Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 5
She batted her lashes. “Who’s begging now?”
“It is hardly a challenge for you to make me beg.” She was, in a word, a siren. An innocent but inherently sensual siren, who was clearly put on this earth to bring men to their knees. “Come here.”
With a pout, she released her treasure and scooted up the bed to his side. He rolled her onto her back and kissed her. “Where on earth did you get the idea to kiss me there?”
Her eyes widened. “I… I just wanted to.”
Oh, God have mercy.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He hated the flash of anguish in her eyes. He hated the very thought she might be put off such exploration in the future. That would be a disaster of monumental proportions, he was certain. “Not at all. It was inspired. And I loved it.”
“Oh thank heaven—”
“But it is usually a thing a woman must be tutored to do.”
Her brows lowered. “Tutored?”
“Yes. Usually a man will show her how pleasurable it can be, by doing the same, only first.”
“The same?”
“Let me show you.”
She was silent as he made his way over the velvet landscape that was her body—which was a mercy, because he did not want to have to stop and explain things or answer questions. He was slow and thorough, taking the time to bring her breasts to fullness and suckle her nipples to hard points. Then he made love to her belly and hips and, finally, found himself at the crux of her thighs. He settled between them and glanced at her.
Her eyes were glazed as she stared at him, her mouth agape.
She needed no tutoring to spread further, giving him room to work.
And go to work he did.
It was a luscious labor.
Her flavor was divine, for one thing, with a slight hint of roses and musk—with a dampness that exulted him—but it was her response he adored the most.
She went wild.
As he lapped and toyed with her pearl, she fisted her fingers in his hair and rode his mouth as though he were her pony. Her cataclysm was quick in coming, but he endeavored to stave it off, to make her simmer, to make her strive.
Such things were beyond him, apparently.
He knew when she climaxed, because she closed her thighs on his head in an apparent attempt to smother him, and thrashed and howled and raked at his scalp with her nails.
And he gloried in it.
She had barely recovered when he fought free, levered over her and flipped her onto her belly. Then, with hard fingers on the flesh of her hips, he lifted her, found her entrance and drove home.
Thankfully, her howl was muffled by the coverlet, else Bronson might have thought he was killing her.
Her body was so wet, so tight, so utterly perfect, he nearly lost consciousness with the pleasure of it. But that would have been a crime. He was determined to experience the fullness of this woman, this joining.
Dev fucked her, hard and wild, a passionate pummeling that drove them both higher and higher. She came again, which nearly destroyed him, but he held the disaster off by remaining still as her body closed on him in manic spasms.
He was determined to make this last and he tightened his body to resist the oncoming tide.
The sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the room, echoed off the walls, conjoined with their cries and sighs and pleas.
Shards of dizzying ecstasy stabbed him with each thrust, shivers of glory walked up his spine and heat coursed in his veins. His pulse pounded in a thundering tattoo. Lights swirled before his eyes. His breath came out in hard pants as he drove her, drove himself closer and closer to the precipice.
When she cried out and came again, he could no longer hold back. His body took over, leaving his mind far behind, but he was aware of a brilliance rising in him like a wave, taking him, subsuming him and catapulting him into a sea of bliss.
She came with him, meeting his thrusts with those of her own, matching his cries with hers. They were together in this, utterly together. But it was not only a physical thing, a co-mingling of flesh. It was something more.
Something he’d never known before.
Something that should have frightened him, but did not.
He collapsed beside her as he recovered, his lungs working like a bellows. She rolled onto her side and caught his gaze, flashing him a grin.
“I liked that too,” she said.
He opened his arms. “Come here.”
And this time, she did.
She curled up against him and toyed with the hair on his chest and made a noise that might have been a sigh…but it wasn’t.
With a trickle of amusement, he realized she was humming.
He peered down at her. “Are you humming?”
“Am I?”
“I do believe so.”
“Oh. Sorry. I do that sometimes, when I am happy.”
“I don’t mind in the least.” And then, “Are you happy?”
“I am.”
Yes. He was happy too. Perhaps that was what the strange, unfamiliar feeling was.
Happiness.
How discomfiting.
It was completely at odds with the whole of his experience.
Other than his mother, no one had ever made him “happy.” No one had ever really tried.
He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, so he ignored his disquiet and simply enjoyed holding her.
“I’d always wondered,” she murmured.
He wrapped a finger in one of her curls. “Wondered what?”
“Why people did it. You know, when it was painful.”
Ah. That. “Was it painful?”
She popped up and braced herself on his chest. “Not in the least.” There was a tinge of surprise and delight on her face.
“I’m glad.”
“Me too.” She huffed a breath and dropped back down on him, a wonderful weight. “I see now why people become foolish enough to fall in love and get married.”
He didn’t understand the annoyance that slashed him at her words. Falling in love was foolish. And as for marriage, he’d never given it much thought, other than to accept it probably wasn’t for him. He’d always been far too independent to conjoin his life with another’s. And poor. He’d been too poor to consider it.
“People wed for many reasons, I suppose.”
“You’re right. Charles wanted me to marry for money.”
Dev stilled. “For money?” The Paddington fortune was beyond dispute.
But Tildy snorted. “Charles has been gambling.”
Oh blast. The scourge of young bucks.
“He hasn’t lost the estate yet, but the creditors have come knocking.”
“Is that why he decided to marry you off?”
“I suppose. Or to make sure I was taken care of when the floor caves in.” Another sigh. He longed to comfort her, but didn’t know how. “But I cannot marry a man I do not desire. Especially now.”
“Why especially now?” But he knew.
She grinned up at him. “Because now I know how good it can be.”
“Ah! So you desire me?” Of course she did.
“The instant I set eyes on you, I felt it.”
“That soon?”
“Did you desire me the instant you set eyes on me?”
“You looked like a drowned rat.”
She put out a lip. “So you didn’t?”
“I absolutely did.”
“Even though I looked like a downed rat?”
He laughed. He had to. “You were adorable, even then.”
“Well, I am glad you stopped. Glad you saved me.”
Had he?
Had he saved her? Or had he ruined for her any chance at a secure future? No man of means would have her now. Her only option was a life with her aunt in God knew what kind of environment.
“Have you ever been married?” Her eyes widened and she leaped up to stare at him in horror. “Are you married?”
He gusted a laugh. �
�No. To both questions.”
“Oh thank heaven. I would hate to think I led you astray.”
She? Led him astray? She had no grasp on what had happened, did she? He was the one who had taken her hand and led her down the garden path. Even though it had been her idea, he should have known better.
She tipped her head to the side, as she often did when she was about to lance him with a question. “Have you ever wanted a wife?”
He snorted. “A man like me? Not likely.”
“Most men have them.”
“Not me.”
Her delicate brow furrowed. “Why not? You would be a good husband, I think, and an excellent father.”
Good God. What a heinous thought.
“You know very little about me, Tildy.”
“I think I know enough.”
“Such as?”
“You are patient and gentle.”
He was not. Not in the least. “I’ve killed men with my bare hands.”
She lurched back in shock. “You have not.”
“I have.” She needed to see. Needed to understand. He was not the hero she saw him as. He was the villain of this piece. Hell, he was the antihero of his own life’s story.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you kill them?”
They were coming at him with bayonets. He shrugged. “I didn’t want to die.”
“Well, you see. That is a good reason.”
It most certainly was not. There was no good reason to kill another man.
“When did you kill them?”
“When I was in France.”
“Oh.” She blew out a dismissive breath. “It doesn’t count when you’re at war.”
Didn’t it? “It always counts.”
“That is utter nonsense. War is a kill-or-be-killed situation. Have you ever had the desire to kill someone when you were not at war?”
Every day while he was at Eton.
“Tildy…”
“You cannot punish yourself for things you did in France, Dev. I cannot allow it.” She was adamant enough, he almost believed her. He had been a different man then, a desperate one. Every second could have been his last. And things had changed. His entire existence. He would not know the whole of it until he arrived at the barrister’s office, but he knew his circumstances were significantly altered.
“You have shown me what a wonderful man you are and I will not let you think less of yourself. You deserve to know peace and happiness.”
What a strange and wonderful thing to hear.
She raked her fingers through his hair, though gently, and kissed his brow, making him feel cherished and raw.
“Now, rest up,” she said.
“Rest up?”
“Yes.” She shot him a grin. “I would very much like to continue my explorations before our night together runs out.”
Hell. Hell and blast. The reminder was like acid in his veins.
“You…” His voice broke. “You should stay longer than one night.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You should.” He fixed her with a pedantic look. “There is so much more to experience.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes.”
In response, she merely hummed.
He folded her close and held her.
He could keep her, he thought.
He should.
He’d ruined her.
It was his obligation to make things right.
He could keep her.
He would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY MADE LOVE MOST OF THE NIGHT, stopping only to rest between bouts. Dev, true to form, was gentle and thorough and showed her many new and thrilling positions. When she finally exhausted him, he fell into a deep sleep, which was sad, but at the same time sweet, because she was able to study him without interruption.
She needed to remember his face, remember everything.
She would need to hold it to her breast for the rest of her life.
But she had to go.
He’d suggested she might stay longer than one night, but she knew she could not. She hadn’t lied when she said this experience had changed her. It had. And one of the changes was a growing affection for this man.
This perfect, tempting, fascinating man.
She stared down at Dev, at his beautiful, sculpted features. His eyes were closed and his lashes created a sooty arc on his cheeks. His lips were loose and soft in sleep.
He was a man she could have loved. Might have loved.
And they’d both agreed, falling in love was a foolish thing. If she stayed with him, she knew she would tumble. This yearning she had for his presence, for his touch, would swell into something she could not survive.
Especially because she knew how he felt about marriage.
But he’d made his position clear. He had no need, no desire for a woman in his life.
If only life had been different.
She sighed and stroked his hair. The last thing she wanted was to say good-bye.
So it was probably best if she left before he awoke.
As dawn broke through the window, she quietly gathered her things, dressed as best she could, and slipped from the house, putting this torrid affair behind her.
But she wouldn’t forget him.
She never would.
* * *
It was surreal walking through the morning fog along the deserted London streets. She deliberately did not look at the street signs around his house, because she did not want to be tempted to try to find him again. But before long, her sense of direction was all turned around.
She knew a flash of panic until she found a street that would lead toward Aunt Elizabeth’s neighborhood. As a girl who had lived most of her life in Cornwall, she had rarely visited the city and had no real comprehension of how large it was.
It was, therefore, midday by the time she found her aunt’s address.
She nearly collapsed with relief.
But when she knocked on the door and it was opened by a starch butler, he merely turned up his nose and snipped, “Deliveries around back,” and promptly closed the door on her.
Tildy stared at the knocker.
She’d never been turned away before. In fact, everyone in her village knew her. It was a unique experience, unique enough that she found it amusing. She must look an utter fright.
Determinedly, she knocked again and when the door opened she pushed inside. She removed her cloak and thrust it at the butler, who looked as though she’d just handed him a dead cat. “Please tell Aunt Elizabeth that Matilda is here.”
The butler blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
She patted him on the waistcoat. “Never beg.”
This unleased a stuttering of Babylonian proportions. “Miss,” he warbled as she took off down the long hall toward a truly mouthwatering smell. “Miss! You cannot… Miss! I say, miss!”
She ignored him. He wasn’t saying anything in the least interesting, but the smell was interesting. Fascinating in fact. Her mouth watered as she pushed into a warm kitchen to find a tray of scones cooling.
It occurred to her that she was famished.
The cook and the cook’s helper gaped at her, and then at the butler, who had followed her in.
“Miss. I say. You cannot march in to this domicile and invade our kitchen,” he squawked.
She offered him her most charming smile. “I’m very hungry. I’ve walked a long way, you see.”
He crossed his arms and surveyed her. “Why?”
“Why?” Tildy blinked. “To see Aunt Elizabeth of course. Is she at home?”
“It’s not yet noon,” he said as though that made any sense.
“And?”
“And Lady Carrington is still abed.”
Tildy’s eyes popped wide. “Still abed? Well, good glory, why?” She’d been up all night and she’d still managed to rise before the sun. “Is she not well?”
�
��She is perfectly well,” the butler snapped, and then recovered himself as he realized he’d inadvertently divulged privileged information. He turned his stern gaze on the cook and said, “If you would remain here with Cook, I shall inform Lady Carrington of your arrival.” He said it with a slight turn to his nose as though the idea made him slightly ill. And then he had the temerity to whisper to Cook, in something that was hardly a whisper at all, “Keep your eye on the silver.”
Tildy glared at him and he glared back, and then he turned on his heel and quit the room. Once he was gone, she smiled at the cook and sniffed deeply. “Well,” she said. “Something smells wonderful!” And then, she stole a scone.
She was halfway through her second scone when Aunt Elizabeth burst into the kitchen wearing nothing but a silk wrapper. Her hair was a’muss and there were pillow marks on her cheek. She stopped short in the doorway—so much so that the butler, who had been on her heels, bumped into her—and stared at Tildy.
“Oh my God. It is you. Thank God you’re safe.” And then she rushed forward to give Tildy a hug. “We’ve been so worried.”
Tildy blinked and extricated herself from her aunt’s tight grasp. “Why on earth were you worried?” For heaven sake, no one should even know she was gone yet.
“Charles arrived last night, looking for you.” Oh, blast. “He was in quite a dither. He had that fellow with him…” She tapped her lip. “What’s his name?”
“George.”
“Is it George?”
“Yes.” She should know the name of her once-betrothed.
“Well, anyway, he was beside himself. Said you were missing. I don’t know why he thought you would be here of all places.”
Did she not? “I ran away from an unwanted marriage.”
To her shock, her aunt’s eyes widened. “You didn’t!”
“I thought you of all people would understand.”
“Understand?”
“Yes. Given your views on marriage.”
Her aunt’s face went pink. “Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” She glanced at the cook and the cook’s assistant and the butler, who were all watching silently but soaking in every word. “The parlor, I think, for this conversation. Dobson, please do bring tea.”
“Of course, mum.” The butler gave a tiny bow.
Aunt Elizabeth took Tildy’s arm and led her out of the fragrant kitchen, which was rather a tragedy—she hadn’t finished eating, after all—and down the long hall to the front room. “This is a conversation best had in private, I do believe,” she said.