Tangled in Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  His chest rose and fell along with hers. It almost felt that they shared the same breath, the same need, the same…

  Too much thought. Feel, simply feel.

  Her body grew tight, the springs coiling. Her fingers moved faster, pushed harder.

  It was coming. It was coming.

  James pulled in a deep breath and it felt as if it had been pulled directly from her lungs.

  “Now,” he said.

  And she let it go. Her body surged, sensations broke, and her head fell back.

  A cry left her lips, his name.

  Another surge.

  Another.

  And then peace, her body slumped in the chair, her skin so sensitive that a breath would have bruised it.

  The chair creaked as he stood and walked toward her. “That was beautiful,” he said.

  Her lips curled up in the barest hint of a smile, words beyond her.

  A finger stroked over her shoulder and her whole body reacted, jerking slightly.

  “I’ve dreamed of that for years and yet you surpassed my every fantasy, my dear Sin.”

  “I am glad I pleased you,” she said as words began to form in her mind.

  “I was not concerned with my own pleasure, only yours. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  A blush moved up her cheeks. “It would be hard to deny.”

  “Are you ready for more?”

  More? His finger on her shoulder seemed too much, how could there be more? “I need a chance to breathe first.”

  A light chuckle. “I am not sure that you do, but I will allow it.”

  Allow it? Her body tingled at his words of control and yet her mind rebelled. Why ask, if he was then going to demand? Her eyes closed again. It would be so wonderful to sleep for just a few moments. It was late and she’d been tired before…before she’d played to his fantasies.

  She forced her eyes open. She could not afford sleep. Whatever else happened this night it had to end with her departure, her leaving James and returning to the life she had once known. “What did you have in mind?” she asked. It was important to be sure that he was as worn out as she before this night had ended.

  “I’d thought of showing you some more erotic drawings—there’s a drawer in the table filled with some quite unusual pieces—but I think they may be a little crude for the moment. They lack the beauty of the paintings, show the outrageous without that hint of emotion that draws in the viewer.”

  Turning her head to look at him, she considered. She was curious. It would be pointless to pretend otherwise, but for once her sense of adventure only went so far. It was hard to imagine doing more than she already was. Still…just to look.

  “I wish I could read your thoughts, Sin. You have the most mysterious expression.”

  She was very glad he could not read her mind. It would never do for him to know her secrets, to know just how conflicted she was. “I was wondering what more there is to learn, but not being at all sure that I want to find out.”

  “You need to trust me, Sin.”

  And she did—only she didn’t. It was such a complicated world. How did you trust a man who did not tell you the full truth? And yet, on so many levels she did trust him. She would not be here now if she did not. It was easy to say that she had come so that he would not learn her true plans, that he would not realize her doubts, but why would he have suspected anything because she chose to stay in her room?

  She was here because she wanted to be. “What is it you want to do?” she asked, letting all of her hesitation sound in her voice.

  “Do you know, I am not quite sure. My fantasy for the evening has already been played out—and everything else I want, that you would be willing to try, would put you at further risk of pregnancy. I think watching your exquisite passion has left my brain fogged. Is there anything you’re curious about?”

  There were so many things, but that didn’t mean she was sure she wanted to try them. “I’d like to touch you.” That should be simple enough.

  “To touch me?” He reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his cheek, rubbing it against the stubble there. “You’ve touched me before.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You know exactly what I mean.”

  A devilish smile curled about his mouth. “And what exactly do you mean, Miss Westhope?”

  “I want to touch you the way you touch me.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  He was doing this on purpose, pushing her beyond her boundaries—and wasn’t it strange that it was so often easier to do things than to say them? A deep breath in. “I want to wrap my fingers about your cock and stroke and pull and pet until you can bear it no more.”

  He swallowed. Her words might not have been elegant, but she could see the images forming in his mind.

  From her position, sitting in the chair, his hips were just about eye level. With slightly shaking fingers she reached for one of the buttons on his flap. He did not stop her.

  A swallow.

  She undid the button, moved to the next.

  James did nothing but look down at her, his gaze steady. Only the rapid pulse beating in his neck betrayed his tension.

  When the last button was undone, she let the fabric fall forward. His shirttails still covered everything. Wondering if she would ever breathe again, she pushed them aside. It was a frightening thing, large and long, deep in color, the vein that ran along its base throbbing. It was also beautiful, strong, and powerful.

  With care she reached out and ran a finger along it. So soft. The skin was so wonderfully soft—what was beneath was not. Again, she felt a shiver as she pictured that in her body. Even though it had been there once, it seemed impossible. She pressed her thighs tight.

  It was good that they could not risk pregnancy, that she did not need to worry about that. Still, she was curious. She ran her fingers over him, learning his weight and heft, learning of vulnerability and power.

  Still, he made no move, although his thighs strained and his hands remained fisted.

  She wrapped her fingers about him, and one of his hands moved to wrap about hers, pressing her fingers tighter, teaching her how to move, faster, slower, the pace varied and then fell into a pattern, his hips thrusting in matching rhythm.

  For a few moments she gazed, enrapt at the movement of his cock, at the small drop of liquid that formed on the tip, at how it slid and moved, at the play of soft skin and hard muscle—she remembered the taste of that drop, the taste of him. Then her eyes moved up to his and she was even more enrapt. A feeling of power such as she had never known swept through her. She was doing that to him. She was putting that expression on his face.

  She understood now why he liked to look at her, why he could find his own pleasure in hers. It was a heady feeling.

  Her thumb trailed up the underside, feeling the steady throb of the vein. His whole cock seemed to pulse beneath her touch. His eyes flickered with her every movement. His whole body strained, not moving, but she could feel his need, feel how little control remained.

  She stroked again, let her thumb move over the tip, felt that drop of moisture, brought her hands to her lips. What was so addictive? She remembered tasting him after their mud fight in much the same way, but still it was irresistible, the essence of man, of James. Her eyes dropped down to his cock. She licked her lips, wondered if she dared, and…

  “Fuck,” James mumbled, his hand closing about hers to stop it. “I wish you were ready for more, but you’re not. Perhaps next time.”

  Next time? But there would be no next time—only he did not know that.

  Should she…? If she didn’t she would always be curious.

  “Turn over,” his voice filled with command.

  Chapter 18

  He could feel her hesitation, knew what she wanted, what she desired. He had probably lost half his wits by stopping her, but deep inside he did know that she was not ready—and besides, a little anticipation would heighten things the next time—and he was def
initely already planning the next time. The shepherd’s cottage was not the only vacant spot on the estate. Granted, they’d have to find a way to escape Aunt Prudence, but…

  Sin shifted before him. She stared up into his eyes one last time, questioning, and then turned in the chair, shifting about, clearly unsure exactly what he wanted.

  “Lift your hips. Put your hands on the arms. Arch your back. Ah, perfect.” And she was. That ass really was a peach.

  “You’re not going to…?”

  “What? No.” At least not now. Feeling her lips about him was not the only thing he looked forward to in the future.

  Her body relaxed almost imperceptibly.

  He stroked a hand down her long back, enjoying the curves. When he reached her behind, he paused. Again his mind was filled with the image of a ripe peach, so ready for a bite.

  He kneaded her cheeks with his hands, enjoying her shiver. He let his fingers drift lower, more central, dipping into her slick honey.

  A far greater shiver.

  He traced one finger up, over the pucker. His cock jerked with desire, but he would not allow himself that, not now.

  He slicked his fingers back and forth, feeling her body begin to stiffen, both with tension and desire. Every time his fingers worked their way up he could feel her nerves, that slight edge of fear. He pressed slightly against the opening, heard her suck in a great gasp of air. “Do you remember what I did with your breasts, how I used them to pleasure myself, how I came between them?”

  A breathy “Yes.”

  “I am going to do the same here. I promise to not do more. For now it is enough for me to feel your skin, to press against you, to see my flushed cock touching your white ass. I may dream of more, but for now this is enough. Do you believe me?”

  She hesitated, unsure. Did she not trust him?

  And then another breathy “Yes.”

  He leaned forward, let himself slide into the crevasse, moist with her juices, slicked and ready. He pulled her cheeks apart, let himself enjoy the full visual. God, it was even better than he’d imagined, his powerful flesh against her softness.

  His fingers gripped tight, pushed her cheeks together so they pressed against him, surrounded himself with her. He began to move and her hips moved with him, matching his rhythm.

  He closed his eyes, and then opened them again, unwilling to miss a single second.

  Slipping one of his hands around her hips, he worked it between her legs and found her clit. Her body jerked and then the pace began to speed. Faster. Faster.

  He kept his eyes open. The movement of her hips. The arch of her back. Her head turned to the side and he caught the look on her face, intense, straining, almost there.

  Faster. Faster.

  His head fell back. He felt the scream rise to his lips, felt his body make that final surge, felt her tense beneath him, the ripples moving through her body—and he let it all go.

  His yell filled the room.

  Colors swirled and danced. That moment of absolute intensity. A fading wave—and then another.

  She went limp beneath him, her body folding into the chair, her thighs sliding down until she knelt on the floor.

  He slipped down behind her, wrapping his arms about her, pulling the shawl with them as a cover, and lay upon the carpet, damp, sticky, and happier than he could ever remember being.

  —

  She pulled away from James. It might have been ten minutes they’d lain there; it might have been two hours. Time had ceased to matter as the quiet glow had taken her, the absolute comfort of being in his arms, the feeling that the world was as it was meant to be.

  He mumbled a complaint and then rolled over, pulling her shawl about himself.

  Giving one last long look at his sleep-softened face, she rose, gathering her nightdress from the floor, where it still lay puddled. She pulled it on with a shiver, the cloth cold against her hot skin, and with a quiet but determined step turned and strode from the room.

  Temptation must not win now. She’d already gambled too much with this night. Now she must be away, must return to home and safety.

  Walking the length of the long gallery quickly, she entered the main hall and with a few turns and twists found the stairway that led up to the attics. It was probably the part of the house she knew best after the nurseries. She’d played with Jasmine for hours and hours in the hot rooms, opening trunks and trying on all manners of old dress.

  And that was just what she was after now, old clothes. She’d probably end up looking a little strange, but somewhere up there would be something better for riding than Aunt Prudence’s gown.

  So, first, clothes, preferably an old habit or even possibly some gentleman’s breeches.

  Second, borrow a horse. It would be easy enough to have someone return it to Scarlett’s house once she arrived in London. Sneaking into the stables worried her a little, but it wouldn’t be the first time she snuck out of the house for a midnight ride—although in the past it had always been at her own home.

  Third, the ride. She had to admit she wasn’t looking forward to that. She knew the basic route back to London, and had peeked at several maps in the library, but it would be the first time she traveled on her own.

  Fourth, destination? It was perhaps the most troubling bit of the whole thing. Her original plan had been to flee for her father’s house, but the more she thought of it the more nervous she became. If she left now, and all went well, she would arrive in London before the sun rose. She could hardly pound on the door at that hour dressed in strange clothes, but she certainly did not wish to walk the streets alone until a proper hour. It was unlikely that any place would be open at such a time—anyplace except…

  —

  “What on earth are you doing here at this hour? And why did you come through the kitchen?” Jasmine’s eyes raked Cynthia up and down, taking in the strange Cavalier breeches and long embroidered shirt underneath the huge velvet cape. “Well, perhaps I can understand why you chose the kitchen door, although I am surprised you managed to find it in the dark. The alley is not a friendly place.”

  “Are you ever going to give me a chance to talk and answer your questions?” Cynthia burst in with some exasperation. It had been a long, cold ride. No matter her riding skills, she’d been afraid to go fast when she didn’t know the roads and couldn’t be sure how rough they were. There’d been a couple of crossroads when she’d had to mentally cross her fingers and toes and hope she was heading in the right direction.

  And then she’d reached London. If anything, that had been worse. She’d been terrified the whole time that she was going to encounter ruffians or brigands. Gillian was always speaking of the lowlifes who inhabited the streets after dark. Cynthia had almost expected that the streets would be lined with them.

  “I am waiting,” Jasmine said, with some exasperation.

  “For what?” Cynthia blinked, drawn from her thoughts.

  “You just said you would answer my questions.”

  “James does say that I keep getting lost in my thoughts. Perhaps he is right, although given how tired I am, it’s not surprising.”

  “James? What does James have to do with anything?”

  It had probably not been the best way to start. “James has to do with everything.”

  “You are not making sense, not any at all. And you still have not even begun to tell me why you are here before sunup on such a dismal day.”

  Cynthia looked about the cozy parlor. The maid had hurried in soon after her arrival to light the fire, and the room was warming rapidly, but the chill that held her ran deep. “Could I sit and perhaps have a cup of tea? And then I will tell you all. I am afraid I’ve not got all my wits about me and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

  “You could never say the wrong thing. We will always be friends. And of course you should sit. You do not even need to ask.” Jasmine waved toward the settee. “You make me feel like a bad hostess. I will call for the tea. Is there anything
else you need?”

  A bath. A change of clothing. Several hours of sleep. And a good story to tell her father, better than the one running through her mind. And as long she was dreaming—not to be with child. “I am fine for the moment. Perhaps after my tale you can ask again. I cannot go home like this.”

  “You certainly cannot, but first I do want your story.” Jasmine went to the door, leaned out asking for tea and nourishment, and then returned to sit across from Cynthia, curling her legs under her, bare feet hiding beneath her long skirt. She must have hurried down from bed when Cynthia had arrived.

  Cynthia pulled in a huge gulp of air. She could put this off no longer. “I never made it home when I left here in the middle of the storm. I barely made it to the street.”

  “Oh dear.” Jasmine grew pale. “I knew I should have had you accompanied, but I was worried somebody would recognize one of my men. I knew you would not wish that. And then when I heard nothing I was convinced that everything was fine. Even when you did not reappear to visit Hope, as promised, I was sure that you had simply come to your senses and decided not to risk all by returning.”

  “Risk all by returning.” Cynthia repeated the phrase and could not hold back a laugh. “If only you knew—although it was not the returning, it was the leaving, leaving in your cloak.”

  Jasmine glanced at the door. “I do hope that tea arrives soon.”

  Clearly her friend was realizing just how off-kilter Cynthia was. “I will try to explain. I was abducted almost as soon as I was away from the house.”

  “Abducted?” Jasmine rose from her seat and almost screeched the word.

  “What did you think I meant when I said I didn’t make it home?”

  “I was imagining you’d run into some acquaintance or at worst had some type of accident. Why ever would somebody abduct you?” Jasmine lowered her voice. “Was it a white slaver? Did you have a daring escape?”

  “My thoughts were just as fanciful when I found myself with a bag over my head—a rather smelly one, I might add—and tossed on the floor of a carriage that was racing away. I had no idea what was happening. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. I worked hard to stay calm. I tried to form all sorts of plans to occupy my mind, but the truth is, I was terrified. I thought they would kill me, if not worse. It was not at all the adventure I had always dreamed of.”