Hot Silk

by Sharon Page

  He hadn’t expected that and his laugh rumbled, making him tug at his bonds. A suggestion leapt to his lips, but she beamed at him. “I can do whatever I wish, can’t I? For you are tied up.”

  She paced around him, her full breasts swaying, her hips undulating with sultry and seductive promise. He held his breath as she laid her hands on his knees and bumped her breasts toward his face, but as he arched forward to catch her nipple with his lips, she pulled back.

  “Bring your juicy cunny to my mouth,” he urged, voice strained.

  She did, but just as his tongue slid out and touched her moist skin, she pulled back again.

  “Sweetheart, you might just be torturing yourself more than me.”

  “Very possibly,” she agreed, “But that is the risk I will have to take.”

  “Turn around and let me give your round little rear a kiss.”

  She giggled and her brows went up, but she did as he asked. He kissed her, bit gently into her soft, smooth skin. Let his tongue slick through the valley between them, to the curling blond hairs that softly surrounded her anus. He teased there, tasting her erotically rich flavor, breathing in her intimate scents.

  “Ooh,” she gasped.

  But she pulled away again and he growled in frustration. His hips arched up of their own accord; his body worked against the chair, rattling the legs.

  “I want you, Grace. You’re going to have to fuck me now, before I explode.”

  She lifted her bare foot and he flinched as it neared his cock. But then she played with his length and the swollen head with her soft foot.

  God, that was good.

  Her toes slid down, getting moist with his fluid. She could barely keep her balance and he winced, waiting for the pain to go with the pleasure.

  She trailed her toes down to his ballocks. Her big toe pushed his balls around, moving them in the sac, and the sensation had him groaning.

  Begging. Begging her to take his cock inside, into her heat. Begging her to pound on him hard. Hell, he’d never even begged for his life, not even with a pistol against his head or a noose around his neck.

  But he was begging Grace.

  Excitement, astonishment, glowed like a flame within her green eyes. “But I don’t want to ride you yet,” she playfully argued. “I want to touch you.”

  She let the backs of her nails, long and slightly sharp, brush his neck. Closing his eyes, he let his head drop back to give her the length of his neck to caress. “You could sit on my lap to do this,” he suggested.

  “I could,” she agreed.

  But she didn’t.

  Even with eyes closed, he knew she had paced around him to his back, knew it by the whisper of her soft feet on the floor and the way her vanilla and lavender scent floated past him.

  She stroked the back of his neck and he shuddered at the thrill that shot down his spine.

  “I want to touch your shoulders,” she promised. “Your chest.” Her fingers spanned his shoulders, then moved down to his nipples. Gently she pinched both.

  He let his lashes sweep up as she bent close and her loose hair fell around him. Her hands skimmed down toward his abdomen as her sweet-scented hair brushed his skin, setting it on fire. He was drunk with sensation. Lips on his neck, hands grasping his cock, she gave breathy moans as she pleasured him. He loved the sight of his cock held by her small, graceful hands.

  “With you,” she whispered, “I never have to worry about who I am, who I should be. With you I feel as though I belong.” Her hand squeezed and his juice dribbled out, soaking her palms.

  “You belong with me, Grace. It’s only the ton who don’t see that. It’s only who I am that makes that so damned impossible.”

  She twined a graceful leg around him, sliding it up around his waist, skimming her pretty hand across his chest. Heat surrounded him along with her compelling, excited laugh.

  He regretted having his hands bound. He wished he could hold her. All he could do was rock the chair about to aim his cock at her sweet cunny.

  “Oh goodness,” she gasped as she lowered on him. Without using her hands. She was so wet he was slick with fluid.

  She rode him slowly, drawing each stroke with exquisite beauty. He couldn’t touch, but he could use his tongue. He strained to kiss her cheek, her neck. To tease her ear with his tongue.

  She searched for her pleasure, riding him harder and faster, grinding forward to rub her clit to his groin, squeezing her cunny tight around him. She slid her hand down to play with her nub while she rocked on him.

  Her nails grazed his cock, a sharp, sudden, surprising pain that had his blood boiling.

  “Yes,” he groaned. “Please yourself.”

  Her breaths came fast, her moans desperate and hoarse.

  “God—God!” she cried.

  Her hair flew around him as she flung herself wildly on him. Sweat glistened on her cheeks, on her shoulders, on her breasts. They were both soaked. Sex surrounded them—the rich scent of it, their restrained cries, the thumping of the chair on the floor.

  “Devlin, yes!”

  She came and he had one moment of sheer relief—he’d needed to bring her to climax first—then his control slipped and his orgasm slammed into him.

  He fell back against the chair and she slumped on him. Their hearts beat frantically, their chests pressed together, and Devlin nuzzled her neck, his way of caressing Grace in the aftermath.

  Her little cries of pleasure continued and she wriggled on him, sending intense sensation shooting through him. Finally, she lifted her head and he smiled, coaxing one of sheer contentment from her.

  He groaned. “Would you untie me now, quick? I’m starting to feel…a little vulnerable like this. Like I’ve exposed a bit too much of what makes me tick.”

  He saw her surprise—she hadn’t expected him to be so honest, perhaps.

  “Ooh, I’m a bit too shaky to do the knots,” she murmured as she fiddled with the bonds at his wrists. “I tied them too tight.”

  “It felt good though, sweetie,” he reassured. But he wondered if he was going to have to coax Grace to cut him free.

  His hands were numb and he clenched his fingers, trying to bring feeling back. “Get my dagger from the inside pocket in my coat, love.”

  She did so, withdrawing it from the leather sheath and holding it carefully by the handle. From behind him, blade poised on the fabric—he felt it by the tension on his wrists—she asked, “Are you certain?”

  “Don’t slip.”

  She sawed at the ropes; they bit into his skin as she worked. What did she think? Had she enjoyed the game? She’d seemed to delight in the play, but what did she think now, now that desire was sated and reality was creeping in once more? Was she frightened by it, disturbed by it?

  The fabric fell away from his wrist.

  “What now, Mr. Sharpe?” she whispered.

  He couldn’t ask her if she’d enjoyed it. He didn’t want to face the truth. Ruefully, he brought his numbed arms around to his waist, giving his wrists a quick rub to circulate the blood. Was this only more proof that he wasn’t a gentleman? After all, what gentleman would play bondage games with a gently bred woman?

  And damnation, he’d forgotten to have her put a sheath on him.

  What if he got her pregnant?

  He led her to the bed. With a kittenish squeal, she flopped back on top of her tousled bed linens.

  “Just to warn you, love, I plan to come down to breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Devlin, please don’t do anything to Lord Wesley. Or say anything.”

  Did she ask that because she feared scandal? Or because she still cared about Wesley? Yes, she’d intended to knee his half brother in the groin, but a woman in love could act fiercely. But he didn’t want to push her for the truth. Not now. He didn’t want to hear it.

  “Who’s here, love?” he asked. “Who was at dinner?”

  “It’s not a large group. Lord Avermere is to arrive soon. There are Lady Prudence and Lor
d Wesley, of course. Introductions were made, but Prudence thrust her nose in the air and ignored me.”

  “And Wesley?” Devlin growled.

  “He leered in a most bold and revolting way. I longed to throw the soup at him.”

  God, she made him laugh. “I wish you had. And I’ll know not to miss a meal if that’s what you’re going to do.”

  She laughed, too, the sound soft, pretty, and light. “Lady Horton was there, of course. And her companion, who I had not noticed at all while we waited for the boat. Her name is Miss Crayle. And showy Mrs. Montgomery was there. And the rest were men.”

  “Which men?” he demanded sharply.

  “Rakish Lord Sinclair and Mr. Nelling, the playwright, as you know. And the famous portraitist, Mr. Strandherd.”

  “Hmm. Three rakes with only Mrs. Montgomery to tryst with? The lady will be exhausted.”

  “Devlin,” Grace chided. “I hardly think she’ll entertain three men.”

  “She might.” He winked and smiled at the blush on Grace’s cheeks. She was experienced, knowledgeable, but still shy.

  She turned away, her face pressing into her pillow. “I suppose.”

  It had been the wrong topic to tease her on. It had made her think about Wesley, about going from Wesley to him, and he knew she had never made peace with that. It didn’t bother him—he was still deeply touched that she had chosen him to give her good memories of lovemaking.

  He skimmed his palm along Grace’s smooth, lightly freckled shoulder. “I’m not leaving you alone with those three rakes in the house.”

  She rolled back, touched her hand to his; and the gesture gave him a warm sensation.

  He should leave her bed and go and sleep alone in his. But he could not force himself to leave.

  Devlin rolled to his side, pressed against her curvaceous backside, and dangled his wrinkled cravat before her eyes. “No rest for the wicked, love. My turn now.”

  13

  “You look too damned tempting this way.”

  As Devlin’s raw growl made her instantly wet, Grace tugged on her wrists. Her stocking held her securely and she could barely move a few inches from the bedposts.

  “You trust me?” His gaze was shuttered.

  “Yes,” she answered simply. She was bound hand and foot, yet she did trust this man completely.

  Grace wriggled her wrists again—he’d tied them loosely so she did not feel pain, but the feeling of capture was thoroughly exhilarating.

  Two of his cravats bound her ankles. Watching him as he tested the bonds was so arousing. His eyes burned as though blue flame was trapped within them. Sharp lines bracketed his mouth as his face reflected the sensual agony she felt. And silvery strands of fluid stretched from the tip of his cock to the bed linens.

  “I intend to play. Sensual play.” He mounted on the bed, his knees on either side of her hips. She caught her breath as his fluid dripped from the blushing head of his cock to her bare stomach. “Tickling. Teasing. Play.”

  The muscular planes of his chest rose with his ragged breathing. Soft light from the low fire graced his beautiful form.

  “Which do you prefer?” she asked, curious. “To be tied or do the tying?” She wasn’t entirely certain what she was asking. What would it tell her about him?

  “I can ask you the same question. Tell me what you like best.”

  Mmm, he was being evasive. “I don’t know. Both. Either.”

  His confident smile appeared, treating her to his breathtaking dimples. “Which would you ask for when you are half-mad with lust?”

  Was that the way to get at the truth? Did being lusty make one instinctively express the truth? “I would want to be tied.”

  He winked. “Men just generally do the tying. To be tied—that is a special privilege, one men generally seek in secret, in silence, and they pay highly for discretion.”

  “And you asked me to do it. You wish me never to speak of it?”

  “Who were you going to tell, Grace?”

  “No one. There’s no one I can share this with but you.”

  His smile faded for a moment, and a harshness claimed his features. “Thank you. I like knowing that I share something special with you. Now for play—”

  “No. I want you now. To be filled by you.” Was she mad to turn down his promise of play? But she wasn’t certain her courage would last that long.

  She couldn’t read his darkened blue eyes as he put on a sheath. “Now. Please now.”

  Abruptly, roughly, he pushed his rigid cock down. His long, lean body stretched to the limit as he reached to lick her bound wrist and stirred her molten quim with his prick, making long strokes over her clit until she pulled hard at the ties and moaned for mercy. His tongue teased the sensitive skin of her wrist.

  Heat and fire flooded from both ends, exploding in the middle. “Please!”

  His hips tipped and he slid his cock inside: one strong thrust to the hilt, to fill her completely. Then, as though to join them absolutely, he linked his legs with hers, entwining his powerful arms with hers. Slowly, he pumped into her.

  She hadn’t expected him to make love so tenderly. She’d thought his game was dominance. Yet it didn’t seem to be. She longed to touch him, but all she could do was lift her hips to show Devlin how much she loved making love with him. She moved desperately, hoping to bump her swollen, aching clit against him.

  It was driving her mad! She wanted to wrap her arms around his broad back. Or touch his rough cheek. Or grab handfuls of his hair.

  His hands skimmed down her arms and explored her everywhere—cupped her breasts, tweaked her hard nipples. Then his fingers slid between their bodies, stroking her quim until she gasped.

  “Found the target,” he murmured. Then he nuzzled her neck, rubbed her clit, and slammed his cock into her.

  She curled her fingers around her straining stockings. Panted. Moaned. Worked to him, wriggling, pressing, needing—

  “I’m coming! Coming!” she gasped. It happened so quickly. Warm and luscious and liquid, her release took her. Her thoughts melted. She cried out, desperately. She knew her cunny was clutching at his cock; then he surged forward and kissed her hungrily.

  From his jerking hips and the way he moaned into her mouth, she knew he was coming too. Had he pressed his mouth to hers to hide the sounds?

  She let her tongue play with his, wishing, wishing so much she could hold him. As he backed away, she drank in his lazy lidded eyes, his full mouth, his tangled hair.

  Being bound was exciting, rather naughty, but not her fantasy.

  As he turned to the stockings, the light playing along his muscles and the fine golden hairs that dusted his arms and chest, she knew exactly what her fantasy was.

  A lifetime of this. A lifetime of fun and pleasure and intimacy and love with Devlin Sharpe.

  With a pirate. A highwayman. A man who possessed his own harem.

  Once she had thrown her heart at a wild, unsuitable man, only to have him do his darndest to destroy it.

  She couldn’t do it now.

  What had she been thinking? Grace blinked at the soft summer light creeping in around the curtains. She took a deep breath, inhaling Devlin’s warm scent. He almost filled the narrow bed, and she had snuggled tight to sleep.

  She had been so caught up in carnal delights, she’d fallen asleep—and taken the risk of letting Devlin spend the night.

  The bed shifted under her so abruptly she almost fell over the side.

  Devlin’s feet landed on the opposite floor with a loud thud. Grace winced.

  “Hell, I’d intended to be gone before morning light,” he muttered. And without even glancing her way, he charged over to his pile of clothes. Then he turned and asked softly, “Are you awake, love?”

  “Yes. What have I done?” she answered, pointing toward the cheery yellow curtains with the sunshine pouring around them. How late was it? She vainly searched the room for a clock. “I’m going to bring scandal onto my family.”


  “You won’t, love. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Grace’s stomach knotted. She felt nerves, fear, but also despair as he hurriedly pulled his trousers up his legs. Sheets held over her breasts, she watched the speed with which he yanked on his shirt and flung his waistcoat on without bothering to fasten sleeves and collar.

  Of course he had to rush. The sun was up!

  But why did people enjoy these clandestine things, when one felt only guilty and afraid afterward?

  “If my grandmother learns what I’ve done, she will never see me.”

  Devlin brushed his hair back, swinging on his coat. “There’s no harm in taking a few risks, love. Can you really tell me that you’ll be happy dressing in pink ruffles and pretending to be innocent?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want. I’ve learned that.”

  “It does,” he insisted, but then she was staring at his broad back and his blue superfine coat as he gently opened the door. It moved smoothly, only an inch, and he bent close—an obvious expert in moving silently and watching unobserved.

  A babble of voices drifted in from the corridor. The pad of footsteps up and down the hallway. The house was awake now and people were moving about.

  Devlin moved back from the door and closed it so it was only open a sliver. Then, on a softly muttered curse, he silently shut it. “The hallway’s full. Too many maids and guests.”

  Grace’s heart pattered. “What are you going to do?”

  Devlin held his finger to his lips. “You know, sweetheart, you have to stop punishing yourself for what you did.”

  She ignored that. “What are you going to do?”

  “Go out the window.”

  She could not have heard him properly. “Out the window? This room overlooks the cliff.”

  He crossed to the window, then eased up the sash. “No different than scaling the rigging.”

  “You’re a madman,” she gasped as he slid out one long leg and straddled the sill. “You cannot do this.” He was risking his life because she was afraid of scandal. “You cannot climb down.”