Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2

by Scott, Scarlett

  “The only dangerous enemy to have is a Sutton,” he told the marquess. “You trifle with me, and you trifle with the whole bleeding family, Silwood. There’s a warning from me to you, and that’s the last one you’ll receive. The next time I have to tell you, it ain’t going to be pretty and polite.”

  “I am not afraid of a lowborn rookeries rat like you.” Silwood’s lip curled into a sneer.

  He gave the marquess his most lethal smile. “You ought to be, arsehole.”

  Once more, Silwood’s nostrils flared. He turned to Persephone, his hands clenched in impotent fists at his sides. “You have a choice to make, my dear. Marry me and hold your head high as the Marchioness of Silwood, or marry this swine and lower yourself to the mud with him.”

  Persephone raised her chin, regal and beautiful and so very strong. “Mr. Sutton is a better man than you could ever hope to be. I could know no greater honor than becoming his wife.”

  Pride swelled in Rafe’s heart, along with love. “There’s your answer, Silwood. If you dare to cause any problems for her, you’ll be answering to me and all the rest of the Suttons.”

  “The Winters as well,” said Devereaux Winter as he crossed the threshold, unsmiling. “I trust I need not tell you how poorly it will go for you if you attempt to cause any trouble for Lady Persephone concerning her trust when she reaches five-and-twenty. My solicitor is prepared to aid her in her cause.”

  “You will regret this,” Silwood vowed, bitterness lacing his voice as his eyes traveled the room, lingering longest on Persephone.

  “No.” She shook her head, smiling. “I can assure you I will not.”

  “Get out of my home, Silwood,” Winter said curtly, an order rather than a request.

  The marquess, having been dismissed and denied what he had been determined was already his, was left silently fuming. And without recourse, too. For a man who thrived on power, this must be a truly low moment. How Rafe wished he could plant the bastard a facer. But he was doing his damnedest to do everything right for Persephone’s sake.

  “Do not come begging me for another chance when you realize the mistake you have made,” the marquess bit out, before offering a mocking bow.

  “I shan’t,” Persephone assured him wryly.

  As the marquess took his leave, Persephone’s fingers tentatively sought Rafe’s at his side. A deep, thrilling sense of possibility came over him. After the weeks spent without her, the relief was enough to make his bleeding knees quake. Not that he would ever admit as much aloud.

  “I can’t begin to thank you enough,” he told Devereaux Winter.

  Winter gave him a small smile. “Reserve your gratitude for my lovely wife. She adores nothing so much as aiding a love match.”

  “Thank you both,” Persephone said. “I shall never forget your kindness.”

  Winter cleared his throat, looking a bit uncomfortable with all the gratitude being directed toward him. But then, Rafe reckoned it was not every day that an East End rogue and a sunset-haired lady had a verbal duel with a despicable marquess in his drawing room.

  “We are pleased to help,” said Lady Emilia Winter, beaming as she crossed the threshold of the drawing room to stand beside her husband. “We are almost family. Suttons have become treasured friends of the Winters, and, Lady Persephone, my parents held yours in highest regard.”

  “Still, you would not have had to involve yourselves,” Persephone countered, “and risk my cousin’s wrath.”

  Devereaux Winter smiled for the first time, and his expression said everything Rafe needed to know about how the man had come to rule such an impressive empire. “I can assure you, Lady Persephone, it is the wrath of the Suttons and Winters he ought to fear, not the other way around. Lord Silwood’s pride has been badly bruised, but he will discover quickly that he cannot bully those who are more powerful than he.”

  “And if he does not?” Persephone asked, clearly still fretting.

  But then, he could not find fault in her fears. She had spent nearly seven years of her life hiding from the man, fearing him and the power he wielded over her. For that power to so suddenly be severed would require time for her to accept. And he would be here for her, in whatever manner she needed.

  He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “If he does not, then he will find himself in more trouble than he could have imagined.”

  “I suppose I will not feel truly safe until we are married,” she said.

  Nor would he. Persephone as his wife was a heaven that had seemed beyond his reach the last few weeks. “I cannot wait for the day, love.”

  “Oh, Mr. Winter,” Lady Emilia said, pressing a hand to her heart. “Look at the two of them. Do you remember when we were young and in love?”

  “As I recall, it has only been three years since we wed,” Mr. Winter told his wife with a wry smile.

  “Has it?” Lady Emilia was looking at her husband with blatant adoration. “It feels as if you have had my heart forever.”

  Rafe would have been damned embarrassed—perhaps even a bit disgusted—if he did not feel the same way about the woman at his side. Already, he could not fathom a day when he had not known her. She had always been his, just as he had always been hers. He fully believed they had been meant to be together. Made for each other. And nothing and no one had been able to keep them apart.

  He turned to Persephone, heart full. “I well understand the sentiment.”

  She smiled back, tears shining in her eyes. “So do I. You have my heart, and it will forever remain yours.”

  “Do you promise?” He was so bloody tempted to kiss her nose and that beloved constellation of copper flecks adorning it.

  But they had an audience. Kissing her at all would have to wait, much to his dismay. His lovely was more than worth it, however.

  “I promise,” she said.

  EPILOGUE

  “May I?”

  Persephone paused in the act of unpinning her hair and met her husband’s gaze in the long, gilt-edged looking glass. “Of course.”

  Husband. What a thrill that word still gave her, though they had been married for two months now. He settled his hands on her shoulders and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of her neck, then nuzzled her throat. “Mmm. I ought to have thanked Devereaux Winter for his soap in addition to his help with routing your despicable cousin. I adore the way it smells, lingering on your skin after your bath.”

  The mention of Cousin Bartholomew, who had died suddenly just days following their wedding, no longer brought with it the accompanying dread and fear. He had been killed in a carriage accident. Fate had made certain he would never be a threat to either herself or Rafe, or anyone else, ever again. The new marquess, a distant country cousin, seemed kind and genuine, a happy turn of fortune for all.

  Persephone could only hope the servants would be better treated. She and Rafe had offered all the domestics at Silwood Manor an opportunity to find placement with them in their new household prior to her cousin’s death. She had also situated Echo and her other horses quite comfortably now that she had a stable of her own. Echo and the others were happy in the mews at the town house Persephone and Rafe had taken together, not far from The Sinner’s Palace II, and quite near to Jasper and Lady Octavia’s home. The Suttons had welcomed Persephone with open arms and hearts, and she could not be more grateful to call them family.

  At long last, she had found a place where she belonged. A place that was meant for her. A man who was meant for her.

  “Mr. Winter may have been scandalized had you mentioned your appreciation for the scent of his soap on my skin before we were wed,” Persephone told her husband teasingly, reaching for Rafe’s left hand and guiding it to her breast.

  She was wearing nothing more than a gossamer night rail which had been designed by London’s most sought-after modiste, Madame DePlessier, specifically with Rafe in mind. His thumb unerringly found the distended peak of her nipple, his other fingers skillfully caressing. She arched into his knowing
touch.

  “Winter doesn’t seem the sort of cove who scandalizes easily.” Rafe’s lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, but he kept their bodies carefully separate though they stood together, heightening her eagerness.

  She shivered, but not from the cold. “Perhaps not.”

  He plucked at her nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger before giving it a tug. “Don’t suppose it matters now. I behaved myself.”

  She smiled at their reflections. He was wearing a banyan of midnight silk, curls catching the candlelight and giving off a burnished glow. A thin slice of his strong chest was visible beneath the garment. Just enough to tempt. His feet were bare, his masculine calves peeping beneath the hem.

  “I rather enjoy when you do not behave, husband,” she said, watching as he swiftly dismantled what was left of her coiffure with his other hand.

  “And I enjoy the way you look in this gown. It’s so bleeding sheer, I can see the pretty pink of your nipples through it.”

  His low rasp sent heat to pool between her thighs. “You approve, then?”

  “Need you ask?” He finished with her hair and spread the wildly curling strands down her back before burying his face in her crown and inhaling. “God, lovely. I can never get enough of you.”

  “Mmm.” She sighed as his right hand joined the left, cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her gown. “I feel the same.”

  Each day brought them closer, strengthened the bonds that had already joined them. Their love and desire grew deeper.

  He moved to the petite line of buttons trailing down her front and began pulling them from their moorings. As he did so, he returned his lips to her throat.

  “Your pulse beats so fast, sweet,” he murmured.

  More buttons were undone, the twain ends of her night rail parting to reveal her breasts. Her breath was coming faster, her sex pulsing and ready, anticipating what would happen next.

  “Because I want you,” she said.

  “You do?” He nipped her flesh, his fingers working on the buttons over her belly now, where there was no discernable difference just yet to show their child grew.

  But they both knew.

  Rafe’s hands were tender as they caressed her there, lingering as they had tended to do ever since she had first divulged the happy news.

  “Of course I want you,” she told him, breathless.

  “How much?” he asked, his left hand moving to her waist and pulling her neatly against him, so that their bodies were flush.

  His chest pressed to her back, and the thick hardness of his cock nestled against the cleft of her bottom. As he asked the question, he pulled the last of the buttons free, making her night rail gape.

  “Very much,” she said, still watching them together in the mirror.

  What an erotic picture they made, her handsome husband at her back, his mouth on her neck, biting and sucking, the pale mounds of her breasts revealed, her nipples still scarcely shielded as they tented the fine linen, her sex on display, framed by her thighs.

  “If I touch your sweet cunny, will it be dripping for me?” he asked wickedly, his caress trailing lower, but stopping short of where she wanted it most.

  “Yes,” she said, unable to keep her hips from pumping, seeking his hand.

  He kissed her ear, her cheek, and gave her a light pet. Just one sweep of his palm over the curls at the juncture of her thighs. “You are wet, aren’t you, lovely?”

  He was torturing her. She wanted his fingers on her, in her. But the game itself was almost as delicious as spending. Rafe was an expert at drawing her pleasure to an almost delirious peak before sending her over the edge.

  He petted her again, his touch no more than as if it were a feather, passing over her heated flesh. “I didn’t hear your answer. Is this pretty cunny of yours wet?”

  “Yes,” she repeated. “Oh, Rafe. Please. I need you.”

  He shifted then, hooking the rung of a low stool with his toes and bringing it nearer to her. “Place your foot on the cushion, sweet.”

  She did as he asked, the movement leaving her thighs parted, the glistening folds of her intimate flesh visible to both their gazes. He hooked his thumbs in the fabric pooled on her shoulders and dragged the night rail down until it fell to the floor with a hushed sound, leaving her completely bare. In the mirror, his gaze traveled over her, searing her as surely as if it were a touch.

  “Beautiful,” he praised, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. “Touch yourself. Feel how wet you are for me.”

  Oh heavens. His wicked directive turned the pulsing between her legs into a steady throb. She knew what he wanted, and she wanted it too, though she would have preferred his fingers to her own. Still, her knees trembled as her hand dipped, unerringly finding her pearl. She strummed over the swollen bud, feeling the slickness of her own readiness on her fingertips. Her touches were hesitant at first. She had never touched herself like this as he watched before, and she found the act both shocking and deliciously exciting all at once.

  A soft sound of need slipped from her, and she stopped, fingers stilling as her shyness overcame the need for more.

  “Don’t stop.” Rafe kissed her other shoulder, then the hollow behind her ear, his hands caressing paths of fire over her aching breasts, toying with her nipples. “Make yourself come.”

  His words sent an answering rush of heat to her core. She licked her lips, wondering if she dared to be so bold.

  “Don’t make me beg, lovely.” At her back, he flexed his hips, driving his cock against her bottom. “I want to watch you please yourself.”

  His tongue traced the whorl of her ear, and her knees nearly buckled. But he was there, his arm around her waist holding her up, keeping her pressed tightly to his warm strength. She swirled her fingers over her bud, emboldened by his encouragement and the need that was still pulsing inside her. Once, twice, then faster.

  “Yes, darling. Just like that,” he praised, nipping her earlobe. “Don’t stop. Look at yourself, so ready and perfect.”

  Her senses were sharpened to ultimate alert, and she was aware of everything. His scent enveloping her, his hardness at her back, the warmth of his breath fanning over her throat, her own fingers flying over her flesh, the steady ache building within. In the reflection, her cheeks were flushed, lips parted and dark as if she had been kissed, nipples hard, cunny pink and glistening. She loved the sight of Rafe’s hands on her the most, so large and manly, yet touching her with such delicacy.

  His left hand glided down her belly as she watched, then grazed over her inner thigh. He found her entrance and plunged two fingers deep inside her, crooking them forward until he found that exquisite place she had never known existed. As she continued pleasuring herself, he fucked in and out of her, bringing her swiftly to bliss.

  She cried out, hunching forward, nearly toppling over at the ecstasy. He remained with her, gentling his thrusts, kissing her cheek and whispering words of love to her as he kept her from falling to the floor entirely. Gradually, the ferocity of her climax subsided. Rafe withdrew from her and turned her in his arms, taking her mouth in a slow, lingering kiss, his tongue dipping past her lips to slide against hers.

  When he lifted his head, he was breathing as harshly as she was, his expression laden with so much desire and love that she wanted to burst. “Come to the bed with me, sweet. I want to lick you until you spend on my tongue.”

  Persephone was feeling greedy. She wanted his release as much, if not more, than her own. He had already left her limp and sated from their play at the mirror.

  She opened his banyan and pushed it from his broad shoulders, gratified when he stood before her, splendidly naked, his cock jutting high, a glint of moisture seeping from the crown. The urge to lap it up struck her.

  She took him in hand, giving the velvety-smooth length a loving stroke. “I want you in my mouth.”

  “Ah, God. You’ll be the death of me, wife.” But he was grinning as he kissed her swiftly once more b
efore taking her hands in his. “Come. I’ve an idea that will give us both what we want.”

  He tugged her to the bed and they fell onto it together, kissing passionately, wrapped around each other, their bodies writhing. When he tore his mouth from hers once more, it was to roll away from her and settle on his back.

  His big hands grasped her waist. “Turn around and get on your knees, lovely.”

  Wondering what he was about, she did as he asked, allowing him to guide her until her back faced him and she rested on her knees on the thick, comfortable counterpane.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What are we doing?”

  “I am going to eat your cunny, and if it pleases you to, you may also suck my cock.”

  His words made her wetter still, so candid and forbidden.

  All she could manage was a one-word response. “Yes.”

  He positioned her so that she was astride him next, her bottom near to his face. The springy hairs of his chest tickled her inner thighs and the still-pulsing flesh of her sex. It was utterly scandalous.

  He stroked her hips. “Give me your cunny, love. I can’t wait to taste you.”

  The need in his voice banished any lingering shyness. She allowed him to help her shift, until…

  Oh.

  She rested atop him, her belly to his chest, and his tongue was flicking fast and hot and wet over her pearl. Rising toward her was his cock, thick and engorged and within perfect reach of her mouth. She took him in hand, gripping the base, and then lowered her head to run her tongue over his cock head. The taste of him filled her mouth. She flicked her tongue in lingering lashes, licking up every drop as he sucked on her, gorging himself on her cunny as if it were a feast and he was a starving man.

  The wet sounds of him pleasuring her mingled with hers, filling the chamber. She took him deep into her throat on a moan, loving the way his hips jerked beneath her. Her ability to give him pleasure was a constant source of wonder to her, and his reaction to her efforts always served to heighten her own desire in return.