An Improper Wife (4 page)

Taran halted. “What changed your mind?”

She gave a low, throaty laugh that unnerved him. “You did.”

He glanced at her profile, unable to tear his gaze from the seductive smile hinted at in the corners of her mouth. “And if I choose not to release you?”

Her gaze narrowed.

“A jest,” he quickly whispered. “Forgive me. We have tonight.”

Taran didn’t want to waste another moment when he could have her panting and writhing beneath him.

He led her around three turns, then a left, only to come to a dead end. Taran cursed.

“Lost again,” she muttered.

“I will find the exit soon, or beat a path through the damned bush,” he growled, and led her forward. “To the left, always to the left,” he murmured. “It is inevitable we find the way out of this madness.”

“So you say,” she replied.

He cast her a glance. “Yes, well I had hoped on luck.”

“Perhaps we have exhausted our good fortune for the day.”

He had to agree. Finding her was the only stroke of good luck amidst a streak of bad luck that had begun with his brother’s death and would continue with his marriage tomorrow. In one fell swoop, Mistress Fortune had saddled him with a lifetime of bad luck. The absurdity of wasting the few precious moments he had with Aphrodite, lost in a labyrinth, was almost comical.

The whinny of horses and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone faintly sounded up ahead. Taran made a quick turn at the next bend, bringing them face-to-face with the rear gate. Aphrodite gave a small cry of surprise. Taran threw back the latch and opened the gate with the intention of fetching his carriage. He stopped, a thought crossing his mind. If he left her, would she disappear? She was certain to balk at the notion of accompanying him to his carriage. She would be right. A tryst at the masque was permissible. Aphrodite leaving the ball with the Scot all recognised as Lord Blackhall would make the morning
Times
. The lady’s reputation would be in ruins. A hired carriage would have to do. Away from prying eyes, he could dispense with her clothes—and that damn mask and wig.

They stepped from the alley and he started across the street towards a respectable looking carriage sitting in front of a townhouse. He glanced at her. She wore no cloak. What had the little fool meant, leaving the safety of the gardens for the public streets in that costume?

“I have a coach—” she began.

“Hush,” he cut her off as they neared the hackney.

He released her and reached into his shirt pocket for his small purse. Taran opened the door.

The driver’s head snapped in their direction. “Hey there, I ain’t open for business. I have a customer—”

Taran pulled a coin from the purse and tossed it to him. The man caught the glistening gold piece without hesitation. He cast the lady a glance, clearly taking in her costume, then bent forward to examine the coin in the streetlight as Taran grasped her waist.

“What—” she began, but he cut off the protest by hoisting her into the coach.

Taran grasped the carriage door. “Drive until I say otherwise and there will be another of those for you at the end of the trip.” He leapt into the carriage, slamming the door shut behind him.

“At your service,” the driver called, and whipped the reins.

Taran settled into the velvet seat across from Aphrodite. The coach lurched into motion, sending the flame in the corner lamp into a momentary dance.

“I must return to my carriage,” she said in a quiet voice.

Taran studied her.

“I am at your mercy.” The defiant lift of her chin belied the words.

He leant forward and grasped her chin with two fingers. “No secrets, remember, my lady?”

Light from the lantern, low, but distinct, illuminated the guilt that flashed in her eyes. His heart rate accelerated. What could she possibly be hiding? He brushed her soft skin with his thumb, then leant back against the cushion.

“Come,” he said, “was it not you who said a woman need feel no shame for attending a masque?”

“It is not shame, I feel, but wonder at being kidnapped.”

Chapter Four

Taran’s body tensed when her gaze turned to steel.

“I am to wed,” she said.

“To wed—you mean—” He stared. “What in God’s name are you doing at this masque?” But he knew the answer. Innocence and sin. Heaven and sweet hell. When she’d first touched his cock with those delicate,
inexperienced
fingers, he’d nearly exploded.

“Christ,” he muttered.

She had purposefully misled him. He should turn her over his knee and paddle her backside. Or her soon-to-be-husband should.

He was a fool. At cards he beat the most skilled player, few dared face him in a dawn appointment, yet this wisp of a woman had brought him to his knees when she’d knelt and taken him into her mouth.

Moonlight seeped through the crack in the window drape and fell across the purple sash that now lay unevenly beneath her breasts. As if reading his mind, she slid the drapery closed.

Taran lifted his eyes to her face, bathed in the soft light of the interior lamp. “Why attend the masque?” he demanded.

Her gaze dropped.

The carriage bumped and rolled along the lane for a long moment before he prompted, “My lady?”

Her eyes rose to meet his. “You know as well as I that a woman has only that which is given her.”

Taran thought of the woman who would be his wife tomorrow. Condemned to life with a man she had met once as a girl, her betrothed’s brother, a man she didn’t know, but must take into her bed on the day they wed.

“I decided—” Aphrodite paused. “I decided to take something for myself.”

Taran released the breath he held. This he understood. “Many hours remain before morning. There are ways we may pleasure one another and satisfy your husband in the bargain.”

Her expression turned wary.

“Something for yourself?” He extended a hand.

A moment passed, and a vice-like pressure squeezed his chest as an unexpected urge arose to protect her—to claim her for his own. He had no business opening his heart to her. Despite the logic, a fissure in his armour-plated shell cracked. She placed her hand in his and he breathed again.

She moved to his side of the carriage and Taran pulled her close. He kissed her, trailed a hand over her ribs, then cupped a breast, pinching the pebbled nipple until her breath caught and she trembled in his arms.

In his imagination, they lay in a feather bed next to a warm fire while he filled her with his cock and tasted her pleasure in hot, wet kisses. Tonight they had a rented carriage and stolen touches.

He brushed her ear with his lips. “Remove your mask.”

She pushed him back so that she could look into his face. “We have left the masque, but the rules prevail.”

“Even in the cover of darkness?” He leant across the seat and blew out the lamp. The compartment plunged into pitch black. He sat back beside her. “My hands shall be my eyes.” He removed his mask, set it on the opposite cushion, then reached for hers.

“My lord, no.” The fear in her voice reminded him of her innocence and he silently swore constraint.

“I promise, we shall don our disguises before first light.”

She tensed, but said nothing when, with careful, delicate movements, he unpinned her wig and laid it onto the opposite bench. He slipped the mask from her face and laid it on the cushion.

Taran cupped her cheek, traced the high arch of her delicate brow, and the length of her nose. Smooth skin, soft as silk, warmed beneath his fingers. Hot breath fanned his thumb as he traced her lips. She flicked her tongue against his skin. Taran stilled. She licked him again, more deliberately this time.

He pushed his thumb past her lips, into her warm, wet mouth. Her tongue curled around his thumb, mimicking the motion from when she’d sucked the head of his rod in the garden. The sensation rushed into his shaft. He felt the tug as acutely in his balls as in the tip of his cock.

He growled and hauled her onto his lap. Taran pulled her bodice down and over her arms, releasing the dress in a bunch around her waist. He kneaded the firm globes, tracing circles with a thumb on the soft skin. Leaning her back, he bent and captured one taut nipple between his lips. Moist and succulent, sweet and intoxicating. Her breath caught and she clutched his shoulders. Shivers travelled over her flesh. The carriage was warm, dark, and her throaty gasp of pleasure swelled his cock to an agonising length.

She moaned, arching into his mouth. Taran kissed lower. He slid her from his lap, then knelt on the floor. Inching her dress down as he swirled his tongue along her belly and around her navel. Sweat, salty, and musky tasting, beaded on her quivering flesh. He inhaled, deeply drinking in the scent of her arousal as well as the hint of perfumed soap.

“Lift your hips.”

She did, and he pulled the dress down her legs and tossed it onto the empty seat. He slipped off the right slipper, gently massaging her instep. He did the same with the left foot. He sat back on his haunches and lifted her leg.

“Are you ready to discover the pleasure of passion?” He sucked a toe into his mouth.

Her startled cry came in unison with the rocking carriage as it hit a pothole. Taran rained kisses along one leg, then the other. She grasped his forearm. He lifted her hand and one at a time, he slipped each of her fingers into his mouth and sucked them.

“I am on fire,” she breathed.

“Wait, my lady, for you are about to learn to fly.”

He spread her thighs. The heady aroma of her wet pussy enveloped him. He had to taste her. “You have brought me to my knees.”

He slid his palms beneath her rounded buttocks and pulled her to the edge of the seat. He blew against her mound before pressing his lips against her tender, heated folds.

“My lord.” Her voice trembled. “I—” she gasped. “I feel as though I will surely die if I do not have your touch,” she said as she opened her legs wider, “here.”

Taran trailed a finger through the juices that drenched the thin ribbon of downy hair covering her nether lips. Dragging his tongue along the seam, he teased her, drove her to wriggle against him, but he didn’t part her folds to ease the ache building within her. She was so eager for pleasure, yet he paused at an unwanted thought forming in his mind. What if he were not the first? Jealousy coiled in his gut.

“Have you been touched before?” he whispered.

She gasped and her thighs tightened around his head. “I have told you that I am yet to wed. I am a virgin.”

“Aye, a virgin who thrusts against my mouth like a woman accustomed to having a man between her legs.”

She seized his hair and yanked—hard.

He growled. The she-devil had returned. “Have I angered you, my lady?”

“You have. Remove yourself from between my legs and return my dress.”

Even in the dark, he sensed the daggers aimed from her eyes at his skull. “Nay. You wanted a night of pleasure.”

“Brute.” She squirmed.

Taran held fast to her hips and once again sank his mouth into her heated mound, sliding his tongue between her folds. She stiffened and cried out. Taran released her and carefully spread the engorged petals of her pussy. He curled his tongue around her erect nub, sucked it between his lips, then lapped the length of her fast and furiously.

She trembled against his mouth. He thrust his tongue into her channel. His nostrils flared and his throat tightened. Aphrodite spread her legs wider. He angled his head, devouring her.

“My lord,” she gasped, and pumped her hips against his mouth.

He understood the silent demand, but dared not penetrate her with a finger for fear of breaking the maidenhead. In the confined space of the carriage, he couldn’t stretch her opening, worship her body in the manner she deserved. But, by God, he would show her passion. When this night was finished, she would know that she was more than a simple conquest.

Taran licked, nibbled, and sucked her folds until she screamed. Her body jerked and her legs locked to the side of his head. And still she bucked, a wild bird released to soar higher and higher until her body trembled and sweet cream gushed from her channel.

“More.” She clutched at his shoulders. “My God, more.”

She panted, thrusting against his mouth.

“Please.”

The lady wanted cock and he couldn’t give it to her. Nor could he deny her. Taran circled her opening with his finger, then turned his hand palm up and slid his middle finger into her hot, tight passage. She moaned as he pulled out and eased in again.

“Yes. Yes.” She clutched his wrist and forced him deep.

She was hot, slick and tight. Slipping into her heat, he curled his finger, rubbing against the secret, sensitive part of her channel wall.

She wildly pumped her hips against his hand as he plunged his finger in and out of her. With his other hand, he reached beneath his kilt and grasped his cock. In a matching rhythm, he worked them both into a frenzy. Taran withdrew his finger from her passage, then slid two fingers inside, slowly stretching the opening. Muscles in his arms bunched as he fucked her with his hand. She seized his cock. He jerked his fingers from inside her. She sat up and slid forward on the seat.

“Fuck,” he ground out.

She rubbed her heated flesh against his length. The hairs on her pussy tickled his shaft in agonising delight. Muscles in his arse clenched with each thrust along her drenched folds. Gripping her hips, he lifted her and sat on the seat with her straddling him. He supported her hips, sliding her along his cock as she rode him without penetration.

“Yes,” she cried, and clutched his shoulders, grinding her hips up and down in exquisite torture against him.

“There must be a way,” she gasped.

Taran froze. Did she mean— “No,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It would mean deceiving your husband.”

She leant so close. Her breath bathed his face. “I
choose
this lie.”

Before he could reply, she stole his breath with an open-mouth kiss. She sucked his tongue, swept his mouth with hot, darting strokes, and pressed her breasts into his chest. Taran understood the demand. He pulled back and she trailed kisses along his jaw and down his neck.