A Touch of Sin (11 page)

She suddenly went pale.

"This
is
bothering you isn't it?" He twirled the bottle between his hands.

"I don't know you very well," she said, her voice tight.

"Liquor affects me very little, if that's what you're worrying about. And I
never
become difficult because of this." He nodded at the bottle.

"I'm sorry. It's just that… well… my husband was a problem when he drank. I'm afraid my response was automatic."

"Would you prefer I not drink?" A novel thought for a man who spent his leisure time in various forms of carousal. An incredulous offer, any of his friends would opine.

"That's not necessary," Trixi murmured. "I mean… I'm sure there's nothing to cause me concern." Her faint smile was apologetic. "A little amnesia would be helpful here."

"A touch of oblivion?" he queried, offering her the bottle.

"Not just yet." Pasha Duras was
not
her husband, she told herself; the comparison was ludicrous.

As if reading her mind, Pasha said, smiling, "I promise to behave."

And he did, remaining the perfect gentleman despite the number of bottles he consumed, conversing with an effortless charm, entertaining her with stories of his family and edited ones of his life, asking her questions that were neither too personal nor too curious.

After returning to the carriage following a quick luncheon at a post stop, astonished at his continuing self-control and genial forbearance, she said, "You are
amazingly
well mannered. If I didn't know better I'd say you're androgynous." His conversation over their meal, like those in the carriage, had been well bred, gallant, unremittingly courteous.

"I'm simply counting the hours, darling. I know you're in a hurry. I can wait."

"I didn't know libertines had such control," she remarked. He looked very beautiful sprawled in the seat opposite her, his neckcloth undone, his dark hair tousled, his marvelous eyes sultry beneath their half-lowered lids.

"This libertine does." An act of enormous discipline.

"So I've noticed."

"Would you like to stop somewhere? I'm more than willing," he tendered. And with gratification, he watched her hesitate that small fraction of time.

"I can't," she finally said.

He knew how eager she was to reach home. "We
could
make ourselves comfortable here," he gently offered, recognizing that intrinsic longing in her voice.

"Here?" she said with some astonishment and he realized she'd led a very sheltered life.

"Here," he softly repeated. "We've still ten hours until Calais."

"Ten hours…" Her voice drifted off, a wisp of heat in its undertone.

"No one would disturb us if I closed the curtains."

She felt a sudden shimmer of lust, as if the delicious possibilities had traveled from her brain to her pulsing tissue instantly. "No one?"

"Not a soul," he murmured, reaching for a shade pull.

She watched each descending shade close out the glow of the setting sun, a tingling anticipation heating her senses, the throbbing between her legs increasing as each window was veiled. "We won't be disturbed even at the next post stop?"

"Not even there."

"We'll have complete privacy?" Her voice held the smallest dubious edge.

"Complete," he pleasantly affirmed. His servants were well trained. "Would you like some wine now?"

"I don't think so." She could see evidence of his erection in the stretching of the fine fawn-colored wool of his trousers, and she found her entire attention drawn to the tempting sight.

Aware of her gaze, he said, "Something else then?"

"If you don't mind," she whispered, shaken by the immediacy of her need.

"Lord, no." His voice was husky. "I've been waiting all day." Putting aside his bottle, he leaned forward, lifted her from her seat in a flutter of silk skirts, and settled her across his knees. "I thought you'd never ask." Playing the gentleman had been arduous. "Now then," he whispered, his breath warm on her ear, "we should undo the front of this gown."

He slipped a pearl button free while she shivered, prey to a powerful surge of lust—immediate and disconcerting. A novice to voluptuous self-gratification, she struggled to maintain some control over her sensibilities, wondering, how could she so wantonly crave this man? Making love in a carriage within earshot of others reeked of dissipation and debauch. "Maybe we shouldn't," she started to say but then another button came loose and Pasha slid his fingers down the deep valley between her breasts, a small proprietary gesture that vividly brought to mind all his flagrantly proprietary license of the night past. And she quivered inside at that lush remembrance.

"You'll be more comfortable with this gown off." He pulled the remaining buttons free, opening the front of her dress. "More fuckable."

His words, basely carnal, smacked of casual sexual conquest, and rather than taking offense at the coarseness as any self-respecting lady would, she felt the pulsing between her legs accelerate, her craving immune to respectability. Obsessed, corrupted by what he could make her feel, she responded to his graphic authority, turned liquid inside, melted, as if making herself ready to service him.

"We both know how much you like it." Sure of what he was doing to her, he recognized the change in her breathing, the flush rising up her throat. Shifting her position, he lifted and turned her so she was straddling his lap, making her even more available, his conspicuous erection pressed into her bottom so they were half-conjoined. Throbbing with desire, she moved against him, squirmed into his irresistible hardness.

"How did you ever last two years?" he whispered, sliding her dress from her shoulders and arms.

Her violet eyes, sultry, heated, held his. "I was waiting for you."

"How nice." His gaze drifted downward as he lifted her skirt away, exposing her pink thighs and golden mons. "I'll take care of you," he whispered, stroking her pale hair.

She trembled at the lush promise in his voice, at the delicate contact of his hand, shuddered as his middle finger glided over her sleek, wet labia, then slipped inside.

Slivers of light gleamed on the borders of the shades, the setting sun insinuating itself into the carriage interior in a diffused glow, illuminating the carnal heat in Trixi's eyes, gilding her pale flesh, burnishing the silken curls flat against Pasha's palm.

"I like that you were waiting for me," he breathed, sliding his finger deeper, adding a second one, forcing his hand upward, stroking her slick tissue with such deftness she held her breath against the agonizing rapture. Whimpering, she writhed into the movement of his hand, wanting him to come inside her and do all the things that only he could do. Overwhelmed with desire, she fumbled for the buttons on his trousers, found one, stripped it open, then another and another, her needs as scorching as their traveling speed, the quicksilver rhythm of the swaying carriage adjunct to her fevered urgency.

"No more foreplay?" he said, amused. He slid his fingers free.

"Do you mind?" Lustful and uncoquettish, she gazed at him.

"Do I mind fucking you?" He looked amused again. "What do you think?"

"I think you'd fuck anyone anywhere, but
I
happen to be here now." Her boldness even shocked her. This must be what came of having Pasha Duras's overt sexuality in close proximity—it made one brazen. But he only looked mildly shocked; he'd probably heard that before. On second thought he didn't look shocked so much as interested.

"You're like a virgin let out of a convent for the first time." His voice was husky, languid with heat, as though he fancied being the gatekeeper at that convent gate.

"And I need what you do to me." She felt virginal, unsure, terrifyingly aware she wanted him much more than she should.

"Then we must see if we can put this"—he drew his erection out—"in here," he softly added, stroking her pale pubic hair.

He seemed larger, more intimidating; she'd forgotten how big he was. He was terrifyingly aroused. And she wondered if reason had disappeared from her consciousness that she was willing to have that threatening penis inside her.

He slid his hand down her thigh as if he could read her mind and he knew she needed gentling. Maybe he'd done that before too; maybe he always had to when women saw him unclothed.

She shivered at his touch, her body betraying her as it always did with him, a sexual frisson quivering down her spine.

"I won't hurt you."

He misunderstood; he made her lose her mind and reason and every shred of decency, she thought, but he didn't hurt her. On the contrary, Pasha Duras knew how to refine pleasure to opulent dimensions.

A man of sexual finesse, he held her with gentleness, his hands spanning her waist, first raising her to her knees then easing her downward with infinite care. He guided himself into place, allowing her to sink down slowly on his engorged length and the violent pulsing between her legs became the unerring, single focus of her world.

"You're perfect," he breathed, fully absorbed, every nerve in his body hypersensitive. "We fit"—he flexed his hips upward—"perfectly."

"Stay then." Her sigh drifted into the golden light, ecstasy inundating her senses.

"I'll be staying." At least until he no longer wished to feel this dizzying, hot rut, he thought, lifting her slowly. Not a reasonable assumption at the moment. "You're damned enticing," he said, velvety and low.

"It's you." Or some blissful magic spell, she thought, languidly descending down his rigid length.

"It's us," he corrected, his experience legion and unspiritual, this ferocious lust particular to a violet-eyed blonde from Kent, Forcing her hips down, he held her firmly in place, his sex buried in her, not letting her move for a long, sensational time so she felt him with every pulsing breath. "I'll keep you filled with cock until Calais," he whispered.

A tantalizing vision of paradise if she didn't die of ecstasy long before. Her ravenous desire was so sharp-set and urgent, she was trembling in his arms. Driving upward, he forced himself deeper with a slow, inexorable pressure that burned white-hot in the throbbing, avaricious core of her body and in her brain and brought her after a mindless interval, breathless, panting, whimpering to a long, hovering, half-fainting climax.

"You do like sex, don't you?" Pasha whispered afterward, gently cradling her in his arms.

"I… never knew… I did." Still breathless, she smiled into his shoulder.

She'd make a delectable mistress, he thought—always ravenous and eager. The prospect of having her waiting in a love nest somewhere almost made him consider taking on the unprecedented role of protector. Almost.

Lifting her head, she gazed at him with an artless smile. "Thank you very much," she sweetly murmured, "for showing me. I'm very grateful."

"I'm grateful Calais is still hours away."

"I may not last," she playfully noted, trailing a finger down the dark skin of his throat.

"I have a feeling you will." And he should know, she thought as he slipped her chemise straps down her forearms, wondering if there was some esoteric gauge of sexuality familiar only to hard core libertines.

Immune to such philosophical uncertainties, Pasha had the straps of her chemise looped through his fingers and he was observing her large breasts bobbing above and beneath the delicate linen undergarment with idle curiosity. "Do you ever wear a corset?"

"I outgrew them a long time ago." Her voice caught at the last, a lurch of the carriage forcing his erection bewitchingly higher.

"We'll have to buy you some when we get to England." He eased the fine linen down, exposing her breasts, the soft flesh vibrating with the pitch and roll of the carriage. Cradling their heavy weight in his palms, he gently lifted them into pale mounds. "If we had some corsets made for you, these magnificent breasts would be more showy. You could wear your corsets for me at night when everyone's sleeping. Or perhaps I'll make you wear them in the daytime under your country gowns," he quietly went on, squeezing her plump breasts so they swelled even higher. "Everyone will wonder why your breasts are so ostentatious, but they won't dare ask. And when no one's looking, I'll touch your nipples so they'll stand out pert and stiff and you'll have to cover them with your arms and hide them or people will know you're ready for sex. Like now," he added, his voice silken. "You're slippery wet again… Lift up for me—show me how much you want my cock."

Obedient to his commands, addicted to his sexual allure, she rose to her knees, her breasts conveniently rising near Pasha's mouth. "Maybe we should see if we can make you wetter," he whispered, "so you'll take me more easily, so I won't hurt you. Don't move, now," he ordered, drawing a nipple between his lips, gently biting the tip. Holding her captive with his mouth and hands, he sucked and nibbled until her nipples were swollen and thick and the color had changed from pink to red. Until the tips were so sensitive the tactile pressure of his mouth made her whimper.

What he was doing to her breasts she could feel between her thighs, the cause and effect so profound she squirmed and writhed on the swollen crest of his erection, trying to move downward, searching for satisfaction.

"I could just suck on you until you come," he murmured, his hands hard on her waist.

"Not if you want to survive," she breathed, her eyes wild with wanting.

He pretended not to understand. "Are you talking about fucking me to death?"

"It's a possibility," she whispered.

His brows flickered upward briefly. "Now there's a challenge."

"Please, Pasha," she said on a caught breath. "I don't have your steely nerves."

"You haven't had the practice," he indulgently remarked. "But then I haven't seen such chaste longing for a very long time." Probably never, he reflected, considering the style of his amorous entertainments. Sympathetic to her plight, at heart a gracious lover, he took pity on her, released his hands from her waist, and glided back into her hot, soaked cleft.

Unspeakably grateful, she put her arms around his neck and nuzzled his throat, offering her thanks, touching him with her tongue, tasting him, feeling as though she was meant to be filled by him. Impaled on his full length, she felt gloriously denned by sex, exalted by sex, stupefied, overflowing with sex, rising and falling, raising and lowering her body, voluptuously gorged, filled.