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Authors: Susan Johnson

Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Historical Romance

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BOOK: A Touch of Sin
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His words sent a thrill coursing through her, although no future existed for them. But she was beyond reason at the moment, beyond all but the most elemental feelings of impassioned urgency.

He undressed her swiftly, familiar with the drill; then she undressed him with no finesse and he wondered how inexperienced or selfish her lovers had been to leave her so unsure.

Since she was filled with moral trepidation, he resolved to make love to her the first time in the most conventional of ways, determined not to frighten her away, determined to see that her orgasm was sublime.

He gently spread her legs as she lay beneath the moonlight and starlight and eased himself over her. He kissed her, only kissed her for a very long time, on her eager mouth, on the tender dip behind her ear, on the warm pulse of her throat, on her downy brows and lashes, on her bare shoulders, then lower, where her breast met the tender undercurve of her arm, and when her breathing had changed from languorous sighs to a feverish panting, he kissed her on her taut, aching nipples.

She cried out, the exquisite pleasure infusing her senses, melting downward to the torrid core of her body, and clutching at him, she implored him for more.

"Soon," he murmured, his mouth closing over her nipple again.

Her hips rose as though she could lure him inside with the dewy heat between her legs, with the sensuous rhythm of her hips and the pressure of her mons.

"What a sweet, hot little pussy," he whispered.

Her second orgasm washed over her, his lascivious words the hair-trigger to her vaunting urgency.

Short seconds later, orgasmic but not sated, still throbbing, liquid with wanting, she whispered, "I'll hate you soon."

"We can't have that. We'll have to give you what you want."

She plunged her fingers into his long, flowing hair and grabbing handsful, pulled his face close. "Don't play with me anymore, Monsieur Duras." Her voice sounded shockingly fierce in her ears.

He smiled, pleased to see all her hesitancy disappear, leaving hot-blooded passion in its wake. "At your service, Lady Grosvenor."

She felt as though she'd split apart with aching need. "Pasha, please," she softly cried.

He obliged her, entering her very slowly at first, his enormous size stretching her by degrees while she gasped, whimpered, nearly fainted from the pleasure. And once he was completely submerged, he lay quiescent inside her, her soft, blissful moans warm on his shoulder. He moved after a time with circumspect attention to his rhythm, neither too deep at first nor hurried, until her body absorbed him more easily, until she clung to him, her arms laced around his neck and heatedly demanded more. He gave her what she wished then and before long she was transported, thrilled, bold in the throes of an exaltation that ravished her mind and body and virgin spirit.

Her arousal building, she fought against his withdrawal stroke, intent on sustaining the exquisite ecstasy. He liked the new air of command she'd acquired; docile women had never appealed. Although he'd known her as a woman of passion since her instant response at Richelieu's gate.

And she was unabashedly crying out for the indulgence of his downstroke—again.

His lower body swung forward, his engorged length stretching her, thrusting deeper and deeper into her sleek, hot interior until he reached the mouth of her womb where he held himself stationary for a long moment, felt her shudder beneath him.

She moaned, her hands firm on his back as he began withdrawing. "No, no, no…"

But he knew better and seconds later when he sank back inside her, glided, slid, forced his rampant erection to the very depths of her honeyed passage, she sighed in rapture, in thanksgiving, smiled up at him, languid-eyed, gratified. "You're wonderfully, fearfully large."

"You like it, do you?" A rhetorical question, delivered with a smile in his husky voice. He'd known since adolescence what women liked.

"This must be heaven," she breathed as he moved in a delicate, slow rhythm inside her.

"Very near." He penetrated that last small distance more where tingling anticipation met beatific expectation. And she screamed that time into the quiet firelit room.

She forgot all but the immediacy of sensation in the next blissful interval, sweetly orgasmic three times more in rapid succession, and when Pasha considered she'd been sufficiently indulged for the moment, he allowed himself to climax, withdrawing at the last to come on her belly.

"Thank you for remembering," she murmured some moments later, watching him wipe his semen from her stomach.

"Someone has to," he said with a half-smile, tossing his damp shirt on the floor.

Still incapable of moving in the afterglow of orgasmic bliss, she whispered, "You've bewitched me, my body, my senses…"

Seated beside her prostrate form, his carnal passions still on full alert, he was sensitive to his own degree of bewitchment. "Are you in the mood for a bed yet?" He brushed her damp curls back from her temples, hoping she was because he was.

"Ummm…"

"That sounds like a yes." Leaning forward, he kissed her until she purred.

"You make me feel tingly and ravenous again," she breathed, her eyes heavy-lidded. "Are you as good in bed?"

He chuckled. "Wait and see." Kissing the tip of her nose, he rose from the window seat and moved toward the table. "I'll bring a bottle of champagne with us."

How incredibly large he was, she mused, gazing at him, all lithe grace beneath the obvious power, the rhythm of his gait the perfect meld of muscle, sinew, bone. His skin was bronzed, not tanned, inherently dark, his heavy black hair brushing his shoulders, overlong for current fashion.

His physique could have been the classic ideal, so faultless its proportions, each element perfection—each foot and strong ankle in exquisite relation to the length of his calf, that in turn in elegant ratio to his powerful thigh, the symmetry of shoulder width to tapered hip consummate beauty, his lean, hard musculature neither massive nor effete, but sleek and fit. His height drew her eye; he dwarfed most men. And then he turned around, a champagne bottle in his hand, and the most splendid of all his splendid assets stopped her breath.

His erection—perhaps insatiable if its still-roused state was any indication—rose from the luxuriant black curls at his crotch, reared upward, its swollen, gleaming crest brushing his navel, the pulsing veins further augmenting its size.

"Ready?" he murmured.

Had a woman ever said no to that query and vision? she briefly thought.

"I'll carry you," he added when she didn't respond, not unfamiliar with her reaction.

"Like this? Without… clothes?"

"Everyone's sleeping."

"They can't be." A sizable establishment such as his with a master who kept late hours had a staff at the ready.

"Shut your eyes."

"Let me find my gown." She quickly sat up, surveying the environs of the windowseat.

"You won't see any servants," he amicably declared, lifting her into his arms. "Put your head on my shoulder."

"But they'll see me," she protested.

"My servants know better than to look."

"How convenient. For your orgies, I suppose."

"I don't participate in orgies," he retorted, walking toward the door. At least not at home, he reflected, leaning forward slightly to press the door latch with his fingertips.

The corridor was ablaze with gaslight. "Oh, my God," Trixi softly exclaimed and, taking his advice, she shut her eyes.

He strode swiftly through the main corridors, turning twice before he reached the staircase.

Peeking through her lashes as he began ascending the grand marble stairs, she was gratified to see no servants. Unaware of Pasha's faint nod, she didn't notice the footman at the top of the stairs melt into the shadows, no more than she'd caught sight of the servants on the main floor scurry out of sight.

Arriving at his bedroom suite a few moments later, Pasha shut the door and brushed her forehead with a kiss. "You can open your eyes. We've reached safe haven."

"Lord, you're rash," she teasingly admonished.

"Maybe we're both rash," he silkily drawled.

She blushed.

"Don't blush. I
like
women with nerve."

"Then dare I say,
I
like your superb sexual expertise."

"Dare anything you wish, Lady Grosvenor." Grinning, he placed her on his baroque, canopied bed. "We're quite alone."

He offered her license and a blissful freedom she'd not experienced for a very long time—since her indulgent parents had died and she'd become the ward of despicable relatives. It felt as though he'd given her a lush, wonderful gift, a lavish reward for the recent misery of her life. "Come closer then, if I may dare anything. I want to touch you." Her voice turned velvety. "You're very splendid, you know."

He glanced at the clock on the mantel, charmed by her sensual appetite, wondering how long she'd want what he wanted, gauging the possible duration of this exquisite paradise.

"Do you have another engagement?"

"Do I look like a fool?"

"Well, then?" she purred.

He had no intention of declining; she was as gloriously enticing as the amorous Venus of myth.

Much later when they'd both fully explored the world of touch, he with finesse, she with
ingénue inspiration, Trixi first noticed the mirror overhead, a fragment visible beneath the shirred brocade canopy. "Do you bring women here often?" she asked, lying beneath Pasha, her gaze on the glimmer visible in one corner.

"No." It was only a marginal lie; he rarely brought women to his home.

She didn't believe him for a minute. "Why do you need a mirror, then?"

"I was waiting for you," he playfully replied, rolling off her.

"How sweet, Monsieur Duras." She rolled back on top of him. "Show me how it works."

"In a minute. Let me catch my breath."

"I suppose I'm like this because it's been two years," Trixi whispered, licking a path across his chin. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not complaining, darling." His grin flashed. "I just mean, literally, I have to catch my breath. Count to sixty, poppet, then we'll undrape the mirror and see what you think of it."

She was genuinely delighted with the mirror, like a child with a new toy, and asking numerous questions, she examined the handiwork and detail of the apparatus. Captivated and entranced, she admired herself and him and then them in a variety of postures, her naive excitement charming to a man of jaded tastes.

They were both laughing at the end and, leaning close, she held his face between her hands. "You're so much fun," she whispered, nibbling at his mouth.

He smiled broadly under her nipping bites, her artless joy unutterably refreshing. "We try."

"You're the very best, Pasha, darling. I feel like putting notches in your bedposts, you're so fabulous. Was that ten or twelve?"

He didn't count. He never counted, not out to set records. He stretched his arms above his head, lying spread-eagle beneath her. "You decide, and I'll try to keep up."

"Can I give you orders?" A purr, a giggle, then she ran her tongue over his teeth. When she gazed at him wide-eyed, he couldn't help but laugh at her playful, expectant expression.

"Within reason," he said, humoring her.

"Meaning?"

"I'll let you know when you've gone too far."

She did.

And he did, shocking her momentarily by bodily lifting her away and growling, "Don't bite."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she instantly whispered. "Did I hurt you?"

"I'll survive." A faint scowl accompanied his gruff retort.

"I'm so very glad." She smiled sweetly. "You can give me orders if you wish," she contritely added, a seductive undertone vibrating through her words.

His gaze came up. "And you'll comply?"

"Of course."

It was a game, pure and simple, hot-blooded and feverish, intoxicating, heedless of all but sensational passion.

Unforgettable even for a man of excess.

Chapter Two

BOOK: A Touch of Sin
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