Deeper in Sin

by Sharon Page

  Then he abruptly pulled her forward.

  She had to slap her hands down so she didn’t tumble—though her corset was keeping her up. Her palms landed on the pillow beside his head, and her skirts spilled over his face.

  He could see up her skirts, see her dark curls and the pink nether lips.

  A slow smile touched his lips. “You have no drawers.”

  It was a strange smile—the smile of a man who was in great pain. But she didn’t think that pain came from his wounds. “Of course not. Drawers are fast.”

  His chest moved with a low, throaty chuckle. “Perfect.”

  Then he moved her again and lowered her cunny—

  Onto his mouth.

  Shock speared her, making her sit bolt upright on him. How could he breathe? He was doing what the courtesan had done to her lover.

  The wet caress stunned her. His tongue had licked her nether lips, had tickled her nether curls, then played with her, slicking over her, until he hit a spot—

  “Good lord, what was that?” She gasped.

  Pleasure rushed from her privy place and seemed to shoot all the way through her—to her toes and the very tips of her fingers.

  He rhythmically flicked his tongue over that very sensitive spot.

  Lightning shot past her eyes. Brilliant lights exploded. Her fingers curled, and she clutched his pillow as if she might fly away. She was weak, paralyzed, a captive on his mouth.

  With his hands, he worked her quim against his mouth. She gasped. Too intense! Oh, just perfect! No, wait . . . that was too much....

  He found just the perfect place, the perfect rhythm, but the tense, sensation growing inside her was something she didn’t understand.

  It scared her, but it didn’t hurt.

  It grew stronger. Her fingers almost tore the pillow to shreds. She didn’t just let him drive her cunny against his mouth. She started to rub against him. Her body seemed to know what to do—

  Oh, something was happening. Her heart—was it even still beating or had it exploded—?

  Goodness, her body was exploding.

  Pure, glorious light seemed to consume her. Her body jolted and writhed on him, and a blinding, intense pleasure rushed over her. She was its slave, floating with it, dancing with it, and the duke’s hands cupped around her bare bottom and held her to his mouth while she gasped and squealed with every single second that passed.

  “Oh God,” she cried over and over. “Oh. Ooooooooh.”

  Her heart was bursting while ecstasy seemed to make her wits shatter into an explosion of light. It felt so good. So wonderfully good!

  Nothing had ever made her feel this way. But he did. This glorious, gorgeous man who’d saved her and who’d made her feel this. “Oh, I love you,” she wailed.

  He held her while she thrashed about on his mouth. Then it began to ease, and she panted for air. Her hair was a wild mess. Her heart thundered, and she made rasping sounds. “Good heavens, what was that?”

  The duke lifted her off his face and settled her across his chest. He looked bemused. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Even though you were married?”

  She knew she was blushing. She quickly explained, “We were wed truly just before he went to war. We had only one night together . . . our wedding night.”

  “Ah.”

  “I felt that strange tension, but it faded when we did that thing. When we rutted. It was nothing like what you did. I had no idea—” Bother, she was blushing more.

  She was naïve, she knew. From the country. Untutored. Did she try to pretend she wasn’t? Or just admit the truth. “I am very willing to learn,” she said solemnly. Well, as solemnly and seriously as she could, since she was straddling him with her exposed cunny, which was slick and wet.

  “You’ve never had an orgasm before?”

  “A what?”

  “An orgasm means the release you achieve with sexual pleasure. You’ve never touched your pussy, love? To pleasure yourself.”

  “My pussy?”

  “ ‘Pussy’ is cant for your quim, Sophie.”

  “I’m not supposed to touch myself there. I wasn’t even supposed to when bathing. Only quickly and with a washcloth.”

  “Sophie, love, how can you want to be a courtesan?”

  She frowned. “Well, I don’t know everything yet, of course. But I do have the book.”

  “This book again . . .”

  “It’s a memoir written by a famous London courtesan. Anonymously.”

  “And a courtesan’s memoir is your guide?”

  “Yes.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “She wrote about a man eating her. Goodness, now I understand what that meant. I never knew before tonight that people used mouths.” Tentatively, she touched her lips. “I could use mine on you. I think.”

  “No, Sophie.”

  “But why not? Why don’t you want these things? I do wish you would tell me. I wish you would let me help. I think”—she gazed at him helplessly—“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  Cary groaned. Sophie looked like a lost puppy.

  “The truth is, you are not in love with me, Sophie. You know nothing about me. That was pleasure talking.”

  “But it—” She broke off.

  “You don’t want me, Sophie. You do not want to be the lover of a man like me.”

  She giggled. “Of course, I do. You’re a duke.”

  He shook his head. What did he do with the girl? “I’m damaged, love. And even being a duke doesn’t make up for that.”

  “How are you damaged?”

  He clasped her hand. “Climb off me, my dear, then help me sit up. I will explain while I undo your corset. You need to go to your bed and get some sleep.”

  He lifted her from his chest, supporting her as she clambered off him and the bed.

  As he struggled to sit up, he was aware how battered and bruised he was. Every inch of his body ached. Even his cock hurt—it ached from unfulfilled desire.

  Cary managed to sit upright and let Sophie stuff the pillows behind his back. “Sit in front of me,” he directed.

  She did. Then she tipped her head forward, caught her hair with a sweep of her hand, and pulled the whole shimmering mass over her shoulder to reveal the back of her gown.

  He began to undo the fastenings.

  “You aren’t going to tell me, are you? You were tricking me.”

  “I will tell you.” He would give her the usual explanation he used for his strange, almost reclusive behavior. “In 1817, I left England to serve as an officer during the rebellions in Ceylon. I was held as a prisoner of war for several months. The experience proved brutal and grueling. Since then, I’ve found it . . . impossible to have female companionship.”

  She half twisted around, her forehead wrinkled with a frown. “I would have thought you’d be more eager after going through something so awful.”

  She was a clever young woman. She’d gotten at the logic—why would a man who had been through hell not want to fall into the loving arms of a woman? After being deprived of freedom, wouldn’t any normal man be eager for passion and pleasure?

  “I was chained up, starved, beaten. Tortured. And I cannot put it aside. When you wanted to have sex with me, I felt a swift rush of arousal, but getting that near to pleasure brings forth all my bad memories. I don’t know why. Maybe I don’t feel worthy.”

  “How could you feel that?” she asked. “You are wonderful.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do! You rescued me from three footpads without even a thought for your own safety. But if you can’t have sex because of your painful memories, why were you at a Cyprian ball?”

  “To see if I could heal myself. If I could change. I’m a duke. Expected to marry. To produce an heir.” He sighed. “Now it is time for you to go off to bed, Sophie. It’s close to dawn. I will ensure you aren’t disturbed until late.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “
We will discuss that in the morning. I’m too tired to think right now.”

  “Could I sleep with you?”

  “That is not a good idea.”

  “But I’m worried about you!”

  “I don’t think I will develop a fever now. I think we’ve proven I’m still fairly strong.”

  Yet she looked so heartbroken, he felt his resolve yield. “Sophie, I admit it would be nice to share my bed. It’s been a vast, lonely place for years now. But you have to promise you won’t try to ravish me in my sleep.”

  She giggled. “Normally, that is what the woman fears. But you have my solemn promise: I won’t be naughty.”

  It had been years since he had fallen asleep with a woman in his bed—back when his father was alive and Cary had his own bachelor rooms.

  Sophie stood, and he caught his breath as she pushed her gown down and stepped out of it.

  She sat again so he could unlace her corset. Then she said, “Your majordomo has been checking on you. To ensure you haven’t developed a fever. He last looked in on you when I first came in.”

  “He didn’t see you?”

  “I hid behind the bed.”

  “I doubt he will return. Not until morning. But lock the door. I’d rather Penders didn’t have the shock of finding us together in my bed. There is no point in savaging your reputation when it’s my plan to send you home.”

  “I’ve already accepted that my reputation is something that must be sacrificed to protect my family.”

  “Sleep now. We’ll worry about that later.”

  “All right,” she mumbled.

  He shifted over, making room for her in his bed. “Go to sleep, love.”

  Cary got out of bed.

  He felt damned guilty. He’d intended to save her, send her home—not try to have sex with her.

  He poured himself a tumbler of brandy and walked over to the grouping of chairs by the fireplace. He sat on a stool, grimacing as he settled down, and he watched Sophie. She looked so small and sweet in his huge bed—a bed used by four generations of Dukes of Caradon.

  He’d learned a stark damning truth tonight: He couldn’t get past the hell of his memories.

  It was more than what had happened to him as a prisoner of war in Ceylon. All that had done was release the secrets he’d kept hidden for so long.

  When he was five years old, he had been kidnapped for ransom. He had been chained up in a decaying house. And his perverted captor had done things to him. . . .

  He had almost prayed for death, since he had been forced to do sinful things. Then the day had come where the man had wanted more, wanted to completely rip apart his innocence and virginity. Cary had been young, but he’d understood that the man had intended to penetrate him.

  For that, the man had unchained him, unafraid of a child.

  But a child could move with lightning speed. He’d run, desperate to get out. But every door had been locked, the windows nailed shut. Sheer terror had led him to grab a weapon to defend himself.

  He had hidden, armed with a fireplace poker, standing on a dresser so he could hit the man’s head.

  He’d intended to knock the man out. But he was so scared the monster would wake up, he’d kept hitting and hitting....

  After he’d been rescued, he’d been . . . different. He had never felt right afterward. He saw other boys growing up, and he envied the fact they had no idea what vile monsters existed in the world.

  For a long time, he had been the wildest rake in London, and he’d managed to bury the past. Then he had been taken prisoner, and that had unleashed the memories of his kidnapping—the ones he had buried—

  Cary downed his brandy.

  What in hell was he going to do?

  His mother wanted him to marry—she claimed it would kill her if he didn’t.

  Sophie wanted to heal him.

  Should he keep trying with Sophie? Should he make her his mistress and see if he could actually get over this?

  But Sophie was naïvely in love with him. What about when he had to let her go so he could get married? He wasn’t the kind of man who could marry and keep a mistress.

  She would find another man. Then another. After a while, she would be older and jaded and cynical.

  He thought of Angelique and the other hardened, tough Cyprians. He didn’t want to see Sophie lose her sweet, innocent optimism.

  No, he had to send her home.

  Cary got up to pour more brandy.

  In the morning, no doubt he was going to have an argument with her about that.

  What he didn’t expect was the arrival of the magistrate, along with Saxonby, at seven o’clock in the morning—because he was suspected of murder.

  7

  I had not seen my viscount for many, many months. All other gentlemen bored me! I soon gave up any plans to remain with the Duke of Carlyle. For a start, there was already a Duchess of Carlyle. What dreary nights we shared. The duke only wished to speak of cards and horses and hounds.

  He condemned me for any desire to indulge in real pleasure—a ball, a masquerade, the theater, condemning all such activities as foppish and uninteresting. “If I wished to be bored at a tedious ball, I could be doing so tonight—with my wife,” said he.

  He was the sort of man who was far too dense to be put off by an insult, so I replied, with acerbity, “Perhaps you should reveal qualities that I can find interesting.”

  “You are a female. Your lack of interest is the result of a naturally smaller intelligence.”

  Finally, I could bear it no more. The Cyprians of London were holding a magnificent masquerade. What a coup to appear with the duke on my arm—even an aging bore would lend me prestige as long as he were a duke. But we were not to go. And I was forbidden from attending without him.

  “Well,” said I, “I shall not attend the party, but my costume will not go to waste.”

  My masquerade costume consisted of a mask and seven gossamer thin veils. I wore nothing beneath them. I took my signature curricle that was the pink of a perfect rose. Excitement bubbled in my blood.

  St. James’s Street was my target. When I reached its wide expanses, I lifted my whip and drove my team of four into a wild gallop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw gentlemen rushing out of their clubs to watch me.

  Then, as I gave the whip another glorious crack in the air, one of my veils broke free. It fluttered in the wind that my horses had whipped up, then it flew away, leaving my right breast completely bare.

  —From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous

  Silken sheets whispered over her skin. She was deliciously warm. Warmer than she’d been in bed for five years.

  Sophie sat up in the Duke of Caradon’s bed, and she rubbed her eyes. If this was all a dream, she’d best face reality as quickly as she could.

  She blinked her eyes twice.

  No, the magnificent furnishings, the heavy velvet draperies, and the silk curtains tied to the bed columns were still there. She was still sitting in the warm, comfortable bed.

  And the duke—Cary—was still sleeping beside her.

  Hope actually left her breathless. It embraced her heart so tightly, it was squeezing her. But it was a wonderful feeling.

  She was so close! She could feel it. She could convince Cary to keep her.

  She had her book, A Courtesan Confesses, and now she would understand some of the things she hadn’t before. She would learn how to be the best seductress in England, and she would snare her duke.

  Sophie felt a bit guilty, since she was in a delightful, cozy bed while her son, Alexander, and Belle and Belle’s children lived in drafty, damp, meager cottage.

  But all that would soon to come to an end. She could treat Belle and the children to warm, soft sheets. The children could have a bed each. They could build fires in the grates without having to scrounge for scraps to burn.

  Men like the horrible Earl of Devars couldn’t touch her. Or Belle. Not ever.

  T
he children would have futures. They would never fear workhouses. Belle’s daughter would never fear the horrors of a man like Devars preying on her.

  Sitting up, Sophie watched the duke. The sheets had fallen down, baring his naked chest with its curls of golden hair, planes of hard muscle.

  Just being in the same bed was enough to set her pulse pounding—even though he was on one side of the bed, she on the other, and there was enough room between them to fit three other people. He was so beautiful. Golden hair. Long lashes. Lush lips like on Michelangelo’s David.

  Sophie hugged her knees.

  Last night, he had given her so much pleasure, he had made her see stars.

  Her heart wobbled.

  She wanted him. Wanted, wanted, wanted him.

  It was like how she had felt for Samuel. She’d gone bald-headed after Samuel.

  Surely, pleasure and happiness and love could help Cary forget his painful memories. He was a wonderful man. He deserved to be healed.

  Sophie wriggled across the bed to the duke. It took longer than she’d expected—it felt like crossing a vast plain.

  She pushed down the counterpane and leaned over him. His cock was half erect, even though he was sleeping.

  Taking a deep breath, she bent over and took the tip of it into her mouth.

  The head was like soft velvet against her lips. The skin was slightly sweet with perspiration, a little salty, and there was a tang of a bitter taste.

  He groaned, murmured something. She held just the head in her mouth. Delicately. Her lips formed a tight, but gentle O around him. Her tongue rested against the head. She coasted her tongue wetly around the smooth head and the firmer crown. Her questing tongue found a taut piece of flesh, rather like a bowstring, and she strummed it lightly.

  Against her tongue, his cock seemed to swell. It grew bigger, longer, and much more rigid.

  Something dribbled, touching her tongue. From a little opening in the very tip of his cock came a tangy, salty fluid. Curious. She had no idea men grew wet too. She did when she was aroused, so this was a good sign. She sucked a bit, swallowing, hoping to arouse him more.

  The head and shaft grew, filling her mouth at a shocking rate. Sophie had to draw back. But once she caught her breath, she slid more of him into her mouth. He was rigid now, hard as a tree trunk, and remarkably thick. Try as she would, she couldn’t take more than a third of him into her mouth.