by Tarah Scott
She leant so close. Her breath bathed his face. “I choose this lie.”
Before he could reply, she stole his breath with an open-mouth kiss. She sucked his tongue, swept his mouth with hot, darting strokes, and pressed her breasts into his chest. Taran understood the demand. He pulled back and she trailed kisses along his jaw and down his neck.
“You are so small, so tight. There would be little pleasure for you the first time. Let him take your maidenhead, then I can show you pleasure without recourse.”
She reached between them and grasped his shaft. “But there is a way?”
“No.”
“Men know these things,” she insisted.
Pleasure radiated from his cock and through his body. He thrust into her palm. “Would you have me take your maidenhead, then face a dawn appointment with your enraged husband?”
She kissed him. “Is my innocence any more intact because you have not completed the act? My God, look at me.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Despite the fact I tasted between your legs, your innocence is intact.”
“Liar.” She lifted herself up so that she could tease his cock at the opening of her channel.
He sucked in a breath. “There will be pain.”
“Life is pain,” she replied.
She was right. And he couldn’t refuse her.
“Burn into your memory what happens tonight, for you shall have to play the part for your husband.”
She covered his face in kisses and positioned herself over his shaft.
“Do not forget the blood on the sheets,” Taran said, his mind in half a fog. “Give him wine. If he is in his cups, he will pay less attention and have little care for your pleasure.”
Taran tamped down a flicker of guilt. How much care had he planned to take with his future wife’s pleasure?
He threaded his fingers though Aphrodite’s hair and forced her head back in a vain attempt to discern her face in the dark. “And if the babe that comes this year is not—” he froze. “When are you to wed?”
“What does it matter?”
“I will take care, but there are no guarantees. If you find yourself with child…”
A moment of silence passed before she said, “I have no fear. The wedding is soon. I will not say when.”
Or where, he thought, and said, “And if the babe is not your husband’s?”
“Only God can know who the father is.”
The carriage slowed and rumbled over a several bumps. Propriety be damned, his life be damned. Her fucking husband be damned. Taran savagely claimed her lips. He would burn his memory into her mind. Sear her flesh with his. From this moment forward she would compare her husband to the night she spent in his arms. He would take her to the edge of reason and plunge her into the deepest, darkest places of pleasure. This damned his soul, but he would send her to her husband spoiled.
His heart rate spiked. Let her husband discover the deception. Then I will claim her.
Taran yanked his shirt free of the kilt and began unbuttoning it. The carriage turned a corner and her elbow jerked and struck his arm.
He paused. “If you are uncertain…”
Cool fingers groped his arm, found the shirt buttons and finished unbuttoning the last two. He shoved the shirt back from his chest, then yanked his kilt up to his waist. His bare leg touched hers and warmth shot to his cock.
“Come.” He reached beside him into the blackness.
She clasped his fingers for support as she straddled his lap.
He kissed her. “You may still turn back.”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh. I am not afraid.”
“Ah, love. You should be.”
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “How much more do I fear the woman I would become without tonight?”
Taran hesitated, stunned by the honest admission. He damned his good intentions to hell, and kissed her. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, pulling forth a moan of pleasure. Pebbled nipples pressed into his chest. She trailed her fingers up his torso, petting the trail of hair, and finally curling over his shoulders. Angling right, then slowly left, he kissed her lips. He fondled a breast with one hand, with the other he detailed each rib, caressed the soft satin flesh of her hips, then parted her damp curls.
Her head fell back and she ground against his arousal. “Please, my lord, do not stop.”
Taran sucked her neck, grazing her flesh with his teeth as he struggled for control. He wanted to take her slowly. He slipped a finger into her. She moaned and he plunged harder, deeper, coaxing her cream to flow.
“Sit on me,” he rasped.
She rose to her knees, poised her pussy over his throbbing shaft, and slowly lowered herself onto him.
“Careful,” he cautioned.
The crown, dripping cream, slipped between her folds and inside the opening.
“Prepare for the pain.” He clenched against the compulsion to drive into her, and allowed her heat to slowly envelop him. He groaned in unison with her gasp.
Her form, so slight to his size, stretched to accommodate his girth. Still, she inched down onto his shaft. Nails dug into his shoulders as she panted, taking more of his length inside the tight sheath.
He grasped the base of his cock, leant his head against the cushion, and endured the sweet agony. She was the most erotic thing he’d ever held. She lifted slightly, then eased down. Her voice caught, and she lifted another fraction. Lowering again, another gasp matched the effort.
“Mayhap we do not fit,” she said in a breathless voice.
“We fit too well.” The notion struck fear into his heart. He wouldn’t think of tomorrow…when she would be lost to him. He didn’t steal young ladies’ virginities. The only innocent he expected to know was his future wife. But as second born, he had been foolish enough to believe the wife would be one of choice.
His choice. Taran gripped her hips and Aphrodite slid her tight pussy down the length of him. With a hard thrust, he surged upward and buried the full measure of his cock into her.
She gasped. Hot, quivering walls encased him, tightened, and held him deep. He stilled. On the morrow, whatever she left of his heart and body he would pledge to another.
Taran clenched his arse, thrusting deeper.
“Oh!” She cried out and gripped his shoulders. “All lies.”
Taran froze. “What lies?”
“That coupling is a burden. Feels so good to have you inside me.”
Relief flooded him and he nearly laughed—then she shifted. Pleasure surged through him. Taran let instinct guide her movements. She shifted, rocked, lifted and lowered, looking for the pace and rhythm that brought the most pleasure. That her tight pussy held him in an iron grip was enough to send him over the edge. If not for the need to burn into his memory the feel of her slick passage stroke after stroke, he would already have taken his release. They had only tonight. Every moment counted.
“My lady,” he whispered. “This is your night of seduction.”
“Yes,” she said on a breathy exhale. “I believe you said if done right, this—this—”
“Fucking.”
“Yes, fucking. Would you like me to speak crudely, my lord?”
He bit back a laugh that nearly brought pain. “Aye.”
“You said, if done correctly, fucking can take a long time.”
Taran groaned.
“Would you like to hear more?” She gyrated her hips, sinking down, taking his erection from tip to base into her channel.
He thrust deep, forcing her hard onto his shaft. “I wish I could see your face when I make you come.”
Her breath caught. Satisfaction swelled within him.
“Hear what you do to me.” She panted, milking his length in her drenched heat. “Your cock is like an iron sword. First I felt a burn, and now I feel as though I will die from the pleasure.”
“The French called it la petite mort. The little death.”
“How apropos. For surely
” —she rolled her hips, faster, her breathing growing shallow—“I have gone to heaven.”
And he would spend the rest of his days in hell.
She moaned as vibrations from her inner walls quivered along his shaft, taking him deeper while her hot folds tightened on his rod. His balls tingled, drawing close to his body. His engorged shaft hardened to near discomfort. This time he’d go with her.
Gripping her waist, in frenzied thrusts he plunged his cock into her pussy in rapid strokes.
“Fuck,” he groaned.
She creamed around him, heightening the slick friction. Spasms rippled her walls. She screamed. Taran exerted every ounce of strength. Muscles in his arms burned, his thighs trembled, but still he pumped his shaft in and out. Faster, harder. Sweat dripped down his chest. With a primal cry, he erupted. Hot jets of fluid bathed her channel. Each spurt surged with energy yet left him weak. He wrapped his arms around her and locked her close, buried to the hilt in her delicate folds.
Chapter Five
Caroline collapsed against her lover. Her cheek met his bare flesh, damp with sweat. The heavy rise and fall of his chest matched her breathing. Gentle caresses along her spine comforted, but she cared nothing for his concern. His cock, still buried inside her, felt slick, hot and wet with his seed. The heavy musk of their joining scented the air.
Tears stung her eyes. Quick blinks halted the flood that threatened. Gratitude, not sorrow, filled her. This memory would remain in her heart forever.
Caroline straightened and touched his cheek. “Thank you.”
He pulled her face to within an inch of his. Warm breath fanned against her skin when he said, “Return home with me.”
Her heart wrenched. “I cannot. We are strangers.”
“After tonight, we are no longer strangers.”
The vehemence in his voice startled her. She lifted off him and his cock slipped from her body as she swung her leg over his hips. Back straight, Caroline settled against the cushion beside him.
“We must say goodbye.”
“The damage is done,” he said, then added before she could reply, “do not fear, I shall honour our agreement.”
Pain twisted her heart, but she couldn’t deny the relief. “If we had more time.” She trailed a finger across his abdomen.
His muscles quivered and tightened beneath her touch.
“Several hours yet remain before dawn,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Caroline let her palm relax on his stomach. She had considered this, but… “We already want more than either of us can give. However, pleasure does not negate responsibility. If I linger even a moment longer…” She lifted his hand and brushed her cheek against his knuckles, then kissed them and set them back at his side.
“This is goodbye, then?”
The formal note in his voice nearly undid her. “Yes.”
He groped the opposite seat and, a moment later, fit the mask over her face and secured it into place. Her heart wrenched at the chasm the simple action created between them.
Caroline sat motionless as he collected the dress and slipped the garment over her head. She didn’t miss the trembling of his fingers when he straightened the costume on her shoulders. How easily she could lose herself in the arms of this man again tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. A man like him, I could want forever, her heart whispered. He slipped the sash over her head and she forced back a sob.
Her wedding day was tomorrow—no—today. Mabel would already be up and about. Soon, the old housekeeper would come to her room to wake her in preparation for the wedding.
Her lover shifted and Caroline realised he was buttoning his shirt. She remembered her wig and pulled it from the opposite seat, then slipped it over her hair. A moment later, he reached for his own mask. Before he could find it, she touched his cheek for the last time.
“Swear you will think of me”—she bit back tears—“not as a ruined woman, but as a lady without regret.” She turned his face towards her and kissed him. Dear God, she must leave before her heart crumbled altogether. “Just think of me,” she ended in a whisper.
“How am I to forget?”
His simple reply brought the magnitude of what she’d done crashing down on her. Not her loss of innocence—that she understood and could not regret. “I must go.”
He banged on the ceiling of the carriage and the driver slowed.
“Please,” her lover whispered.
She gave a single shake of her head he couldn’t possibly see and he seized her hand and brought it to his lips. The carriage bounced to a stop. Her heart pounded and a lump formed in her throat. She hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to say goodbye to a stranger. His words came back, ‘After tonight, we are no longer strangers’.
“You have been”—he paused, and she held her breath as he said—“unexpected.”
Tears stung her eyes. She found his face in the dark and put a finger to his lips. “Our destinies are written.”
“Heaven can rewrite destiny.” He kissed her palm. “He does not deserve you.”
Her heart broke.
“And if your husband discovers the truth?”
She snapped to attention. The Viscount of Blackhall would not be pleased—nor would his father. She would see to it they never knew.
Her lover brushed a thumb across her cheek and she realised he felt the tear that had escaped. He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck.
“Do not judge yourself harshly,” he whispered. ”I do not regret our union. I pray you can say the same. Just remember, if your husband discovers the truth, if he rejects you—”
“Please. Tonight you have claimed a piece of my heart.” She slid her lips over his. “What is left I will find a way to give to my husband.”
He released her, then grasped the door handle. The click of the latch opening echoed in the hollow silence.
He paused. “Tell me your name. I swear, I only wish to be certain you are well.”
Tears dampened her cheeks. “I cannot.”
“If your husband does not care for you, find me.”
He swung the door open and light spilled into the compartment. He stepped from the carriage. His massive frame filled the door as he faced her.
Familiar eyes, the colour of copper, laced with amber strands darkened to a rich brown stared back at her.
Caroline barely stifled a gasp. Heat rushed into her face. “Blackhall,” she whispered.
“Aye. Come to me when you can,” he said, and shut the door.
Caroline stared at the closed door, numb with disbelief. Lord Blackhall wasn’t supposed to—had refused to—come to England until their wedding day.
The carriage rolled forward. She yanked aside the curtain and watched her betrothed step back from the street, then turn. Her gaze remained glued to his receding back. She had feared no lasting repercussions from attending the masque. But if Lord Blackhall should discover her duplicity… The man with a penchant for dominance and discipline would not be forgiving.
The carriage rounded the corner and he disappeared from view. Caroline dropped the curtain and slumped against the cushion.
“Dear Lord, what have I done?”
Chapter Six
Caroline carefully closed the wrought iron gate leading to her uncle’s rented townhouse, wincing at the distinct grate of metal when it clicked shut. She leant her head against one of the bars, willing her stomach to unknot long enough for her legs to remain steady until she reached her room. She was a complete fool. The gown she’d worn when she left home probably still lay unmolested on the seat of her rented hackney parked outside Lord Forbes’ estate.
Mabel, no doubt, had already risen, and had possibly even woken one or two of the maids. If they caught her wearing the Aphrodite costume, by dawn, all of Newcastle would know she had attended the masque. The servants might be in the kitchen, a blessing if Uncle was still out and the front door unlocked in anticipation of his return—the end for her if he had returned and bo
lted it behind him.
Had she come straight home instead of staying with Taran… Caroline grimaced. Had she not attended the masque at all, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She stopped, an awful truth hitting her like a hammer. She couldn’t possibly be in love with her future husband, not the man she had wantonly given herself to the night before she was to marry him. In the space of an hour, she had completely lost her mind.
With a steadying breath, Caroline faced the house and hurried up the walkway and the four steps to the door. She grasped the latch and gently pushed. Her heart jolted. Locked. She spun, yanking up her skirt as she flew down the stairs and around the house with a silent prayer that Mabel hadn’t woken the maids. Caroline didn’t relish facing the housekeeper—the old woman had been with her since the nursery—but better her recriminations than the maids’ wagging tongues.
At the end of the house, Caroline halted and peered around the corner into the small garden. Faint light from behind curtained windows illuminated the steps leading to the door that opened into a pantry. She cursed. Her luck hadn’t held true. Fortune—good fortune—had departed with her future husband. A flush rippled through her at memory of his warm hands on her breasts. She cursed her body’s treacherous tightening and crept to the door, then up the steps. Aromas of pastries and yeast breads hung in the air. Things were worse than she feared. Mabel must have risen by midnight—if she’d slept at all.
Keep your nerve, Caroline ordered. If they had discovered her absence, the house would be ablaze with light and servants would be swarming the house.
No movement shown behind the curtains. She paused, hand on the latch, the roar of blood in her ears so loud she grimaced, and placed her ear against the wood. She detected no sounds beyond the door and inched it open. Silence followed, and she slipped into the empty pantry.
Pies, three baskets of rolls, apples, pears, plums, carrots, potatoes, and two platters of meats filled the counter to the left. She’d been right. Mabel hadn’t slept, but had toiled through the night so that her wedding day would be an event talked about from Newcastle to London.