Читать книгу Black Silk - Sharon Page - Страница 8

At one glance, Maryanne knew he was drunk.

And knew, of course, he was not Lucifer.

Lord Swansborough sprawled on a wing chair. His shirt was open at his throat, and curling hair, soft and black as night, peeked out of the black-dyed lawn of his shirt. Cast aside, his elegant coat and his shimmering black waistcoat lay in a jumble on the floor by his feet. The light of the single candle glimmered on his thick blue-black hair.

Every night when she edited an erotic scene by candlelight, Swansborough became the hero of the scene. He was the man of fantasy who stripped off his clothes and lowered his naked body over hers. He was the one to boldly lift her skirts in the theater, or suckle her breasts in a carriage or even—and it was delicious madness to think of it—to tie her to her own bed, arms and legs spread, prisoner to his pleasure.

But here he was, in the flesh, winking at her!

And dressed in his usual shocking fashion—entirely in black.

He caught her staring and gave her a most wicked grin. Enticing lines bracketed his firm, wide mouth, and adorable dimples shadowed his cheeks. “You came in here to seduce me, didn’t you?”

With a crook of his fingers, he motioned her to move toward him.

She stayed at the door. “N—no.”

The Oriental motif had not ventured past the door. This was an Englishman’s study, resplendent with wood and leather, comfortable yet austere.

Both settings suited Lord Swansborough.

“Who are you?” he asked, and he tipped the decanter—the entire decanter—to his lips and took a swallow. He quaffed the drink—likely brandy—the way men in the country drank ale. Some spilled down his chiseled jaw, and he lowered the lovely glass thing and wiped at his beautiful mouth with his shirtsleeves.

His lordship was the first man here who was interested in her name. And she floundered helplessly—she had a creative mind, but all she could do was stare in astonishment.

He settled himself on the back of a chair, one booted foot dirtying the arm. The position displayed the long, lean, muscular power of his legs.

“Your name, puss,” he prompted.

She knew men used that name to describe a woman’s quim, and she knew she must suggest another name. But what did she want to suggest? Availability or the truth—that she was not allowed to touch a man like he? “Verity.”

Truth. Why had she thought of to call herself that—the opposite of what she would speak?

He saluted her with the decanter. “Imaginative. Where is your partner, Verity?”

“I don’t have one.” Which was, at least, the truth.

“I see.” Amusement, chilling amusement, showed in his rakish grin. “If I ravish you and make you explode in the most intense climax, will you give me my next clue?”

A jolt of shock raced, cold and startling, through her veins.

He thought she was a courtesan, employed to work in this bizarre scavenger hunt. She’d heard couples speaking of clues and hunting in the salon. “I came here to find a friend.”

The brandy decanter was almost empty. Had he truly drank that much? How could he still be conscious if he had? Her two glasses of champagne and that sickly drink had left her disorientated, and the giddy feeling was now a pounding inside her skull.

“Did you indeed?” he asked. His tone spoke ominously of a man’s awareness that he had a trapped female in his possession. But there was a teasing note underneath, and she knew she would much rather be trapped in this study with Swansborough than out in the rest of the house with the other scavenger hunters.

Tearstains itched on her cheeks, and she was certain she looked disheveled. How much did her mask obscure?

“Come here, Verity.” His voice had sobered, and it rumbled with bewitching erotic promise.

Verity. Which sounded like her sister’s name, Venetia. Had she thought of the name because her sister had had adventures and she had yearned for her own?

But Venetia had told her that Swansborough was exactly like the men who had surrounded her. And he was drunk, therefore dangerous. Logic told her that, but her heart skittered at the gentleness in his black eyes. They were hazy with drink, but not wild with lust.

“Come.”

A confident, autocratic command. She knew the other meaning of the word, and a shiver of anticipation, hot, electric, weakening, shot down her spine.

Her feet obeyed, and she closed the distance between them, and with each step, her heart tightened. Sweat trickled down her bodice, and her throat felt aflame. She felt exactly the way she did when reading erotic manuscripts.

She stopped—a little more than a sword’s thrust away—and he grinned. “Who is the friend you came to find, sweetheart?”

He was Marcus’s good friend—he had seen her perhaps a half dozen times. She was so close she feared he would know who she was. That he could see behind her simple white mask and guess the truth of her soul. That she was Maryanne Hamilton, ordinary virgin, here in Hades to find a courtesan.

“Georgiana,” she admitted softly.

His black brow lifted. “Do you belong to her, sweeting?”

Mystified, she asked, “How do you mean that, my lord?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“A viscount. And you expect me to answer your questions, but you will not answer mine.” She smiled and dipped her head. Heavens, had she just said that? “You are Lord Swansborough.” Surely that was safe enough to admit. He would think her a jade who knew him from brothels and Cyprian balls.

She still wasn’t certain what role she should play. Should she pretend to be experienced? Should she admit she was an innocent in trouble?

“I hardly expected to find you in here alone in the dark, my lord.”

“But I often drink alone, sweet. There’s no pleasure in drinking alone in the middle of a crowd.”

He was foxed. Absolutely. “But why—?”

“I encountered a man. He spoke of a tragic incident that happened a long time ago. It is something I like to forget. And I needed a way to help me do that.” His lordship lowered the decanter, let it drop the last inches to the table, where it rattled. “You are lovely, Verity. But then, the truth is always beautiful. Dangerous but beautiful.”

“I’m hardly dangerous, my lord.”

He reached out his hand—bare of gloves. A perfect, long-fingered gentleman’s hand. She had never touched the naked hand of a gentleman. He meant to kiss her fingers. Uncertain, she moved forward, for good breeding dictated it, and let him sweep her hand to his lips.

Lovely lips. Firm and delectable and brushing her gloved knuckles. The champagne inside her bubbled up once more at his hot, seductive touch, at the caress of his full lower lip over satin.

He drew her closer, his hand casually holding her fingers. She took one look into his dark eyes, at the sculpted curve of cheekbones, the autocratic nose, and lost her breath.

Shadowed by dark stubble gracing his jaw, a dimple teased. She looked closer. Beneath his thick, black lashes, his eyes focused in two different directions.

“In you, sweeting, would I find truth?”

In her?

Before she could even gasp, his mouth slanted down over hers, and his broad back blotted out the light. She fell into black shadow and reached out to him. She should not allow this, but she was here, and he expected it and—

No. She was Verity. Truth. She wanted to kiss him.

His lips pressed to hers, his tongue parted her lips and slid inside her mouth. She tasted him—delicious was too mild a word!

She tasted brandy, too much brandy, and the warm flavor of him that was so erotically male. His hand cupped her breast. He must know her nipples were indecently erect.

His large body surrounded her, his scent—brandy and shaving soap and witch hazel and the earthy hint of his sweat—washed over her, yet all she wanted was to kiss him deeper. Beneath her fingertips, his shoulders were solid lines of muscle and bone. Daringly, she trailed her fingers toward his neck. She left the almost propriety of his shirt and touched his bare flesh.

And moaned wantonly into his mouth.

His tongue teased hers, and he toyed with her, letting his tongue thrust lazily in a promise that made her heart hammer and her quim turn to liquid honey.

She went rigid, suddenly uncertain.

He eased back from the kiss, bending forward to bestow kisses to her nose, her right cheek, her chin. “Do you want to give me what I want?”

Oh, yes, he was drunk. She tried to make sense of his words. “W—what is it you want?”

He stepped back and yanked his shirt out of his trousers. Before the hem could settle around his hips, he pulled his shirt off, over his head.

Oh, dear lord.

His skin was the color of brandy, like a laborer’s, and she couldn’t imagine why. What could he possible do out of doors with his shirt off?

“I want you to make me forget.”

“Forget what?” she asked. A blush crept over her cheeks that she had been so bold as to ask the question. She normally listened. Tonight, with his kiss singing on her lips and champagne bubbling through her blood, she truly was Verity—someone else other than mousy Maryanne.

Swansborough paced around her, arms folded over his massive chest. Soft black hairs curled over hard planes of muscle. The sight of his nipples left her hot and embarrassed. She felt the sweep of his gaze, the assessment of breasts, of hips, of bottom. She felt like a mare on display at Tattersalls.

“You’re slender.”

Reed thin, compared to the women here—the women with large bosoms, plump arses, and generous thighs.

He paused long enough to kick off shoes—he had prepared to undress, he hadn’t worn boots. With lazy motions, he undid the buttons of his trousers.

This time, with this man, she did not want to run.

“Lovely.”

Her heart soared at the word, heaven help her. She liked this. She liked to be stared at by lustful Lord Swansborough.

He peeled down his trousers. She’d thought—she’d been certain—that men wore undergarments beneath their trousers.

He didn’t.

She was faced with his cock, and its thicket of black curls, and it, like the rest of him, stole her breath away. He gave her a smile, mischievous and boyish and utterly endearing. “Does it please you?”

“I’ve no idea.” Truth again.

He laughed at that, not the usual laugh of a man who was in his cups. Deep, erotic, his laugh was filled with naughty promise. “Most lightskirts ‘ooh and ah’ over the size, my dear.”

“It is large.” Her first thought had indeed been astonishment, and now she knew one did mention that to a man. In all the erotic books she edited, men always possessed members that lasted for one carnal bout after another. Georgiana had laughed about that and had confided, with a wry smile, that such cocks were creatures of fantasy.

“I think,” Maryanne hazarded, “it is a creature of fantasy.”

He wrapped his hand around the shaft, and this time the sight of his large hand over his enormous staff had her hot and panting and giddy with desire.

“What do you want to do to me, my sweet?” he asked with a strangely vulnerable air, the way a shy man asked a lady to step into his curricle for a jaunt around the park.

She didn’t know. She couldn’t find words! Her thoughts were a tumble of nebulous fantasies. Of imagination and dreams. Of lust and foolish madness.

“What do you think would please me? I like an inventive woman.”

She had no idea, knew she could not hope to fool him, but the challenge heated her blood. “I would like to…kiss you. Again.”

“Kiss me where?”

“On your lips.”

“And I would like to kiss your lips, your breasts, your quim, your arse. Would you be willing to do such things for me?”

“You haven’t got breasts.”

His deep, throaty, wicked laugh washed over her, more intoxicating than champagne. Surely Lucifer laughed like this—before tempting a woman to surrender her soul.

“Indeed I don’t. Disappointed? Do you enjoy suckling another woman’s breasts? Tell me—I enjoy inviting a crowd into my bed at times. Have you experience there?”

She felt as if she were being interviewed for a position—she supposed she was. He thought she wanted to be his mistress. Suddenly the realization of what she’d come for stopped her cold.

“I can’t. I must—I must go.”

“To find Georgiana? She isn’t here, love. She’s left London.”

“How do you know?”

“I know everything, sweeting. The lovely Georgiana is pursuing an earl. She’s left you alone. Now, tell me, have you enjoyed sexual sport with another woman?”

Maryanne reeled back on her slippers. She had to grab the back of the chair beside her.

Georgiana had left London! But what of her note? That desperate note? Had Georgiana written a plea for rescue yet left town with another man?

It would be like Georgiana. To forget she’d begged for help, to forget she’d put a friend at risk when a man offered rescue. She’d strangle Georgiana. When she found her.

Her heart twisted in her chest. Her friend had forgotten all about her. She was so very forgettable.

“Other women?” Swansborough prompted.

Startled, she looked up. His lips were parted, and his breath came fast. He was waiting on her answer as if he needed it to live. He was exquisite, beautiful, yearned for by unmarried ladies who dreamed of a charming husband and a stallion in their beds. And he wanted her answer.

“N—no.”

She saw his slight stumble, a reminder of how much liquor he must have drunk.

“Any objections, though?” he went on. “I can think of several women who would love to nibble your breasts or suck the honey out of your quim.”

She saw his cock jolt upward at his own words. The head glistened as though moist—in all the books she edited, the cocks were always dewy, or dripping, or slick. Lord Swansborough’s certainly was. She stared at it, unable to answer his question—she’d read Sapphic scenes, had been intrigued. What would it be like to suckle a woman’s breasts to please her? Or lick another woman’s wet cunny?

But she wanted him. Only him.

“Touch me.”

Two simple words, spoken in a voice hoarse with desire. In a heartbeat, his teasing nature had dropped away.

“I need you,” he said simply. “Make me forget. Touch me.”

Tentatively she let her fingers brush—and touched the mythical velvet-over-steel she had read about so many times. Nothing could describe the marvelous sensation of his intimate warmth against her skin. And it was truly satin soft yet rigid, and it jumped beneath her touch with a mind of its own.

Her heart leaped into a frantic rhythm.

She clamped her hand around the shaft as he caught her in another kiss, a long, slow kiss that melted her like wax to a flame. She was gripping his poor cock to keep herself from pooling to the floor.

Brandy taste tingled on her tongue as he broke the breathless kiss. Laughing, he took a staggering step. Terrified she’d hurt him, with her hand wrapped around his remarkably pulsing member, she moved back, too.

His hands pulled up her skirts, and she gasped at the sight of satin wrinkled by his hands as her hem rose higher and higher.

His hot breath danced against her ear. “I promise, Verity, when I want to use fucking to make me forget, I am very, very good.”

What did he want so much to forget? His hand cupped her inner thigh, and she struggled to think. The roughness of his palm, the strength of his fingers, the reverence of his touch—all conspired to send her wits whirling, shattering.

A man’s hand was on her thigh.

Lord Swansborough’s hand was on her thigh.

Sliding up, up to the juncture between. His palm cupped her hot, wet nether lips; his fingertips delved inside her cunny.

His hand shifted; the heel pressed that magical place all the courtesans wrote of. The clitoris. Obviously Lord Swansborough knew exactly what he was—

Oh, lord.

Hazily, through shattering pleasure, she saw his smile, saw the roguish curve of his lips. She clung to his arm, to the chair beside her. Oh, it was so…so much. Beyond words…so far beyond her skill with words—

She tried to back away as he flexed his hand and slowly, torturously increased the pressure and slipped his fingers between her damp nether lips. Her juices were lush, thick, bubbling from inside her.

In her fantasies, she had gazed into his magnetic black eyes and shared the deepest intimacy. Never had she dreamed it could be real. That she would see how long his sweeping black lashes truly were. That she would see his eyes sparkle for her.

He bent to the swell of her breasts, the lightly freckled curves, and ran his tongue over them. Heat washed over her as though a thousand wicks had caught flame at once. She was gazing down at Lord Swansborough’s silky black hair while he licked her breasts!

Thick and gleaming, blue-black beneath the soft candlelight, his hair tempted her to touch. She coasted her palms over its softness, barely touching, gasping at the tickle across her hands. Even at that light, feathery caress, he began to suckle. His beautiful mouth left a trail of warm wetness over her tingling skin.

Emboldened, she slid her fingers into his hair. Savored the silky feel.

It was dizzying to touch him so.

She wanted to touch more.

Beneath her lashes, she saw his naked body—his wide shoulders, the lean line of his abdomen, and his magnificent, amazing cock bobbing as he kissed her. As his fingers stroked and teased between her thighs.

She tried to cling desperately to sense. But all she wanted was more stroking, harder stroking, rougher, faster—

His mouth slanted over hers as the pleasure became almost unbearable. She knew this…had read it so many times…had brought herself to this wonderful, exquisite point. She’d learned through naughty touching how she liked her release, but it was so much more intriguing to have his masculine fingers rasping between her curls to rub her clit.

His touch made her tremble, made the perspiration spill between her breasts, made it almost impossible to breathe. But she needed…just a little different rhythm. He was in control, but she rubbed hungrily against his hand. Oh, yes, she loved his touch, but she was hurtling toward climax, and his caresses were not…not exactly the rhythm, the speed to take her to ecstasy.

She knew she loved his touch, but she knew her body.

“Yes, my lady of truth, take yourself there.” He urged it against her ear, and his lips lowered to play sensual magic against her neck.

She grasped his hand. Not quite so direct a touch…a little higher…more of a tug—

Perfect!

What must he think? Was he offended? He let her guide his hand; he even smiled—lips kicking up on the right side, his cheek dimpling.

What did she care if he was angry? She wanted…needed…

She drove toward her climax like a madwoman.

She cried out as it took her. Barely heard his raw, masculine laugh as she rocked with it.

“Come against my hand, my love.”

She did, crying out, a slave to the pulsing muscles, the waves of sheer pleasure pounding through her. Her head tipped forward, her mouth opened wide.

Was this the lure of sensual writing—not the orgasm, but the deep joy, the wonderful sense of intimate connection with a gentleman she’d longed for over months?

It was ending, the waves dying slowly away. He scooped her up, her skirts hanging about her hips to the floor. Floating still, in pleasure, she locked her hands around his neck. Her fingers grazed smooth, sensually enticing skin.

“This room is filled with intriguing devices to enhance pleasure.”

Dazed, she met Swansborough’s amused gaze. Midnight black and twinkling. “Devices?”

“If you are part of the treasure hunt, love, you are supposed to be tied up and whipped.”

She hadn’t realized that. Even though she was still boneless from her climax, she felt color drain from her face.

He settled her on the chaise, and she let go of his neck to drop on the silk-covered, elegant surface. She realized, still catching her breath, still throbbing deep in her quim, that his cock was hard, rigid, and he must want his pleasure now.

She thought he would mount her.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from his blunt-nosed cock pointing toward her, so long and thick and intriguing. One thrust, and she would be ruined.

She didn’t care.

She touched his jaw, let his stubble ignite her skin and send magic coursing through her veins. Her skirts spilled over her hips; her legs were bare. She could see her brown intimate curls below crumpled petticoats and the snug front panel of her corset. She parted her legs wide.

I want you.

She couldn’t say it. Didn’t dare say it.

Still, she wanted him to understand.

But he didn’t mount her. Instead he paced over to a simple box standing on the desk, at the edge of the light.

A proper young lady didn’t look at a man’s naked bottom, she thought wildly. But she couldn’t help but look. He possessed the most perfect taut derriere. The muscles of his flanks hollowed deeply as he walked, lithe and graceful.

Grinning in the way that made her throat ache and her quim pulse, he flipped open the lid. “Playthings.”

Toys? Why would a gentleman have toys on his desk?

She had time to run. Time to flee to preserve…what?

Before she could work up the courage to ask, he returned. He splayed his hands beneath her lower back and lifted her. With the corset, she didn’t bend, and he gave her a smile of sympathy. “This will be worth it, love.”

Something pressed at the puckered entrance of her bottom. The most wonderful, exhilarating sensation shot through her. It was so wickedly sensitive there—just as her authors said.

He held a small glass vial before her eyes, poured a stream of gold liquid to his fingers. It poured slowly, like honey, and dripped off his fingers.

Her heart hammered.

She was masked. He most definitely did not know who she was. He would not touch his slicked fingers to her bottom if he knew she was the Earl of Trent’s sister by marriage.

Ooh!

Slippery, his fingers traced around her entrance, leaving her skin oiled. His finger dipped inside, and her bottom opened for him.

Never had she imagined it could feel so good.

He held another thing before her eyes. One of the “playthings.” A small, slim rod with a rounded end. With circular strokes, he teased her entrance with it. With her legs splayed wide, she could only arch with the shock.

“Do you enjoy anal play?”

He was studying her bottom, displayed to him, and she felt a flush of embarrassment. Yet he only appeared…intrigued…as though he enjoyed the sight of her entrance, her plump cheeks squashed by the chaise beneath.

The slender rod slid in, and she knew at once that she did enjoy such play. Heart in her throat, Maryanne nodded.

“Relax, love. Let it slip inside,” Dash murmured.

Dash nuzzled pretty Verity’s slender neck. She lay on the chaise with her legs up and spread wide, the picture of carnal welcome. Brandy-laced blood raced down to his rigid cock, and he had to hold the edge of the seat to stay upright.

Verity. Pretty Verity, promising the truth in her pleasure.

Her hair tumbled around her, fallen from her pins, a shimmering honey brown in the golden light. With her skirts around her waist, her shapely, trim legs were revealed. Lovely slim hips and a nipped-in waist beneath her corset.

Behind the mask, her wide eyes were the color of coffee. He’d tasted champagne in her kiss. As with him, liquor fired her blood. With the white silk strip of a mask, he could see only brown eyes, the plump curve of her mouth, the point to her chin.

She wore a blasted awkward gown for a courtesan, yet it was enticing to try to slide his hand inside the bodice to tease her nipple. She squirmed in frustration, and he pressed his lips to the crests of her breasts beneath the satin.

Lovely.

Wrapping his fist around his shaft, he forced his prick down. Even just his touch on his shaft almost hit the trigger and sent him firing. God, he was hard—he needed to fuck, to fuck wide-eyed, lovely Verity—and escape his truth.

He should leave. He’d come to prove his innocence only to be struck in the gut with his guilt. He should—

Don’t think.

She smelled like heaven, ripe and creamy from her orgasm.

A kiss. He slanted his mouth over her parted lips as he used the swollen head of his cock to part her wet nether lips.

Hot. Wet.

Beautiful oblivion.

Bracing his arm on the chaise, Dash guided his cock to her snug, velvety quim and sank inside.