Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Every once in a while, the wind and the splattering of rain hitting the window would drown out her breathing and he would find himself holding his own breath as he waited to hear hers once again.

  She stirred restlessly, her knee sliding up to shield her shadowed sex and he held her still before slowly raising his gaze to hers. “Don’t hide anything from me, Jane. You’re beautiful. You have the body of a woman made for making love.”

  And he meant every word. She was amazingly lovely and utterly arousing.

  Raising himself on his elbow, he moved just enough so that he could see her completely. Perfect, full breasts with coral-colored nipples and large dusky areolas greeted him, and he brushed his hand along the outside of her breast, watching as it gently swayed, beckoning him to play.

  “I want to touch your breasts and suckle them.” He let his gaze slowly meet hers. “Do you want that?”

  She nodded and reached for his hand, placing it atop her breast. But before he could take her nipple between his thumb and finger, she reached for his head, bringing him to her so that she could offer her breast to his mouth.

  She arched so beautifully, like a taut bow when he curled his tongue around her distended nipple. Her fingers gripped his hair and her head was thrown back by the time his hand was palming her and his mouth was slowly and steadily devouring her nipple.

  He was frantic to suckle her hard, but she was so wanton beneath him as he teased her with slow, erotic tugging motions that he could not allow himself to indulge his lust. So instead he sucked slowly, savored her taste, the feeling of her nipple lengthening and hardening in his mouth, the sounds of her passion as it whispered between her parted lips.

  Her hand flew to her belly and he allowed his palm to slide down below her rib cage to lie atop her hand. Suddenly he wanted to bring her to orgasm while he suckled her. He wanted to feel her womb contract as he brought her to orgasm with his mouth.

  “You’re going to come for me with just suckling, Jane. I want to hear your cries of pleasure as you feel my lips drawing your nipple deep into my mouth.”

  She gasped as he nuzzled his mouth against her nipple, making it harder, making it strain against his lips before he mouthed his way from her breast to the soft, scented valley between, only to capture her other waiting nipple between his lips.

  On a hiss, she arched into his mouth, and he covered her hand more forcefully until he could feel the flesh of her belly quivering, and he could imagine her sex trembling and aching for his cock. Until he could almost sense her arousal seep from her body and onto her thighs. And still he sucked and sucked until she was gasping and gripping his hair, and her breasts were swaying wantonly with desire and the need for release.

  “Oh, God, Matthew, you are so beautiful like this.”

  “While I’m tonguing your pert nipples, or when I’m drawing you deep into my mouth and sucking you hungrily?” he asked as he mouthed her nipple, which was now red and swollen. He blew against it and watched the areola crinkle in response and her nipple jut out even more. His cock pulsed at the sight and he felt a dribble of come seep out and roll along his shaft. With a groan, he grasped her breast and teased his lips with her nipple before he drew it into his mouth, suckling her deeply, over and over again.

  “I never knew…” She trailed off, her body tightening, her hand clenching on her belly. “I never thought…”

  “Shh,” he murmured when he felt her belly contract beneath his hand and he saw her lashes begin to flutter. “Let it come to you. Savor this. Love this,” he said against her mouth as he saw her orgasm wash over her.

  “Matty!” she cried, shattering his soul.

  Nothing tore through his defenses like Jane saying his name.

  The wonderful splintering of mind and body had barely settled before Jane felt Matthew slide down the length of her, his tongue burning a path down her midriff to her belly. I want to tongue you… His words filtered through her mind, and she rubbed her thighs together, feeling the slickness pooling between them.

  If it were any other man she might have been ashamed of her response and what she wanted him to do to her with his mouth and hands. She might have been mortified to find her legs spread and Matthew’s hard, muscled thigh rubbing her mound as he played with her nipples.

  His thigh was riding against her, and she could feel the woolen fabric of his trousers abrading her sex. She was so wet that his thigh seemed to slide along her as he pressed forward—harder—rubbing intimately against her clitoris with his knee, and she gripped the bedsheets tightly in her fists.

  “Not the sheets, Jane,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Score my back with your nails. Pinch my shoulders with your fingers. Tug my hair as you ride my thigh. I don’t care,” he said, his voice husky. “I just want to feel the pleasure coursing through you.”

  “Matthew, oh, God!” she screamed as one hand snaked its way through his hair, and her other hand bit into his shoulder. She arched beneath him, but he pinned her still with his heavy thigh and held her steady with his burning gaze. “I want to tongue your quim. And I want you to watch as I do it.”

  He was sliding down her and his big hands were gripping her bottom, angling her sex to his mouth, and then he was greedily lapping at her, and she watched him make love to her with his lips and tongue. His eyes were closed as if he was relishing a rare, exotic dish. And the way his tongue slowly slid up the length of her made her ache to hold him there.

  But soon she was so restless and he was going too slowly and she was rubbing against him, struggling to find the right rhythm, the right pressure that would make her shatter once more. And he ignored her, doing what he pleased with his tongue in slow, stroking, flicking movements.

  And then, just when he moved his tongue against the spot that ached, she moaned and felt two of his fingers sink deep inside her, drawing out her arousal, then sinking inside again. He set his tongue to her clitoris and pressed against it. It throbbed beneath his tongue. She became restless and he moved his tongue in a furiously fast rhythm that had her nearly convulsing and crying out his name.

  He continued to lick and murmur soft words of passion as she climaxed beneath him, and slowly, she floated back down to earth. She watched him nuzzle her, watched her fingers rake through his black hair, thinking how beautiful he looked making love to her this way.

  She also saw that his erection was still thick and protruding from behind his trousers. Her fingers, shaking still from her climax, reached for his waistband and unbuttoned his trousers.

  “Touch me, Jane. God, I need to feel your hands on me.”

  She did, stroking her hand up and down the long, thick length of him, watching in amazement as the already distended veins filled more, coloring the head of his penis a dusky plum color. She felt the shaft widen in her palm and she gripped him harder, stroking him more determinedly, knowing that she wanted him thick and hard plunging inside her.

  A drop of pearl-colored fluid leaked out the slit of his sex. Her tongue came out and moistened her lip and she wondered how she could think of taking his swollen tip into her mouth and tasting him.

  Matthew’s groan caught her attention and her gaze flew to his, and she knew he had guessed her thoughts as she watched him catch the drop on his thumb and bring it to her lips.

  She did not hesitate to accept what he offered. With a flick of her tongue, she captured the drop and tasted him.

  He straightened away from her and tore off his trousers. His erection soared to the ceiling and she tried to capture it again in her hand, but he evaded her touch and settled himself between her thighs.

  She ran her fingers over his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “Beautiful fallen angel,” she whispered, the words coming from deep within.

  “Help me to find my way back to heaven, Jane. But I want to go there while I am inside you.”

  He thrust into her and caught her cry on his mouth. Slowly he loved her as his body, slick with sweat, moved atop hers. She clutched him, his back, hi
s bottom. She arched against him, feeling his body crushing hers. They kissed, their tongues touching, as was every part of them.

  “Jane,” he whispered. He pulled out and came, coating her belly, then fell atop her. “Thank you,” he whispered, and she watched him clutch her to his chest, and close his eyes.

  19

  The dawn of a new day had never looked promising for Matthew, but this particular morning held hope. As he trudged through the gardens, his boots caked in mud, his jacket flung over his shoulder, he thought of Jane and the night they had spent. Somehow, he had been able to allow her touch. She had chipped away at his defenses, letting herself in, bit by bit.

  As he rounded the lane, he ran up the small incline and saw an unfamiliar carriage in the drive. Perhaps it belonged to the Inglebrights. They were preparing to leave today, which suited him fine. The further Richard Inglebright was from Jane, the happier he would be.

  Climbing the stairs by twos, he let himself in the house and was greeted by the butler.

  “You’re wanted in the library, my lord, straightaway.”

  “I’ll change first.”

  “No, my lord, His Grace demands your presence now. He’s been searching the grounds for an hour for you.”

  “My boots are caked in mud.”

  The butler ushered him along as though Matthew were keeping God himself waiting. He despised doing his father’s bidding, acting like a faithful hound at its master’s boots.

  He turned away from the library and headed for his rooms.

  “Get in here, now, sirrah.”

  Gritting his teeth, Matthew halted on the steps and looked down at his father. “I’m not dressed for an audience.”

  His father’s face went florid and his sideburns twitched. “When has that ever stopped you? Now, get in here.”

  Wishing to get the discussion over with, Matthew strolled into his father’s sanctuary and slammed the door.

  “What has gotten you out of your bed before noon?” his father growled as he took a seat behind his desk.

  “A walk.”

  His father’s brows rose. “You’re hardly the type for a daily constitutional. Indolence is your routine, sir.”

  Matthew refused to be baited. “Get to the heart of the matter, sir.”

  “Very well. We have a guest.”

  “Congratulations. Now, if you will excuse me—”

  “Constance Jopson, your future wife.”

  Matthew froze partway to the door. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Constance Jopson and her father are here. You’re going to marry her.”

  “Like hell.”

  His father glared at him over his bushy brows. “It’s all been arranged. Now, go and change your clothes and make a proper appearance.”

  “Just what do you take me for? I’m not your damn lackey that you can order about.”

  “No, you’re my heir, but that still means I can order you around. Now do as I say, you’re getting mud and sheep dung on my carpet.”

  “Fuck your carpet, sir,” he snarled.

  “You will marry the chit, or you will be penniless,” his father stated coldly. “I’ll not hear another word about the matter.”

  He thought of Jane, of leaving her behind. He thought of being married to another, another woman’s hands all over him. He started to sweat, to begin to shake with rage.

  “I’ll be penniless, then.” His father growled as he glared up at him. “But the rights of heredity still mean that I will be the next duke of Torrington.”

  His father hated it when he was right.

  The duke came barreling out from behind his desk and stormed up to him. “Aye, you’ll be the next duke unless you manage to get yourself killed. But I have not worked myself to the bone to make this title and estate what it is for nothing. No, by God, you will do as I say. You will marry Constance Jopson and inherit her dowry, which includes a railway factory and a good deal of land and currency. All commodities this estate needs. Money for a title, it’s done all the time.”

  “So now you’re a cock bawd?”

  His father slapped his face, and Matthew barely blinked. He wanted to punch him but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t stop. He’d kill the old bastard, for what he was doing now, and for what he had turned a blind eye to before. “How dare you,” his father growled.

  “No, sir. How dare you? You sold me for steel and coin.”

  His father flushed and straightened his waistcoat. “You will marry the girl, give her your title, and in exchange you will give me her dowry to further the ducal coffers, and you will provide me with an heir. Hopefully a more competent one than you are.”

  Matthew saw red. “No.”

  His father pounded his fist on the desk. “By God, you’ll do as I say. I know your Achilles’ heel, sirrah, and I will not be afraid to use it.”

  Jane. He felt the dread, feared that his father had somehow learned of his feelings for her, and now was going to take her away from him. Oh, Christ, his father was going to do something to Jane.

  Matthew ran to the door, needing to find her when his father’s words chilled him. “It’s too late, sir. What is done is done. Present yourself in the crimson drawing room at one for tea with your intended.”

  He found her standing on the bridge, leaning on the railing as she watched the swans swimming. He ran to her, caught her up in his arms and held on to her tight.

  “Jane.” He pressed his face into her neck and inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of her.

  “Good morning.” She laughed, but he was in no mood for humor. He needed her, to know she was safe. She knew it, too. When she tilted his head away from her and looked deeply into his eyes, he knew what she saw there.

  She offered him her soft hand, and he clutched it, leading her to his cottage.

  Inside, he closed the door, shutting out the world, his father, that woman he was supposed to marry, and just focused on Jane.

  “Shall you paint me today?” she asked.

  “No.” He couldn’t be parted from her, couldn’t still his emotions or quiet his thoughts to paint her. He reached for her, wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her to him.

  “Dance with me, Jane.”

  Her eyes lit up behind her spectacles. “I don’t know how.”

  “I know, and I thought it the saddest thing when you said that. Every woman should know how to dance.”

  “Not wallflowers.”

  “Especially wallflowers. I make a habit of dancing with at least one of them at every ball.”

  “You’re teasing me.” She laughed again. “Besides, when will I use this skill?”

  “Whenever you’re with me.”

  He moved her around, and she tripped and stepped on his foot. He smiled and held her steady. “Take off your gown, to your chemise. Your shoes, too.”

  She looked at him for a long minute, then removed her clothes. He watched her, feeling a rush of emotion swell through his chest. He could not lose her, not now that he had just found her.

  And he would not marry Constance Jopson. He would live penniless with Jane until he came into his title before he wed another woman.

  She was stripped down to her chemise. Around her neck she wore a red satin choker, which was tied in the back with a bow. She had no jewellery to speak of, and the thought made him glad of it. He wanted to give Jane her first piece.

  “Come here.” He motioned her forward and she put her hand in his. He lifted her onto his feet, her breasts brushing up against him.

  “Oh,” she cried, holding on to him.

  “Now let me do it, Jane. Just follow where I lead.”

  He turned her around, counting the time in his head, humming the tune to his favorite waltz. He glanced at her and her eyes were closed, her body moving against his.

  There were no words said, just their breath being shared, and the flow of their bodies. He moved to the bedroom where he stopped.

  “I knew you would lead me here.”

 
“Jane. I need you,” he said with a shudder as the memories of his father came rushing back. The fear started to creep up, and he reached for her.

  “I’m here, Matty.”

  Jane followed him down onto the bed, her soft body resting alongside his. Pulling the pin from her coif, her long, red hair fell in thick waves to drape over his shoulder and chest. He inhaled the scent. Sensible soap. The aroma aroused him and he reached for a handful of the silken mass and inhaled deeply. Jane. His Jane.

  Closing his eyes, he willed his heart to slow, his body to relax and absorb the heat of the woman lying against him. He wanted her with a frightening intensity that made him want to run away and hide from the emotions he was beginning to experience.

  If he were smart, he would either take her and spend himself inside her tight, beckoning quim, and thereby exorcise her from his life, or if not that, then he should push her aside and end this, this emotional intimacy that had sprung up between them. How it had was beyond him, yet there it was. Emotionally they were connected in a way that he had never been connected to another human being in his life. Not even Raeburn and Sarah, whom he could admit he loved, had provoked such a bond.

  Why now, after twenty years of fastidiously hardening himself, after two decades of slow, interminable death, did this one woman’s voice call to him? Why did his soul answer that voice? he wondered.

  “Matthew?”

  Their gazes met. Hers, as always, was forthright and clear, centered firmly in the here and now. And his, he knew, was glazed, drifting to the past where his world, and what he might once have been, had died a sudden death.

  What did she see there, in his eyes? Lust? Avarice? Unworthiness? Did she see the same thing he did, every morning when he forced himself to stare back at the debauched image that glared back at him in the looking glass?

  “Matty?” she whispered again, only this time worry had replaced the huskiness. He closed his eyes not wanting her to see him like this, weak and vulnerable. He did not want her to know that he possessed a heart, or that it had begun to beat again, beneath the gentle ministrations of her hands.