Tangled in Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  She forced her eyes upward until they met his, saw his amusement and his desire.

  A difficult swallow, a large rock had grown in her throat.

  He reached down, and taking the hand that held the cloth, he placed it on his sex and stroked her delicate hand up and down its length, small quivers taking his body with each movement. The cloth prevented her from feeling his skin, but she could certainly feel the hardness beneath it.

  James’s hand moved away, yet she kept stroking, considering.

  A drop of fluid seeped from the end, just at her eye level. A sudden desire to taste took her. He’d said something about that. Perhaps it was not so shocking even if she had never before contemplated such a thing. Focusing on that single drop, she let her lips fall open, imagined placing them about his sex, imagined…

  He stepped back. “I think it’s time you take the chair again, my lady. I have something different planned for this afternoon.”

  He didn’t want her to…? No, if she looked at his face, he very definitely wanted, but for some reason he was denying himself—but then, perhaps there was a reason. It wasn’t like she understood how this thing—this relationship—this affair—was supposed to work.

  The hard wood of the chair felt cool beneath her buttocks. Her hands gripped the edge of the seat as she waited for what he wanted next.

  James held out a finger and lightly tapped the end of her nose. “You’re thinking again. Do you have a problem just feeling? You may nod your response.”

  How was she supposed to answer that? It was more than a yes or no question, no matter what he might think. She’d never thought she had a problem with feelings, but it was hard to stop thinking. Had she always been this way and was only becoming aware of it or was it just him?

  He chuckled. “Oh, you are a joy, Sin. I am not sure that I’ve had this much fun in ages. I ask a simple question and of course that makes you think again. However did I go so many years without seeing you—and that’s not even considering the mud fight. Who could resist a woman who’ll not only engage in a mud fight, but start one?”

  He saw that as a good point?

  “But I do have to stop asking you questions or I will never get that brain to stop working. And I definitely don’t want you thinking too much. You might change your mind.”

  That was not going to happen. She shook her head vigorously.

  Another chuckle. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I was getting us back on track. I’ve had an image in my mind from the moment you first sat in that chair. I was going to resist, but now I think we will both be happier if I indulge.”

  Indulge. That was a word she liked just at this moment.

  He lifted the cloth from where it had fallen on the hearth and soaped it well, until it sudsed. He brought it forward and lay it between her breasts, rubbing gently, leaving a damp trail of soap upon her skin. The cloth slipped from his hands and fell to her lap. His hands rose and cupped the outer edges of her breasts, pressing them together, forming a deep cleavage.

  He straightened his arms, stepping back, but still holding her breasts. His gaze passed over her, examining, a physical touch that set her aquiver. “Almost, but not quite right,” he said, releasing her breasts. He stepped farther back and surveyed the room. His eyes set upon his shirt where it had fallen on the floor. He picked it up, held out one sleeve, pressed his lips together, considered again. “Hold out your arms.”

  What? But she did as he requested.

  He took one wrist and brought it about the back of the chair. He wrapped her other arm about the other side until her wrists met behind the back. A few quick tugs and the shirt’s sleeve had tied her wrists tight.

  Her mouth opened to protest. This was not what she had bargained for.

  Again, his finger brushed across her lips. “Indulge me. I’ve left the bonds loose enough that I am sure you could escape if you really wanted to—and I’ve been developing this fantasy. I’ve imagined finding you bound, your captors having left you behind—and after I find you I know I should free you, but…” His hand came forward and stroked a nipple.

  Her body jerked, but the bonds were just tight enough to hold her fixed in place, helpless.

  And she liked it. She shouldn’t like it. Who wanted to be helpless? But as she looked up into James’s dark eyes, she realized how much she relished the idea. He could do whatever he wanted to her and she’d be unable to resist. Heat and moisture formed between her legs.

  His eyes dropped down and then moved back to her face.

  Did he know what she felt, what she thought?

  Why did it feel as if he did?

  Chapter 12

  Every time he thought Sin could not be more beautiful, more alluring, she proved him wrong. How could any woman who’d spent the morning coated in mud and whose hair hadn’t seen a brush in days manage to be so desirable? Because he could not deny that he’d never wanted anything or anyone as much as the woman before him, the naked woman, her thighs slightly parted, her breasts begging for his touch and more. And her eyes. They captured him more than any other part of her. They told him how his every move affected her, how much she liked what he was doing, how much she liked being bound. He’d thought she’d been taken by the enforced silence. He didn’t think she’d even realized it herself, but he’d seen how every time she had to hold back words, the fires within her grew.

  Sin liked being controlled.

  His cock, impossibly, grew even harder.

  His mind played with the thought, a world of possibilities opening up to him. Perhaps marriage could be different than he’d ever considered. His thoughts on how far he would take this grew and changed.

  Reaching out he placed a thumb and forefinger on either side of her nipple. He pulled softly.

  Her lips parted.

  He pulled a little more, a little firmer.

  She drew in a breath.

  A little more.

  Her eyes widened.

  Harder. A slight twist.

  Her mouth closed, she bit down on her lip, but did not protest.

  He took the other nipple, repeated the process.

  Her chest rose and fell beneath his hands, her breaths grew shallow.

  There was some pain. He could see that. But there was more than that, too.

  He released one breast and let a finger trail down her belly, then through her nest of curls.

  A sharp intake of breath as he passed over her clit, her sweet, sensitive clit.

  She was dripping. He brought his fingers up to his mouth, lapping at her honey.

  The rapid beat of her heart grew even faster. He could see it pounding at the base of her neck.

  He pulled harder on the nipple he still held.

  Her lips parted, a moan escaped, half pleasure, half pain.

  Her eyes dropped to his cock, to the cum that clung to the tip.

  He brushed his finger across it and held it out to her. Question formed in her eyes, but her lips pressed forward, the tongue darting out to sweep the precious drop from his finger. Her mouth closed, savored. He could see the thoughts in her eyes, see her deciding if she liked it. Her lips parted as if asking for more.

  God, he was going to climax before they even began if she kept looking at him like that.

  One more hard squeeze, another moan.

  He bent forward, lifted the cloth from where it still rested on her thigh. Wet it again. Soaped it again.

  Rubbed it between her breasts, the tips so swollen and red from his play, plump ripe raspberries. The slick trail of soap was exactly what he needed. He let the cloth drop to her thigh again, in easy reach should he need it. He stepped forward, setting a leg on either side of the chair. He shifted his pelvis until his cock rubbed her right between her breasts. He placed a hand on each plump tit and pressed them together, wrapping himself in their glory. The dark tip of his cock emerged between them. He pulled down, his cock sliding easily on her soap-slicked skin. He pressed tighter, feeling the warm sheath push upon him.


  God, that felt good. Up. Down. His thighs strained with effort, but it was worth it, so very worth it. It wasn’t the same as being inside her, but—he stared down again at the tip of his cock as it rubbed against her white flesh—the visuals could not be surpassed.

  He began to pump, letting his whole being relish the moment.

  Her head bowed forward, her gaze, he was sure, downward. She was as enrapt as he.

  Up. Down. Press tighter. Release slightly. Press again.

  Good. So good.

  So close.

  —

  Her head was spinning. She’d always thought the expression exaggerated, but no other words could fit her feelings as well. James’s member was between her breasts. She’d never even thought of such a thing, never dreamed it possible.

  But it was…intoxicating, and delicious.

  The sensations of him moving against her, of his hands cupping her breasts, squeezing, were almost more than she could take. She pressed her thighs tight. The end of the cloth hung between them and she wished she could press it to herself, wished—she pulled at the unresponsive bonds.

  Helpless.

  Helpless and here for his pleasure.

  Her need for release grew greater.

  She was beginning to pant. No, that was him.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  Instinctively, she raised her face. His eyes were black, strain showing plainly on his face—but also glory.

  Was this what she’d looked like earlier, when he’d…

  Beautiful. Again, all she could think was how beautiful he was. How had she ever looked at anything except that face? She felt herself drawn in, felt herself lost in the emotion that chased through his eyes as she watched.

  He pushed himself against her, his hands digging into her breasts, and she felt it happen, felt the tremor take him, felt him give himself up to it, felt the warm surge of liquid hit her chest, her clavicle, the tops of her breasts. And she saw it, saw his face as passion such as she’d never seen filled it, as his eyes grew large and his jaw strained.

  And then it was over.

  His body relaxed, his head fell forward, tension left him and his hand loosed her breasts. She looked down at herself, at the liquid that marked her. She wasn’t sure how to feel, what she was supposed to feel.

  James stepped back, water splashed, and then the now-tepid cloth washed her breasts with care. Reaching behind, he unfastened her wrists, before continuing with her rinsing.

  She felt as limp as a cut daisy in the bright sun. He’d been the one doing all the work—it was hard to do much while tied to a chair, but still she felt worn out. It had been a very emotional ride—and she still wasn’t sure how she felt about everything they’d done, everything she’d allowed. Had it really been her? It didn’t quite feel like it, even though she knew she’d do it again in an instant.

  When she was clean, James stopped. He bent over, picked up her fallen chemise, which looked tea stained, and dropped it into the bucket. His own shirt and smallclothes followed. His buckskin breeches went over the back of a chair. He walked to her dress where it hung on the hook, shook it out a bit, then with a frown walked back to his magical saddlebags. He pulled out a single shirt and laid it on the cot. “I’d ask if you wanted shirt or blanket, but given that I’ve nothing else to cover the essentials, I am taking the blanket.” He scooped one up off the floor and, folding it in half, wrapped it about his waist.

  She almost remarked that there was more than one blanket, but she had to admit there was something appealing about the thought of wearing his shirt and it would be more than long enough to cover her nearly decently, at least decently for being alone in a cabin. It wasn’t as if she was going to be walking through Mayfair.

  James swung her up in his arms and carried her to the cot, pulled his shirt over her head, then while she lifted her hips and wiggled about to pull it down, he fetched another blanket and wrapped it around her. Moving about the cabin, he completed a far more domestic assortment of tasks than she would ever have imagined him doing: he pulled the boiling kettle to the side, where it would stay warm, he neatly lined up the remaining food and wine, muttering about how next time he’d be sure he had some tea with him, he found an old broom and swept up the drying mud from the floor and then, finally, he sat down beside her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders, pulling her tight.

  Her head fell to the side, resting against his shoulder. “Why wouldn’t you let me talk?” she asked. “I had so many questions.”

  “Perhaps I will next time.”

  Next time?

  He continued, “I find that sometimes not talking actually makes things easier. When you don’t talk, I have to pay even more attention to understand your unspoken answers. It lets me see what your body is saying, what you are really feeling. Sometimes that is different than what your words might say.”

  She supposed that was true, but still she wanted to make sure her words were heard when she wished them to be.

  A finger landed under her chin and he turned her face to him. “Like right now I know you worry that if I only listen to your body I might not understand what your mind thinks—but if the two were truly in conflict, your body would tell me that. I would see it in the tenseness of your muscles and in the set of your jaw. The body lies much less often than the mouth.” He bent and brushed his lips across hers—soft, sweet, intimate.

  Was that their first kiss? It seemed impossible, but it must be. How could they have done everything else and not that? “I suppose that is true. Often you can tell when words are false by watching the speaker. If a man tells me I am beautiful while his eyes watch another, I do not believe him.”

  “Yes, but it can be even more subtle than that. The beat of your heart can speak the truth when all else about you lies.”

  “You are sounding far more poetic than I ever imagined.”

  His eyes settled on hers, capturing them. “And do you like poetry?”

  She pulled in a shallow breath. “Not really—or at least not before now. I can like the story of it, but I’ve never been one for rhyme and meter.”

  He pursed his lips. “Then what do you like?”

  It would have been easy to keep this light, to continue with sexual hints, but it felt a moment for true honesty. “As I’ve said, I like story, give me a romantic novel or a great saga, a story that sweeps across history. I don’t mind if it’s happy or leaves me in tears, as long as it fills me with feeling.”

  He stared further into her eyes, into her soul. “You have been lonely that you look for your emotions in books.”

  Had he always seen so much, understood her so well? “I can, perhaps, not deny that, but even before my mother’s illness I often found escape in literature. Although maybe then it was not so much emotion as adventure that I sought. I will never see the Highlands of Scotland, much less the pyramids of Egypt, but in a book I can experience them both.”

  He smiled, softly, gently—and with great understanding. “You always did like adventure.”

  “Which is hard to come by while remaining a proper lady.”

  “You never seemed to worry about being proper.”

  Which is how she’d ended up in this situation. But that was her mind, not his. His eyes held no spark of reproach or blame. “I admit I’ve always sought the small pieces of freedom I could steal. Fencing with sticks might not have seemed like much to you, but to a girl who has been told not to wrinkle her new dress…” Her voice grew quiet as she remembered the joy of those small adventures.

  “And what else do you seek besides adventure?” he asked.

  “I am not sure what you mean.”

  “Is all you want to sail off and see the world? Or could you be content with milder expeditions?”

  Was this once again about marriage? “I don’t know. I must admit, I’ve never actually considered sailing away—although now that the war seems to be truly over I would love to see Paris and Greece and—”

  �
�That would make a lovely marriage trip.”

  Yes, he was pressuring her again, if subtly. “It would depend on the marriage, I suppose.”

  “True.” He turned his head and stared into the fire.

  “And what do you seek?” she asked, attempting to turn the tables.

  He was very quiet and for a moment she thought he would not answer, but then he spoke. “Something of my own, I suppose. All my life, everything has belonged to either my father or my brother. I have funds but not belongings. I have inherited a goodly portion from my mother’s family, but…”

  “Could you not buy things, a house or even an estate?”

  Again he was quiet for a bit. “There is certainly no reason why not, but…It has not seemed quite the answer yet.”

  Not knowing what to say, she closed her eyes and leaned into him. Weariness began to take her. If she slept for even a few moments the world would be clearer, make more sense—and perhaps she would find the answers for him. At this moment the only thing that made sense was being with James, resting here with him, safe and secure in a world that could not last. And marriage? She knew that had been the focus of their conversation, but her mind refused to fully wrap about it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. He did seem to like her, more than like her, and she certainly liked him. In fact, it was hard to remember a man she’d liked more. She snuggled closer, burrowing her nose into him, citrus and cinnamon. And he smelled good. Very, very good.

  —

  “Lord James! Jamie! My lord, are you there?” The loud voices echoed through the walls, filling the cottage.

  James opened his eyes, blinking. It was morning—and full morning at that. He’d fallen asleep late, and roused several times in the night for new bouts of conversation—Sin seemed much more willing to share her secrets when still half residing in slumber—but he never slept in this late.

  “Lord James. We came as soon as we could. We’re sorry for the delay.”

  That was Pete’s voice. What was Pete, his head groom, doing here? Pete should be back at the stables. James shook his head, trying to bring clarity to his thoughts.