Читать книгу Sin - Sharon Page - Страница 9

“I take it I am here to play Devil’s Advocate?” Viscount Ravenwood leaned back and sipped his brandy.

Sprawled on his leather chair, Marcus raked his hand over his jaw. “Miss Hamilton has every intention of going to Chartrand’s bacchanalia and I suspect that nothing short of chaining the woman to the bed would stop her.” The sudden scorching mental image of Miss Hamilton in playful bondage sent blood racing to his groin.

Firelight was the only light cutting the blackness of his library. Marcus wasn’t certain why he’d summoned Stephen here, and before his brother-in-law could counter, he said, “And you bloody well know I can’t snitch to her father. Miss Hamilton will hire an escort—some seedy ex-Runner who will likely rape her. Or Chartrand will find out who she is and make her the centerpiece of some perverse sexual display.”

Stephen grinned. “You’re looking for an excuse to go with her.”

“Hell and damnation, Stephen, she’s a virgin. If she wanted to drink an entire bottle of brandy, I’d stop her.” But he was trying to justify taking her, not stopping her. “She’s sensual…innately sensual, but innocent. And a day at Chartrand’s event should shock her into realizing she must give up her career.”

“And she needs a noble escort who won’t ravish her?”

He’d already ravished her—with his mouth. Rock-hard at the memory, his cock strained against his trousers. He would love to do it again. The delectable Miss Hamilton deserved to discover her sexuality. He could teach her without hurting her, without spoiling her future.

“I began with a kiss. A kiss to prove a point.” He lowered his head, unable to look Stephen in the eye. “I’ve never been kissed like that—it was more passionate, more heated, more explosive than any other kiss I’ve had. She was so…untutored, but so giving.” And then, in his library, he’d begun again to ‘prove a point’ and been overwhelmed by desire.

He launched to his feet to pace. “Damnation, Stephen, is it her innocence that tempts me? Am I the same kind of blackguard as my father?”

“Christ, no!”

The vehemence of Stephen’s cry gave him the answer he needed, even as Stephen assured him, “You are not the same kind of man as your father, Marcus.”

Marcus tossed back his brandy as he strode across the carpet. “Lydia Harcourt is blackmailing me.”

Stephen’s liquor sloshed over his ice-blue waistcoat. “Hades, over what? Everyone in England knows your reputation for bedding women. I believe it even extends to the Continent and the Americas.”

He frowned. That might be true if Venetia Hamilton’s book found its way there. “Father’s scandals.”

His brother-in-law’s face went stark white. “God, not—”

“Not Min,” Marcus lied. “Lady Susannah Lawrence, the young woman who got with child and killed herself. And the details of my father’s disgusting practice of having madams procure innocents for him. I’m terrified what having that in print would do to Min. To Mother.”

Stephen rubbed his temple. “Why in Hades would your father confess to Lydia Harcourt?”

“Drink. He spent his days in a brandy bottle and was possessed by devils. The witch—I quote from her letter—‘sought to ease his pain by encouraging him to confess his troubles’.”

The rest of the letter haunted him. A subject of great delicacy…Lady Ravenwood…secrets… Damn that bitch, Lydia.

“How much does she want?”

“Ten thousand.”

Stephen grimaced. His white hand gripped the glass. “Do you plan to pay her?”

“I’d like to wring her blasted neck. But I’m thinking of negotiating a trade. If I can get hold of her manuscript, I can trade it for her silence. I imagine she’s taken her book to Chartrand’s with her. I’ll burn it page by page until she agrees.”

“And Miss Hamilton?” Stephen prompted.

“Taking a pretty new mistress to Chartrand’s orgy would be the perfect disguise.”

“Take her because you want to,” Stephen advised. “Don’t take her as a way to punish yourself with temptation.”

Marcus swung open the door as his carriage clattered to a stop on the street outside Venetia’s narrow townhouse. A slim figure in a swirling black cloak darted out from the shadow and hastened down the steps.

Leaning out, Marcus reached for her hand. At this hour the street was deserted, save for his servants loading her trunks. Her delicate fingers slid across his palm. As he drew her up into his softly lit, private world, she pushed back her deep hood. He caught his breath as he gazed into effervescent hazel eyes.

Holding her cloak about her, she settled in the seat opposite him. He raised a brow—after the sensual session in his library, he’d expected her to cuddle up against him.

She smiled happily. “My father is much improved. His color has returned and he’s had no more pains.”

“I am pleased to hear that. So there is no need to take you to Chartrand’s?” Why did he feel the pain of regret?

She shook her head, curls bouncing. “He’s not well enough to risk travel. No, that wouldn’t be wise.”

“I suspected it wouldn’t be.” He couldn’t help but smile. “You might want to open your cloak. I’ve kept the coach heated.”

Slowly, teasingly, Venetia tugged at one end of the ribbon that tied the wool shut. His throat dried. He’d watch dozens of women undress, but the sight of Venetia playing seductress aroused him instantly.

She drew the sides of her cloak apart, revealing a stretch of pale satin skin.

It took him a full minute to realize he was looking directly at her bare legs. Not quite bare—she wore creamy white stockings and pale blue garters. Rigid with sudden tension, he gazed upward at the stretch of her bare stomach, the curves of her naked breasts, at her cheeky, hopeful smile.

Other than stockings, she wasn’t wearing a damned stitch beneath the cloak.

“What in damnation are you thinking?” Marcus demanded.

Venetia sat demurely, despite her nudity, her legs crossed at the ankles. On the seat opposite, Marcus was glorious. The buff breeches he wore displayed the hard muscles of his legs. Blue superfine fit like a second skin across a broad chest and broader shoulders. A heavy greatcoat lay discarded at his side. He was a man who had seen everything—done everything—and she’d gambled on a bold, wild tactic to intrigue him.

She took a deep breath. “I want you to understand that I am not a frightened virginal miss, Marcus.”

He gritted his teeth, growled between them, “You can’t travel to Dorset naked.” He rubbed his jaw and she watched the pass of his hand. Freshly shaven, his skin would be smooth, soft, and smell of his soap.

“Why not? This is our own private world in your carriage, is it not? Who will see me other than you?”

“What of meals?” he snapped. “Using the necessary?”

She hadn’t expected him to be so enraged. “I can just hold the cloak closed.”

“You plan to walk in public completely bare beneath your cloak?”

“No one would know but you,” she protested.

Agony flashed across his handsome features, twisting his sensual mouth. “God, and that’s the bloody magic of it, isn’t it?”

Venetia summoned her courage and stood in the lightly swaying carriage. They were making haste out of London before the streets became congested. She lowered to her knees on the floor, the comfortable carpeting and the thickness of her cloak cushioning her. Heat rose from bricks in the floor, warming her skin.

“Venetia—”

She cut him off by cupping her hand over the bulge in his breeches. “I painted a picture,” she told him in a breathy voice as she fumbled with the first button on his flap. He was so engorged the placket was pulled tight. “A picture of a man who looked like you being pleasured this way by a courtesan with auburn hair. In his theatre box in Drury Lane.”

When he didn’t immediately speak, she gazed up and saw turbulent thoughts behind his turquoise eyes.

“In front of the audience,” she whispered.

The solid ridge jumped in his breeches, straining against the buttons, making her task of undressing him more difficult. She couldn’t tell him more about her picture—that the earl fell in love with his ravishing courtesan.

“Are you certain you want to do this?” His voice was raspy, hoarse.

“Yes,” she whispered, freeing the second button from the loop. “I want to take you into my mouth.”

Her hands shook with expected nerves, but also with weakening desire. When she’d seen this act in pictures, she’d marveled. A man’s penis was so long, how could it fit in a woman’s mouth? It couldn’t go down a woman’s throat, could it?

With trembling fingers, she opened the last button. Parted the falls of his trousers, peeled down his soft linen underclothes. And gasped.

She was eye to eye with his cock.

She marveled at it, running her fingertip along the shaft. It bobbed at her touch like a top-heavy rose swaying in the wind. In pictures, rendered in purples and angry reds, it had looked enormous. Close up it was gigantic. Carefully, she closed her hand around the shaft, surprised to feel it swell and firm against her palm. A droplet of moisture gathered at the tip. The head was surprisingly adorable and begged for a kiss. It even possessed a small beauty spot—a dusky brown spot beside the glistening eye.

“Is it so fascinating?”

She met his gaze and noticed he was waiting, quite tense, for her response. Despite his power, his privilege, his experience, he was concerned about her opinion. Were both men and women always nervous in this arena?

“What do you call it?” she whispered.

“My cock, my prick…staff, rod, maypole…John Thomas…sometimes my Commanding Officer, for that’s what it often seems to be. So tell me, does it please you?”

She nodded. “It is very aesthetic, my lord.” She used his title, excited to play make-believe. To step into the erotic scene she had created where she was courtesan to his earl.

“Really?” He leaned back, obviously proud and pleased, and she had to giggle. “What makes it so? In an artist’s opinion?”

That was easy to answer. “The proportions of the head to the shaft.” She toyed with the surprisingly soft, velvety head. “Perfectly made to ease the beast into a woman’s cleft, allowing the passage of the thick steely shaft behind it.”

“Not too big?”

“The whole is very big, my lord. You have a fine cock of considerably generous proportions.”

He laughed.

She couldn’t believe she was having a discussion about his intimate parts. But it gave her courage, this teasing exchange. “And the color—”

“The color?” His black brows went up. “I’d never considered the color to be at issue.”

Some erotic pictures featured unattractive pasty white members. “It’s a lovely dusky tan.”

“I must remember to let it get more sun. Keep it from losing its appealing tanned look.”

Venetia giggled. Marcus was panting, and he no longer looked jaded like the earl in the theatre box. His fluid was flowing now, the heat taut and shining.

Closing her eyes, she bent down and pressed her lips to the head. She stuck out her tongue and licked him. Dabbed at him. Then she flattened her tongue, swirling it over his satiny skin. His juices wetted her tongue, tantalizing her with a taste both rich and slightly sour.

He gave a soft groan that sent a surge of triumph through her. Though she held power, she still wanted to please him. Flattening her tongue, she caressed the head, then licked the shaft. Oh, it was delicious, warm, beautifully velvet.

She traced a vein with the tip of her tongue.

His head arched back. “Temptress.”

She bobbed her head on him with no idea what he truly wanted. She sucked hard, then slow and teasingly, with lavish, slobbering strokes. She touched his ballocks, terribly afraid to hurt him. They squished when she lightly squeezed and seemed to scurry up, away from her hand.

His hand settled in her hair. To stop her? No, he moaned lustily and she fondled his balls with one hand while gripping the hilt of his cock with the other.

Gathering courage, she drew his cock into her mouth as deep as she could. She gagged in shock and pulled back.

She tried again. Tears drizzled from the corners of her eyes.

“Sweetheart, no, you needn’t do that.” He cupped her cheek and drew her back.

“In A Gentleman’s Choice, courtesans who could take the entire shaft into their mouths were highly prized.”

“Hades, you read that thing?” He caressed her cheek. “I don’t want you to think you must do that. It pleases me to be in your warm mouth as much as you desire.”

He stroked his thumb along her lip and a bolt of pleasure streaked from there to explode between her legs in a flood of wetness.

“Come here, my beautiful naked temptress. I want you to sit on my face.”

“Sit where?”

Within a moment, she understood. He lay on his back along the carriage seat as she slowly dropped her cloak to the other seat. She clasped her hands in his, swung her leg over his chest, and climbed aboard.

“Now move back, my sweet. Smother my face with your wet quim.”

“But—but how will you breathe?”

He laughed and she felt terribly naïve as she wriggled back. She glanced around, saw the heat in his eyes as he drank in the sight of her nether lips dangling above his face. Clamping his hands on her hips, he pulled her down so her sex sank down over his mouth. Pleasure swamped her as her aching cunny made contact with his wet, hot tongue. His tongue caressed her everywhere, and he rocked her so her fragrant quim rubbed over his face. His nose was buried against her derriere.

He held her hips as the carriage swayed on the road. She felt completely safe on top—as long as he held her tight.

She moaned at the forbidden eroticism of this—of sitting on an earl’s face. Fired by wanton naughtiness, she closed her eyes and danced her hips on him, twisting and grinding her wet, aroused, ripe sex into his mouth. His tongue slicked over her clit.

Ooh! Eyes shut, she arched back, pushing her privates even more aggressively on him. She felt a rhythmic pounding and opened her eyes wide to see his hips and bottom bouncing on the seat. His cock jutted toward her, his fluid dripping from the head.

“Would you like me to bend forward and take your Commanding Officer into my mouth?” Venetia asked.

God, yes, temptress.

Marcus answered her question by suckling Venetia’s hard clit until she melted over him. She must have seen pictures of soixante-neuf and she knew exactly what to do. He fought for control as she gobbled his cock into her mouth. Her soft, moist lips skimmed the sensitive places on the shaft. She sucked him hard, gripping him tight in her hot mouth. Beautiful, beautiful sucking in a perfect rhythm, driving him wild.

He was forgetting his part of the bargain—he’d stopped licking her. He quickly rectified his lapse, tonguing the snug entrance of her wet pussy. She tasted rich and feminine and delicious.

She licked the length of his shaft with her tongue. Up and down, driving him mad.

Erotic art had provided a remarkable education.

She licked his balls. He instinctively tensed even as he moaned at the pleasure. But she was gentle and cradled his sac with infinite care. He enjoyed scrotum play, even though he balanced on a knife’s edge of tension throughout. When her tongue traced the seam of his ballocks, he cried her name into her quim. She treated his balls to glorious delights, tugging the fine hairs in her mouth, even holding one delicately in her hot mouth to suck it.

Oral sex never brought him to orgasm anymore—hell, he was eight and twenty, he’d experienced it too many times, had taught himself too much control, but Venetia’s enthusiastic exploration was bringing him close.

He didn’t want to come in her mouth. She wouldn’t want that. With her weight resting on his face, he couldn’t even warn her. He must practice intense control, make her come, then attend to his rigid, throbbing prick himself.

A complete assault was needed. Two hands and a mouth to take her to ecstasy. He tipped his head back to penetrate her snug anus with his tongue. She was bent over, her plush bottom jutting in his face, her puckered rosebud ripe for his tongue. He ran his tongue around the rim, gently pushed in. Her muscles slackened to let him gain entry. Then closed tight.

She was scorching. Unbelievably tight. Delectable.

He thrust his tongue deep, filling her rear, his fingers were in her pussy as deep as he dared, and he stroked her clit.

She dropped his cock from her mouth. “I can’t…can’t…”

He grasped her hand and led it between her thighs. She soon knew he wanted her to rub herself. Shyness had vanished and she masturbated with lusty abandon.

He gripped his cock, jerking it hard, ravaging the length of it. Pumped like a wild man.

“Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes!”

The scream was hers, triggering his explosion. She bounced wildly on him in her orgasm, her greedy cunny clutched at his fingers, her bum slapped his face.

His whole body went tense, and arched up. His hips launched off the seat as he came in a fierce stream. His face lifted, burrowing right into her sopping, melting, eager sex. White fire exploded in his head as his spine melted, his limbs turned to water, his very soul raced out of his cock.

Wet heat surrounded the swollen head. She’d taken him in her mouth. Each pulse of her suckling pulled on his cock, lashed him with agonizing pleasure. She was drinking his come. To please him.

Spent, exhausted, he lifted her quim off his face so he could breathe. “I’ll understand if you wish to spit.”

“I swallowed.” Her eyes showed ingenuous confusion. “Was I not supposed to? You taste quite remarkable. I liked it.”

“I’m honored that you did, my sweet.” He arched up and kissed her derriere, rewarded by her pretty giggle. Returning Venetia to London with her virginity intact might very well kill him.

Cradling Venetia against his chest as she slept, Marcus kissed the top of her tousled red curls. He buried his face in her sweetly scented hair, inhaling roses, lavender, a hint of freshness like spring rain. The scent of her sweat and earthy female juices clung to her skin. She smelled like a woman just tumbled in a meadow. He could taste her delicious juices on his lips, the flavor of his come on hers.

She’d slumbered blissfully against him for miles. He felt every breath she took, felt it in the rise and fall of her breasts against him, in the gentle movement of her back against his arm. He steadied her, so she could sleep despite the rocking of the carriage.

When had he ever let a woman sleep in his arms?

He normally sent courtesans home. Never let his mistresses stay in his bed. Over the years, his father had drummed a warning into his head. Nothing but trouble ever results from waking up with a woman.