The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  “So you are still a turncoat?” she asked, reaching to toy with her short locks.

  “Yes, but I serve the king, not Napoleon. Why?”

  “I love you, James Marlowe. And I would still love you if you were a dastardly, no-good, gallows bird. But this makes things far less complicated.”

  She returned her hands to his face and closed the space between them. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  There he was. The James who’d stolen her heart so long ago. Only he was a man now, his life as he’d lived it having honed his character, crafted his soul, and brought him back to her.

  Clarissa had never expected him to be the one to apologize first. For five years, she’d dreamed of him walking back into her life, dropping down on his knees, and begging for her forgiveness. She realized now how selfish and wrong such a desire had been. Her experience with Les Moines had tested Clarissa in every way. But it had forced her to learn a lesson she’d been unable to master for far too long. It was a strength, as James had assured her, to allow one’s emotions space to breathe, to color, to grow. It was a strength, made even stronger when partnered with practicality and pragmatism, for then one could truly see people for who they were—what they felt, and what they needed. Clarissa’s emotions had allowed her to judge Iris without knowing her, but the practical need of continuing on as St. Michelle tonight had cleared the way for a deeper understanding of the girl—and, in turn, herself.

  She’d done the same to James, her outrage over his involvement with Les Moines blinding her to anything else.

  But no longer.

  “Show me,” Clarissa begged, placing her lips on his. It was achingly beautiful. His warm mouth, seemingly made for hers, met her tentative touch with gentle enthusiasm, pressing lightly as his arms encircled her waist. The crush of her breasts against his chest started a fire burning in her belly that snaked its way to her arms and legs, the pooling heat at the apex of her thighs urging her on.

  Intoxicated by his presence overwhelming her entire being, body and soul, Clarissa reached for his cravat, unknotted the linen, and began to unwind it slowly, torturously. “At last, it is me doing the dressing—or undressing, as the case may be. Not that I failed to appreciate your aid in any way, mind you,” Clarissa teased, her breath beginning to quicken. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I wasn’t appreciative.”

  “I suspect that by the end of this evening, there’ll be no mistaking the level of appreciation we share for each other, Clarissa,” James answered, reaching for the silken sash at her waist and pulling gently. It slipped free and the dressing gown fell open to reveal her perfect body. “Shocking, Lady Clarissa,” he remarked on her lack of a chemise.

  Clarissa set to work on his shirt buttons, pausing for a moment when he cupped her left breast in his large, warm, strong hand. She caught her breath when the pad of his thumb stroked over her nipple until it pebbled. “That is only the beginning, Mr. Marlowe.”

  She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and untangled it from his arms, gasping when she saw the raw, fresh wounds. Instinctively, she placed her palm over one, as if she could provide some measure of healing. “Are you quite sure that you’re up for this, James? I do not want to hurt you any further.”

  He removed her palm from the wound and placed it on the bulging firmness of his penis, the rock-hard firmness making Clarissa shiver in anticipation. “Yes, Clarissa, I am ‘up’ for this, have no doubt.”

  She smiled devilishly, then licked her lips. “Well, if you insist, though I will demand that you take a slightly less physically demanding role.” She began to unfasten his breeches, abandoning the smooth, torturous pace of earlier and taking a decidedly more frantic tempo that matched the heat now threatening to consume her from within.

  “Clarissa, I assure you, I could have been attacked by twelve men and mauled by a bear as I returned to Kenwood House and I would still be able—wait, that is not the right word. What word am I looking for?”

  “Masterfully prepared,” Clarissa offered helpfully, noticing the unintended husky tone her voice had taken on.

  James’s breath caught as she gently pushed him to lie back, then moved to his boots. “Yes, precisely. Even if I’d been accosted by eighteen men and mauled by a pack of wild dogs—”

  “Is it eighteen now? James, if you’re attempting to seduce me, you’ve no need. I’m wet,” she whispered, catching his hand and placing it precisely where he could feel for himself.

  “Masterfully prepared, Clarissa,” he repeated, his voice raw. “God, you feel so good, so right.” He rubbed slowly, stroking one finger into the slick folds between her legs every now and again, then returning to the maddening massage.

  Clarissa shrugged free of her wrapper then dropped to all fours on the bed, arching her back. Her breath came in quick, hard pants as he continued to rub, the pressure building with each touch.

  He shifted closer and stroked his other hand over her bottom, squeezing it, then walked his fingers slowly up to the mid-point of her back, taking hold of where her hip met her thigh.

  Clarissa could have given in right there, exploded into a million pieces, overwhelmed by the powerful, exquisite emotions pulsing through her. But she slipped away from his clever, warm, arousing touch to reach his boots. “Not just yet.”

  She pried one glossy boot loose and then the other, stripping his stockings off quickly then tugging at his breeches. He lifted his hips in assistance and they slid toward Clarissa, revealing his smalls—all that was left between their skin.

  She loosened the fabric tie and removed them, twirling them above her head before tossing them to the floor.

  James started to rise, but she pushed him back again. “I warned you.”

  He almost looked disappointed, though the sight of her naked body as she straddled his bare midsection seemed to help if the flush of blood to his face was any indication. “Christ, Clarissa, you’re torturing me.”

  She smiled and placed a finger in her mouth, sucking on it lightly before running the damp tip of it the length of James’s fully erect penis. “We can’t have that, now can we?” Her murmur was throaty, seductive, as she caressed the head. She luxuriated in the sight of his body, familiar yet different since they’d last made love, skin to skin and utterly bare to each other over five years ago. He’d been barely a man, his physique markedly sleeker than the broad shoulders and thickly muscled chest that met her eyes now. Her gaze moved lower. Beneath the ugly wounds lay a taut and trim stomach that tapered to his hips and groin. She lovingly stroked his penis again then tucked him against her, the exquisite fullness as she slowly sank taking her breath away.

  “You are beautiful, James,” she whispered, lowering herself until her breasts skimmed his chest. “And you’re mine.”

  “Promise me that you’ll always love me just as you do right here, right now.” His voice was thick with emotion.

  She rocked back and forth, her breasts bouncing against his chest and creating the most delicious friction. “I promise.”

  He cupped her breasts in his hands and kneaded roughly, coaxing a moan of pleasure from Clarissa. He tugged at her nipples and she cried out, the sensation both shocking and stimulating.

  “More?” he murmured.

  Clarissa licked her lips, the haze of pleasure threatening to pull her under. “More,” she demanded as his arms wrapped around her.

  He took one breast into his mouth and sucked, whirling his tongue around the nipple then biting gently.

  When he released her, Clarissa gripped his shoulder with frustration. “More! Now!”

  “Patience,” he murmured before taking the other breast in his mouth and repeating the sweet agony.

  “You torture me on purpose,” she groaned, a second moan of ecstasy escaping from her lips.

  James bit down on the nipple then swirled his tongue around the sensitive nub. “Turnabout is fair play, Clarissa,” he replied as he stroked his palm over her backside.


  She caught her breath and sat up. “Really?” She continued to ride him but gently increased her speed.

  “Is that the best you can do?” James teased. His voice was rougher, and the accelerated rhythm had his fingers flexing against Clarissa’s hips.

  “You know me better than that.” She threw her head back and exposed her long, elegant neck, then ran her fingers from her throat to her breasts, caressing them lavishly. James grunted with approval as she drew her hands lower across her stomach then below to where he ended and she began, stroking her swollen folds slowly.

  “All right. You win,” he insisted, his breath ragged and his voice full of need. “Please, come to me.”

  Clarissa dropped her head and looked into his eyes. “As you wish.”

  She reached behind and grasped his testicles, watching as his mouth contorted. She squeezed gently and he let out a hoarse moan. She squeezed again and he bucked, then sat up and dragged her back with him until he slammed into the headboard.

  “Widen your legs,” he commanded, his hands encircling her calves and helping her. “Now hold on.”

  Clarissa threw her arms around his shoulders as James’s hips lifted and fell, taking her with him. She matched his passion thrust for thrust. He dug his hands into the bed at his sides, supporting their weight as he drove her closer and closer to climax.

  He took her mouth with his, his tongue roughly claiming hers. She let the pleasure take her over, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the feel of him inside her too much to deny.

  Clarissa broke the kiss and tucked her head against his shoulder, holding on as if her life depended on it. “James, I cannot. I cannot hold on. Please,” she panted, her lips touching the shell of his ear.

  “Then let go.”

  And she did. Clarissa squeezed her eyes shut as she gave in to the driving need, her skin suddenly sensitive to the very air in the room. She wrapped her legs tightly about James’s waist and cried out over and over again, sure that she would never recover.

  James wrapped her in his arms and rolled, his arms supporting him as he drove deep inside of her again and again.

  Clarissa raked her nails across his back possessively. “Come to me. Now.”

  James shuddered hard and let out a muffled groan as sweet release took control of him. He shifted sideways, taking Clarissa with him, wrapped in his arms. “I love you, Clarissa. I always have. And I always will.”

  Clarissa stroked his hair and intertwined her fingers in his soft locks. “You have my heart, James. Truly, deeply, madly, forever, you have my heart.”

  “Well, I now see why your services are in such demand,” Mr. Bennett said as he stood in the studio and admired the finished portrait.

  Completing the painting had required continuous work. Clarissa rose in the morning, stopping to eat only enough to keep her strength up, then retreated to the studio, where she would paint until she could no longer keep her eyes open.

  James arrived every day with a tray of food, once for lunch, and again for dinner. Clarissa had begged him to keep his visits brief, his presence in the studio hardly conducive to work. He’d obliged—though his nightly demands for attention more than made up for any time lost during the day. They’d made love more times than Clarissa’s exhausted mind could count, his need for her rivaling hers for him.

  Clarissa suspected their heated coupling was only intensified by James’s worry over the disappearance of Pettibone. The footman hadn’t been seen since that evening at the Eagle’s Nest and none of the servants nor grooms or gardeners knew where the man had gone.

  Of course, James and Clarissa felt certain he’d vanished after learning James and Iris had emerged from their attack alive. But knowing why Pettibone had gone offered little consolation. He would return, it was only a matter of when.

  “Your daughter is très beautiful, Monsieur Bennett, which makes my work a true pleasure,” Clarissa replied, joining Bennett before the painting.

  The man was right. The portrait had turned out magnificently—in fact, Clarissa felt sure it was her best work to date. Iris’s choice in dress and backdrop had been perfect. The pale pink of her silk gown, the warm, wholesome hue of her youthful skin, the deep, fiery red of her ruby earbobs, the glistening gold in her blond hair. But it was more than the marriage of color and light. Clarissa had captured the essence of Iris, subtly emphasizing her features and personality for a portrait that was both natural and flattering. Her eyes held the intelligence and danger that made Iris sparkle, her gently upturned chin conveyed the will of iron that she possessed, and the slight hint of a smile spoke volumes of the girl’s insatiable desire for life.

  Clarissa widened her stance to match Bennett’s. “She’s quite a girl, c’est vrai, Monsieur Bennett,” she added, realizing that every detail she’d just made a mental note of could be either positive or negative, depending on how one looked at it.

  Mr. Bennett turned to Clarissa and let out a hearty chuckle. “Now, that is an understatement, monsieur.”

  “Perhaps,” Clarissa replied, smiling though her tone was serious. “But I would not want to be the one to underestimate the young lady, monsieur. Would you?”

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Clarissa witnessed Mr. Bennett’s countenance fall. His amiable nature turned to disappointment. “Have you any children?”

  “No, Monsieur Bennett—at least, not yet.”

  “I’ve two—Iris and her older sister, Rose,” Mr. Bennett began, turning to look at the painting again. “It’s a gift, monsieur, do not misunderstand me for one moment. But it’s difficult, even when you have all the money in the world at your disposal. Children need more than toys and fancy dresses. They need one’s time. I’m afraid that Mrs. Bennett and I managed Rose properly, but Iris? There just was not enough time.”

  Clarissa wondered at the man’s use of the word “managed” in relation to his daughters, sure that it perfectly illustrated much of what was wrong within the father’s relationship with his child. But Mr. Bennett did not need to be told what he’d done wrong. He needed to know that there was so much he could do right, even still.

  “Monsieur, let me tell you of a person. This person,” Clarissa began, picturing James in her mind’s eye, “was attentive, encouraging, interested in who I was and what captured my imagination—this person was everything to me. And then this person deeply hurt me, and left. I was angry and bitter. Devastated. For a time I blamed all of life’s woes on this person. But do you know what?”

  “What?” Mr. Bennett asked hesitantly, keeping his gaze firmly affixed to the painting.

  Clarissa reached out and put her hand on the man’s shoulder. “If this person were to walk back into my life this very day, I would forgive. There is nothing that can be done about the past, but the future? Well, that is up to you. Do not waste any more time, Monsieur Bennett.”

  He heaved a deep, mournful sigh and finally looked Clarissa in the eye. “Thank you, Monsieur St. Michelle—for everything.”

  She had no way of knowing whether the man would take her advice to heart. But Clarissa could, at the very least, be thankful for the ability to not only articulate such words, but mean them. Her time at Kenwood House, though rife with danger and emotional trials, had given her a gift she’d quite likely never have found otherwise: peace of mind.

  For five long years she’d blamed her father and James for everything that was wrong with her life, thinking that doing so managed, in some small way, to make her feel better. Opening her heart and taking responsibility for all that she was, both good and bad, had forced her to realize the truth and brought her to this valuable moment in time.

  “You’re welcome, Monsieur Bennett. And thank you for this opportunity. My days spent at Kenwood House are ones I will think back on often, I assure you,” Clarissa replied sincerely, holding out her hand.

  Bennett took it in his and shook it vigorously, his jovial demeanor slowly returning. “Oh,” he said suddenly, reaching into the inner pocket
of his bottle-green waistcoat. “I nearly forgot.” He retrieved a key and handed it to Clarissa. “You earned every last shilling, and more.”

  Clarissa took the small silver key and looked at it with keen curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’m a banker, monsieur,” Bennett teased, elbowing Clarissa in the ribs. “I’d hardly expect you to travel with such a vast sum in your possession. The moment I secured your services I withdrew funds from an account I have in Edinburgh and had it sent to Paris.”

  Clarissa forced a smile, her stomach turning at the news. “The key is to a safe, I presume?”

  He elbowed her again, clearly amused. “Hardly. Safes are opened with combinations, St. Michelle. No, the key is to a strongbox at the Banque de France. Within the box you will find the combination to a safe located at the bank that holds your payment. It always pays to be safe,” he finished, winking at his banker’s wit.

  “Thank you for such forethought, Monsieur Bennett,” Clarissa replied in what she hoped was a sincere tone. “Now, I fear we must be off for France. The Comte de Claudel awaits me in Paris.”

  “Yes, Iris mentioned that you had to leave immediately,” he replied. “Nasty stuff, crossing open waters. I bid you a safe journey, monsieur—oh, and do say goodbye to Iris before you go. She’s grown fond of you, I believe.”

  Clarissa nodded smoothly in agreement, her concern over the complication growing, though she kept it to herself.

  “Will it present a problem?” Clarissa asked.

  James eyed the key from Bennett. “I hope not,” he answered as the two made their way down the grand staircase.

  He’d disclosed his connection with the Young Corinthians, but little else beyond that, hoping to keep Clarissa as safe as possible. The less she knew, the safer she’d be. “Though the sooner we return to Paris, the better.”