What on earth had she set in motion?
She couldn’t wait to find out.
Chapter 22
Sinjon expected Evelyn to be waiting for him. She’d specified the room, and the time of their first encounter, but the bedroom was empty when he arrived at midnight.
He’d been tormented all afternoon, picturing her here, waiting for him in bed, naked. Her lips would part as she sat up eagerly, reaching for him, the sheets falling away to reveal—
He set the candle down beside the empty bed, his disappointment as cold as the untouched linens.
The room reminded him of Evelyn herself—tidy, and correct, and elegant. It was hard to imagine this room as a romantic hideaway, but that’s exactly what it was about to become.
He pictured the room—and the lady—after they’d made love. The pristine bedclothes would be rumpled and sweat-stained, the pillows crushed. The room would be perfumed with the scent of sex. Evelyn’s hair would be loose, love-tangled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing with the particular joy of a well-loved woman. She was passionate under her aloof exterior. He’d seen it, tasted it.
Tonight, here in this plain little room, he’d strip away every social grace, every genteel artifice that hid her deepest desires, and lay her bare to his hands, his lips, his body.
He wanted to see her face as he made love to her, drove her wild again and again, gave her pleasure and took his own.
He unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it aside, and lay down on the bed, wearing only his breeches.
He still marveled at her boldness. The words may have stuck in her throat, but her desire had been clear enough in her eyes. It had been flattering and arousing, knowing that she’d chosen him over any of the names on the list.
It also surprised him. Evelyn was discreet and dignified, bound by etiquette in everything she did. It was a risk, choosing to bed her footman. He grinned, then frowned. What would she say if she knew his secret?
The traitor’s wife, bedding the outlaw.
It hardly mattered. He’d be gone before she found out his true identity. He’d leave her with fond memories. When she took other lovers in the future, she’d remember him, and find every other man lacking.
He groaned, erotic images of what he was going to do to her making him hard again. He shifted, frowning up at the ceiling, wondering how long she meant to keep him waiting.
Perhaps she’d decided not to come at all.
His ears pricked at the creak of the floorboards outside the door. He leaned up on his elbow and held his breath, waiting for her to decide. She’d most likely walk away. It was the sensible thing to do, but he fervently hoped she’d choose passion over good sense.
The door opened, and he let his breath out slowly, anticipation and desire surging.
The soft glow of her candle preceded her into the room. She entered without even glancing at him, her expression crisp and businesslike, and turned away to shut the door. She stood with her back to him, a wraith in a white nightgown, her hand clenching the latch.
“Are you intending to stay?”
She turned to look at him, and her eyes flicked over his naked chest. He watched them widen, saw her jaw drop, heard her soft exhalation of breath.
He kept still and stared at her in return. She was beautiful in the candlelight, though she wore a prim high-necked nightgown. Her lips were soft and moist, parted slightly. The flame of her candle reflected in her eyes, and her nervous blush was visible even in the low light. The candlestick shook in her hand, and wax dripped onto her wrist where it lay exposed by the lace sleeve of her gown. She gasped, and set the candle down.
He held out his hand in wordless invitation.
She came forward and he turned her palm in his, examined the slight burn, and gently peeled away the wax. Then he put her hand to his lips and kissed the red mark. He tried to draw her to the bed, to sit beside him, but she pulled back.
He raised his eyebrows and waited. Was she going to play the virgin bride? He’d hoped for better from her.
“I must tell you—I suppose I should have said it earlier, but—” She shut her eyes. “I haven’t—” The ivory column of her throat moved in the candlelight as she swallowed. “I haven’t a great deal of experience, or expertise. You will need to show me how best to please you.”
“You want to please me?” he asked. Surely that wasn’t the usual reason ladies took lovers.
“Of course,” she said, her eyes meeting his at last. “Did you think I only meant for you to—” She blushed deeply.
“We’ll learn what pleases us both, I expect. Come here,” he said. She sat, her hip against his, and he turned on his side, curled his body around hers and watched a slow flush rise over her cheekbones at the intimacy. This time she didn’t pull away. He touched her cheek, stroked her skin to see if her face was as warm and soft as it looked.
She tilted her head, fitting her chin into his palm, her eyes drifting shut, her lips parting.
She hardly looked virginal or reticent now. If such a simple touch could so obviously affect her, then she was as eager as he. His desire surged higher.
He drew her forward and kissed her, a mere brush of his lips on hers, since he was still half afraid she’d change her mind. She stayed, her lips a hair’s breadth from his, waiting for the next kiss.
“Do you like how I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She sighed the word against his mouth. “More,” she ordered, and he smiled.
So she was going to take charge, was she? He felt the demands of his own body, and wanted nothing more than to pull her beneath him and give her what she craved, but there’d be greater pleasure, better pleasure, if he went slowly.
He was, after all, the one with experience on his side.
He frowned. He hardly felt experienced. Why was it that everything he did with Evelyn felt new, as if he’d never truly known what it felt like to make love to a woman? Evelyn was shy, she was wanton, she was passionate, beautiful, and completely unique.
And she was the aggressor now, pressing him back, kissing him, teaching him how a kiss should be, if it were perfect. It was, with her. He couldn’t get enough of her lips, her tongue, the taste of her, the fragrance of her perfume, the way her eyes drifted shut and her lashes lay on flushed cheeks. He’d never noticed these things before with other bedmates. He’d given pleasure, taken his own, and it had been enough, but this was new, different.
He forced himself to concentrate. This was supposed to take hours. He fully intended to pleasure every inch of her luscious body, but the struggle to hold back his own need only drove it higher and harder. He wasn’t in charge, wasn’t the teacher. He gulped for air, pulled back even as she pressed forward, pursuing his mouth with hers, edging closer.
The candlelight behind her shone through the fine lawn fabric of her gown, outlined pert breasts and the slim curve of her waist. The heat of her body was hypnotic, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle between his shoulders and groaned. What else could he do but let the tide sweep him away?
Evelyn had never been drunk, but Sam’s kisses made her feel tipsy, restless, excited, the way champagne did. She wanted to laugh at the sheer joy of kissing him. She could kiss him forever. She met him nip for nip, lick for lick, learning, practicing, daring. Her body was on fire, moving of its own accord, knowing what was wanted, what they both needed.
She laid her palms on his naked chest and leaned over him, pressing him backward. His skin was warm and soft, the muscles hard. She could feel his heart beating. She curled her hands inward, her nails scraping gently, and he gasped.
“Should I stop?” she asked, not wanting to. She slid her fingers upward over his remarkable body.
“God, no, don’t stop!” He lay back and let her explore, and she ran her fingers over his skin, tracing the scars that crossed his ribs, following the faint white lines upward to a deeper wound at his throat.
She frowned as she touched the puckered roughness of it.
He ca
ught her hand, his eyes wary, mistaking her expression. “War leaves marks, Evelyn. Do my scars disgust you?”
She was surprised he might think so. “No.” She leaned forward to kiss the mark. “It is the cause of them that upsets me. Is this the reason why you came home?”
“In part,” he said cryptically, his voice hard-edged. He shifted out of her reach, sitting up, turning the scarred side of his body into the shadows. “Would you prefer to put out the candles?”
She imagined making love to him in the dark, unable to see him. It was how Philip— She pushed him out of her mind. He had no place here.
“No, I want the light.”
He relaxed and lay back on the bed, his hands under his head, feet crossed, at his ease while she still perched on the edge of the mattress like a nervous bird. His gaze roamed over her, his eyes heavy lidded, sensual.
“Undo your hair.”
She reached to unplait it for him, her fingers clumsy. The golden brown waves fell over her shoulders, brushed her cheeks, and she saw flame ignite in his eyes. He picked up a long lock and stroked the length of it through his fingers. Desire pooled, hot and sweet, in her belly.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
He plunged his hands into her hair, stroked it, drawing her down, kissing her with a new hunger, a need she suspected he’d held in check before now. Could hair do that, or was it something more, something deeper? She didn’t care. She didn’t want to think now. She kissed him back, meeting his tongue, sparring, running her hands over the muscles of his back, his shoulders, his arms.
He was touching her as well, his hands sliding over the slippery fabric of her nightgown, warming the flesh beneath. The garment felt at once too heavy and too thin. She wanted it off, wanted to feel the sensation of his skin against hers.
She had never been fully naked in bed, never wanted to be, until now.
She untied the satin ribbons at her collar and reached for the top button, fumbling with it. He kissed each exposed inch of flesh as the fastenings opened. She was gasping by the time he ran his tongue over the pulse point at the base of her throat, was mad with need as he trailed kisses across her collarbones. He slid his mouth down the slope of her breast with agonizing slowness.
And there the buttons ended. She moaned with frustration.
He wasn’t deterred in the least. He cupped the fullness of her breast and lowered his mouth to her nipple, suckling her through the fabric. She arched her back, cupped his dark head in her hands, holding him to her, moaning. She wanted his mouth, his hands, his tongue, everywhere at once.
He was caressing her body, her hips, her thighs, sliding her nightgown up by inches, baring her flesh.
For an instant she panicked, remembering how Philip had shoved her gown out of his way, his hands cold.
But Sam’s hands were warm, his touch gentle and arousing. He caressed her upper thighs, her hips, her buttocks, and she shifted restlessly, wanting this.
He drew the garment over her head, tossing it aside. For an instant she was tempted to cross her arms over her breasts and hide, but the look in his eyes stopped her.
“God, Evelyn, you’re beautiful,” he said, his voice thick.
“Touch me,” she pleaded.
“Where?” he tormented her.
“Everywhere.”
“Tell me what you want.” He kissed her neck, frustrating, teasing, tormenting little pecks. She wanted his hands on her breasts, his mouth there too. She wanted him to lay her down and take her. He was going slowly and carefully, when she wanted wild abandon, passion, and fireworks.
“I want everything,” she said, not knowing what to demand first. She pushed him back onto the bed and straddled his hips, gazing at him boldly. His erection pulsed against her, straining the fabric of his breeches. She began to undo the buttons, and he gritted his teeth, his hands fisted in the sheets as she opened his flies and wrapped her hand around the hard length of him.
He groaned as she caressed him, explored his body. It gave her pleasure to touch him, to watch his reaction to what she was doing to him. The muscles in his neck were corded, and she leaned forward, pressing the naked length of her body against him, and nipped his throat. She tasted clean sweat, inhaled the spicy male scent of his body. She rubbed against him, marveling at the feel of his skin on hers, and felt her nipples harden and chafe against the raised pebbles of his own. She could feel the heat of his erection against her belly, pulsing and eager.
She had hated this part of marriage, dreaded it, but not now, not with Sam.
He was muttering, growling in her ear as his hands roamed over every inch of her. She gasped as his fingers dipped between her thighs, found the swollen lips of her sex, and slid inside.
“Sam!” she cried, and for a moment he stilled, stiffened beneath her.
“Sin,” he murmured. “Sin.”
She didn’t understand. How could anything so heavenly be a sin? She didn’t care. His hands moved, his fingers teasing, coaxing, urging. She pressed herself into his hand, moaning, begging, rubbing against him like a cat in heat.
Her climax surprised her when it came. She had heard of such things, of course. She was a married woman with a very experienced, talkative sister. She had not known that it was the finest pleasure on earth.
He lifted her as her body still pulsated, positioning her. With a groan he filled her in one quick thrust, making her cry out anew. He was so hot, so powerful, so delicious. She shifted her hips, wanting friction and heat, and he obliged, driving into her with a growl of male satisfaction.
She felt the rush of pleasure rise again, and she moved with him, matching his rhythm. She never wanted it to end, never wanted him to stop. She cried out as another rush of heat claimed her, felt him thrust into her one last time, his body arching as he found his own release, a wave that surged on forever.
She fell onto his chest and clung to him. He pulled the hair back from her damp face, stroked her, held her close. She could feel his heart pounding under hers. She smiled, and her toes curled. He made her feel safe, protected, even here. He made her feel things she had not even known existed.
She objected with a husky little mewl when he gently lifted her off his chest. He slipped off the bed, and she frowned, her skin cold where his body had warmed hers. She had forgotten he was still wearing his breeches until he peeled them off.
He stood naked before her for a moment, his body golden in the candlelight. He was more magnificent than an Italian sculpture, handsomer and more desirable than the men drawn in Philip’s books.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, my.”
Under her gaze, he hardened again, his erection rising. She reached out to caress him, and he drew a sharp breath. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the tip. The musky scent of sex thrilled her. She looked up at him, saw desire darken his eyes. A thrill went through her, and she smiled, feeling wanton, powerful, a goddess with her god. She lay back and opened her arms, and he tumbled into her embrace.
She looked into his eyes as he entered her again with exquisite, maddening slowness, an inch at a time. She clasped her legs around his hips and shut her eyes.
If this was sin, then she could never, ever have enough.
Chapter 23
Lucy Frayne paced her bedroom. She’d drawn the drapes, ordered the doors locked, and still she didn’t feel safe.
Philip Renshaw was watching her.
The man was so slippery, she wouldn’t be surprised if he popped out from under her bed. Horrified, perhaps, but not surprised.
She’d received his message, a cryptic, garbled thing, delivered by a stranger at the front door, conveyed to her in an embarrassed whisper by her butler. She’d dropped her teacup in terror. Actually, she threw it across the room, as furious as she was frightened.
The butler had merely stepped out of the way, since he’d long ago ceased to be shocked by anything the Fraynes did. He summoned a maid to clean up the mess while he poured Lucy a tot of brandy to calm her nerves.<
br />
She’d swallowed the brandy in a single gulp and retreated to her bedroom. Now, she peeked through the curtains at the street below, scanning the sidewalk and shadowed doorways for any sign of Philip. She wouldn’t see him, of course. He’d simply appear, like an unwelcome shade rising from hell to claim her soul. Shivering, Lucy stepped away from the window.
She wasn’t willing to admit this was her own fault. Her brief affair with Philip had been born from a fit of pique. Frayne had commented that Evelyn was a beauty and would be a delight in any man’s bed.
She’d taken his comment as an insult and a challenge.
Her sister was as cold as uncooked bacon, while Philip had a reputation as hot as a sizzling sausage.
She’d thought seducing Philip would be an easy victory. She and Frayne had been trying to outdo each other for years. She was sure such a bold act would shock her roving husband, but she’d been curious as well. Philip had a string of beautiful mistresses. He held wicked parties at country estates. Women stood in line for their turn in his bed, and surely a man that popular must have something special. Her sister seemed to be the only woman in the world who did not see Philip Renshaw’s sensual appeal.
Lucy shut her eyes, feeling a rare blush heating her cheeks. It wasn’t a ladylike flush of mild surprise, or a response to a titillating memory. It was the hard burn of shame.
It turned out the only charm Philip possessed was the size of his fortune. He gave his lovers lavish gifts to make up for the fact that he was a selfish bully in bed.
She wished she hadn’t taken the magnificent emerald bracelet he’d given her, but it was worth more than half a year’s allowance, even for a countess.
She opened her jewelry box and stared down at the green stones. She’d worn them only once, to taunt Frayne, and he hadn’t even noticed. She slammed the lid shut, still angry.
A bead of sweat slid between her breasts, and she turned to look behind her, searching the shadowed corners of her boudoir. There was no one there, but that meant nothing.
The Price of Temptation Page 15