she couldn’t go back . . . She could tell him she’d changed her mind . . .

  Yes. That was all she had to say. Yes, Matt. Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

  She wasn’t just wet now, she was throbbing. She ran her hand down her body, over her shivering stomach and between her legs. The pleasure was so intense it was almost pain. Oh God, she wanted him. She’d wanted him since the first moment she’d seen him. She remembered the sight of him in the bath back at the hotel in Independence: skin golden and shining wet in the lamplight, the hard slash of his hip, the musculature of his belly, the long, thick thrust of his cock. Her finger slid into the hot squeeze of her own body, imagining it was him. She’d had so many fantasies since that night she’d seen him in the bath, fantasies about helping him to wash that hard, wet body. Running her hands over the long muscles, taking his swollen cock in her hot, soapy hand and rubbing it . . . up . . . and down . . . squeezing . . . teasing . . .

  She wasn’t even thinking as she crossed the field back to their campsite. She was elemental: her most basic self. It felt wonderful. Powerful. Right.

  He’d kicked the quilt off and was spread out on the ground, his face turned away from her. She drank in the sight of him. Even fully clothed, he was magnificent.

  Georgiana kept the quilt around her as she sank to the rug beside him. She wanted to touch him. Desperately. Tentatively, she reached out and touched her fingertip to his cheek. It was raspy with new stubble. He grew a beard just about as fast as he could shave. He stirred but didn’t wake at her touch, and so, emboldened, she ran her finger along his jaw, tracing the hard angle of it. He was so incredibly beautiful. Her fingers trailed to his dimple, grazing the shallow groove.

  His eyelashes fluttered, but still, he didn’t wake. Her gaze drifted to the open neck of his shirt and the swirl of dark hair against his golden skin, and then it drifted lower. One long leg was bent, thigh muscles bulging. And that wasn’t all that was bulging . . .

  She was so full of lust she was just about crawling out of her skin. She couldn’t for the life of her think why she hadn’t accepted his tentative advances earlier. After all, why shouldn’t they have a honeymoon? They were married. She’d been too mired in misery to feel much of anything at their wedding, but she didn’t feel quite so mired anymore. What good did her perpetual misery do anyone? It certainly didn’t bring Wilby back. And Matt had been . . . well, perfect, these last few weeks. As numb as she’d been, she hadn’t missed his kindness to Susannah and the twins. He’d stepped in and parented them when they’d most needed parenting, when their mother had been lost to them almost as surely as their brother had . . .

  She hadn’t missed his attentions toward her either. He’d made sure that she ate, that her tent was pitched and her bedding laid out; he drove her wagon and fed her animals; he managed Wendell and Kipp so she never had to speak to them. And during her lowest nights, he’d been there with her in the darkness, his arms around her, soothing her as she wept, stilling her after vicious nightmares wracked her sleep.

  He’d never once pressed her or taken advantage of her, even though there had been plenty of opportunities for him to do so. It seemed to matter to him that she be not only willing, but also eager.

  Well, she was certainly eager now.

  She leaned in close until her lips were near his ear. “Matt,” she said huskily, calling him back from sleep.

  “S’all right,” he slurred sleepily, reaching out. His hand found her leg and gave it a clumsily reassuring pat. “Go sleep. I’m here.”

  “I don’t want to sleep,” she whispered against his ear.

  “Sleep,” he agreed. And then he sighed and was off into slumber again. His hand dropped from her leg.

  Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all. Georgiana sat back up, disgruntled. The last thing in the world she felt like doing was sleeping. She felt alive again. She let the stuffy quilt fall to her waist, enjoying the caress of the lowland mountain breezes. Her breasts were heavy, aching to be touched. Georgiana slid her hands over Matt’s collarbone, lightly slipping her palms over his shoulders and down his arms. He sighed happily. Carefully, she brushed her hands back up his arms, and then over the planes of his chest. His hard, warm chest . . . She felt his nipples pebble through the much-washed material of his shirt. She let her hands linger there. Featherlight, she rubbed her fingertips over their hard peaks. She heard his breath catch, and he arched ever so slightly into her touch. She smiled. She bet he was having pleasant dreams.

  As she played with his nipples through his shirt, she bent close again, this time aiming for his lips. His beautiful, sharply bowed lips. They were slightly parted, and his breath was uneven, sweet as apple pie and hot against her skin. She kissed him. Her kiss was so gentle their lips were barely touching, and yet she felt it pass through her like a wave. She kissed him again, remembering with a shock the power of his kiss. Memory hadn’t done it justice. It was the most intense pleasure she’d ever felt in her life. His lips were full and soft, his stubble scratching at her skin, his mouth hot. He moaned beneath her.

  He was definitely awake now. He’d gone very still. He shivered. And then his mouth opened for her, his tongue rising to meet hers, exploring gently, questioningly. She took his nipples between her fingers and pinched softly as she plunged her tongue into his mouth. He made a helpless noise and gripped her shoulders un
til they hurt. One hand plunged into her wet hair, and he gave her lower lip a long suck.

  Then he seemed to realize she was naked. She felt the hand on her shoulder pause in its caress, and then tentatively explore the expanse of her warm, naked back.

  “Georgiana,” he moaned as he pulled away. She sat up, knowing the sight of her naked body would be his undoing.

  It was.

  His gaze locked on her chest. Her arms were pushing her breasts together, making them seem even bigger than they already were. Her large pink nipples were fully erect, begging to be touched . . . pinched . . . kissed . . . sucked . . .

  It was only as he lay there, totally frozen, that she remembered that he was a virgin. His gaze was full of wonder, but also wariness. He didn’t look able to move. She took his hands in hers and, guiding him, placed his wide palms on her chest. She heard him swallow hard. His palms were hot and damp against her skin. It felt magnificent. She arched her back, pressing harder into his palms. Shooting stars ran from her nipples to the wet heat between her legs.

  Clumsily, he touched her, exploring her round curves, tracing the swell of her breasts, then dipping to run along their lush undersides. She put her hands on her feet behind her and arched further, tilting her head back. She heard him sit up, his breathing labored. His fingers brushed from her collarbones to her rib cage, flicking over her begging nipples. Oh God, the lightness of his touch was exquisite torture. She closed her eyes and gave over to pure sensation. He seemed intent on touching every last inch of her breasts. They were so swollen they almost hurt. And then he settled his attention fully on her nipples, running his thumbs around her aureoles, pinching the nubs, the way she’d pinched his. She moaned.

  “That feels so good,” she told him, her voice catching in her throat.

  Georgiana’s experience of sex had been limited to the short times her husband had visited home. While she’d enjoyed sex with Leonard, it had never felt remotely like this. Leonard was enthusiastic but efficient: making love didn’t take long. Matt was the opposite. He savored every last second, and the seconds drew out into minutes, until Georgiana was wild. And he was still only playing with her breasts.

  When he finally lowered his head and pressed a kiss into the valley of her cleavage, she just about jumped out of her skin.

  “No?” he asked huskily.

  “Yes!” she insisted. “Please, God, yes.”

  He dipped his head again, his hands sliding around her back, pulling her closer. He pressed a faint line of kisses down the valley of her cleavage, tracing the landscape of her body intricately, gently. Then he kissed his way across to her left nipple. She was so weak with pleasure by that point that she was glad of his hands on her waist, holding her up. The hot tip of his tongue flicked across her nipple and she cried out. It felt so good. He tasted her in quick strokes, then long, wet rasps, and then he took her nipple in his mouth and gave her a hard, slow suck.

  She was wetter than she’d ever been, but he wasn’t near done with her yet. He gave the other breast an equal amount of attention, his hands sliding up and down the hollow of her back, finally dipping below the quilt and finding the upper curves of her behind. He traced her buttocks as he sucked on her breasts. She was a storm of sensation, lost, unable to think. She felt shudders coming like an earthquake.

  “Stop,” she begged, “I don’t want to come yet.”

  He stopped, pulling away, his hands tracing a regretful retreat over the wide curves of her hips.

  “My turn,” she said, pushing him back. She didn’t want the night to end. She wanted to draw it out and to stay in this heavenly maelstrom of feeling, where there was no tiredness or grief, where there was only skin and sensation, and his glistening, hungry eyes fixed on her.

  She kept her hand in the center of his chest and pushed him down until he was flat on his back. She could see the bulge of his cock through his pants. There was time enough for that, she thought, giving him an impish smile.

  Teasingly, she unwound the quilt from her waist, revealing the flare of her hips, the gentle curve of her stomach, the white flesh of her thighs and the triangle of dark curls where they met.

  He made a low animal noise as she tossed the quilt aside. He sounded like he was in pain.

  “Patience,” she whispered. Her fingers were trembling as she unbuttoned his shirt. Inch by inch she revealed the delicious line of hair that speared down his hard torso, circling his navel, before thickening and disappearing below his waistband. She brushed her hands over his warm skin as she parted the shirt. He made that low noise again and arched into her touch as she rubbed her palms over his nipples.

  “I told you it was your turn,” she told him, lowering her head and mirroring his treatment of her, kiss for kiss. His chest hair was silky-scratchy against her lips and tongue. His nipples were small and thrusting, salty to the taste. She sucked on them until he whimpered. Her arm was resting across his hips and she could feel his cock pulsing, hard and hot and ready.

  She licked her way down his chest, trailing her tongue around the ridges of muscle and along the lines of his hip bones. His hips rose off the ground to meet her.

  “Honey, I’m close,” he warned in a worried gasp.

  She lifted her head. She didn’t want this to end, so it was best to slow the torture. She rose and reached for his belt buckle. She was clumsy with desire and fumbled trying to undo it. Then she ran her fingers lightly over the bulging cloth beneath. She could make out the shape of him, the length and the swollen head of his cock. She unbuttoned his fly. The cords in his neck stood out as he fought to restrain himself. As the cloth parted, she saw a bed of dark curls, and then the thick length of him. She sighed and traced her fingertips down his shaft, circling his throbbing, dusky head when she reached it.

  “Georgiana,” he barely got the words out through his gritted teeth.

  Next time, she promised herself. Next time she’d be able to linger, following her fingertips with her tongue. The thought made her melt. To think he’d never felt anyone’s touch there, let alone anyone’s tongue . . .

  But one lick would tip him over the edge right now, and she didn’t want that. She wanted him inside her when he came.

  He lifted his hips as she pulled his trousers down. His swollen cock sprang free. He still had his boots on, but she was too impatient to remove them, so she left his pants bunched around his knees and climbed astride him.

  He moaned.

  “Don’t come yet,” she ordered. Then she positioned herself and slid onto him, slow as syrup.

  He made a noise low in his throat, his head tilting back and his eyes closing. Oh my. Imagine how it felt, doing that for the first time. His hands grabbed at her hips.

  He felt magnificent inside her. He was so hard that she felt him throb and pulse. She was slick with wanting him and slid easily as she lifted herself. He gripped her hips and his eyes flew open, fixing on where their bodies joined. She rose until only his tip remained inside her, and then she lowered herself, inch by magical inch. She was trembling, so close to giving in to pleasure. His hands dug in as he struggled to hold on.

  Oh God. The look on his face was her undoing. The sheer intensity of his lust sent a cascade of sparks spiraling through her. She gasped and would have faltered, only he’d taken over, his hands firm on her hips, guiding her rhythm, up and down, up and down until the sparks became an explosion. She heard her moans become cries as she came. And she came hard. As she locked around him, he came too. He gave a guttural cry and thrust into her with one last violent movement. She felt his convulsions deep inside of her and moaned as her explosion continued in a shower of sparkles.

  Afterward, she collapsed onto him, her breasts pressing into the warm scratch of his chest hair, her cheek over his thundering heartbeat.

  “Oh my,” she exhaled. “We should do that again.”

  She heard him laugh. And then sh
e shrieked as he locked his arms around her and rolled her over onto her back. He kissed her fiercely.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

  35

  DEATHRIDER HAD SPENT better weeks in his life. In fact, all of them had been better than the last few. Riding with Wilby was like riding with a demented ferret. He squirmed and wriggled and yapped and almost killed himself at least a dozen times a day. When they eventually found some trees again, Deathrider happily lopped them down to fashion a travois, just so he wouldn’t have to ride with the boy in front of him anymore. His arms were killing him from holding the kid. Or rather, trying to hold the kid. It was no mean feat keeping the boy in the saddle. Once the travois was hitched to his horse, Deathrider spread it with buffalo skins and tossed Wilby on top of it. He wasn’t likely to hurt himself badly if he fell off the low travois, unlike if he fell from the horse. It was far more comfortable for all involved.

  Wilby quickly learned the trick of jumping on and off the travois, so he could run with the dogs some of the time and sit in his nest of blankets the rest of the time, watching the world go by. The best bit was that Deathrider could be alone on his horse, without a half-mad human ferret flopping this way and that.