Seven Years to Sin (Historical #1)

Seven Years to Sin (Historical #1) Page 10

Alistair renewed his attention to her breasts. He could swear he’d never seen a more beautiful pair. They were the perfect size for her slender frame, emphasizing the petite curvature of her waist and balancing lusciously curved hips. What a travesty the latest styles were, with their high waists and straight, shapeless skirts. While he’d imagined her having a magnificent bosom, the reality was a treasure found. It would take a great deal of time to become indifferent to such charms. He would have to do his best to extend her stay on the island. When she left him, he wanted to be certain he’d had his fill of her. He could not return to having the damnable cravings that had plagued him the past several years.

He straddled her. Taking a moment to enjoy the view of her upthrust breasts and taut belly, he debated where to begin.

“Alistair,” she breathed, tugging at her bindings.

Brute that he was, he found that slight show of struggle profoundly arousing. Combined with the breathless way she said his name, he was sorely pressed to hold himself back for sobriety’s sake. He reached down and adjusted the fit of his breeches over his cockstand.

Jessica stilled, eyes riveted to the movement of his hands. She licked her lower lip, and he wondered if she’d ever taken a man in her mouth before. Today was not the day to progress to such bedsport, but one day …

Made as comfortable as he could expect to be under the circumstances, Alistair decided to continue working his way down her torso. He set one hand on either side of her head and lowered his chest to hers. He slid his knees back so he was levered over her. His thighs pinned hers down, while the spread between them allowed his aching cock to be cradled between her closed shins.

He settled in to feast, his mouth seeking and embracing the nipple he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of attending to. She hissed as he suckled, the tip of her breast puckering against his tongue. She was so sensitive, and very responsive. The sounds she made as he licked the tautened peak were a bawdy delight. For all the civility she displayed in public, in bed she was unrestrained in vocalizing her pleasure. The sounds she made, the low moans and sharp pants, became aphrodisiacs.

This was the woman he’d seen in the Pennington woods. This was the lover he had dreamed of and hungered for until his gut ached.

Cupping her other breast in his hand, he kneaded the swollen flesh, relishing a surge of pure masculine satisfaction. Her body readily responded to his ministrations. He knew she had to be slick and hot between her legs, and he moved lower to see the evidence of her desire with his own eyes. He needed to taste it on his tongue and feel her tremble against his lips.

He licked into her navel, eliciting a shiver that racked her slender frame. She was ticklish, which he loved. He could make her laugh at will, and he was delighted. The sound was warm and throaty. Seductive. A bit rusty from lack of use, but he intended to rectify that. Her laughter came from the sensual woman inside her and not the chilly Lady Tarley who was the epitome of aristocratic hauteur.

Her belly quivered as he neared the patch of dark blond curls that shielded her sex.

Looking up, he met her gaze. “You like watching.”

“And you like being watched. We have already established you are an exhibitionist.”

Her prim and proper voice, tempered by panting, made him smile. “Only when you are the observer.”

“I want to touch you.”

“Why?”

“How will my memory linger with you, if I leave no imprint?”

Alistair responded by sliding one thigh between hers, parting her legs. If she thought they would have only this one indiscretion, she was sorely mistaken. But he thought it best not to put it in quite those terms yet. “You may have your way with me another day.”

Before she could reply, he lifted and draped one sleek thigh over his shoulder. Her sudden intake of breath increased his anticipation. Her eyes were half-lidded, her kiss-swollen lips parted, her chest heaving with rapid breaths. She lifted her hips to his mouth in bold provocation. The act was not new to her. Alistair both envied Tarley and admired him. The viscount had possessed everything a man could want—he’d retained respectability and popularity, embraced an unfashionably happy marriage, and enjoyed a satisfying sexual life with a socially esteemed wife many believed was above such base needs.

Alistair could offer her so little of what Tarley had had. Aside from coin and a head for business, there was nothing to recommend him beyond his passion for her and his skill in bed. And perhaps his lack of shame and willingness to treat her as an equal.

Jessica lifted her other leg and rested it on his shoulder. She arched one brow in silent challenge.

“Temptress.” He parted the plump folds of her sex and ground his hips into the bed, attempting to relieve the nearly unbearable throbbing of his neglected cock. “You are even perfect here.”

Pointing his tongue, he traced the delicate folds and crevices before circling the distended tip of her clitoris. She was as wet as he’d hoped, the silken skeins of her lust clinging to the petal-soft skin, her body’s primitive plea for a hard cock to fill her.

“Yes …” she breathed. “Yes.”

Alistair fluttered his tongue over the clenching opening, groaning as her response became more frantic. Tilting his head, he licked into the tender, spasming tissues. Her thready moan enflamed him, urged him to a faster pace, until he was fucking her fiercely with his tongue. Ravenous, he ate at her, drinking in her taste and the sounds she made. She began to plea for him to finish her, then to threaten him with reprisal. He pushed farther, to the point where she began to promise him anything if only he would ease her torment.

There was a great deal he could do with such a promise.

He licked along her drenched slit, then pushed her over the edge with a lush, open-mouthed kiss to her clitoris. With parted lips and gentle suckling, he stroked over the bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue. The first flutters of climax rippled through her, and at the height of her extremity he slid two fingers deep into the tightness of her too-long neglected body.

The headboard creaked as Jessica fought against her restraints, her delicate inner muscles tugging at his pumping fingers in time with the workings of his mouth. He tongued her mercilessly, giving no quarter, spurring her to another orgasm before the first had fully eased its grip. She screamed when she came again, her mouth pressed to her biceps to muffle the sound.

He growled as she shuddered, as hungry for her pleasure as he’d ever been for his own. Pushing a third finger in with the others, he worked the tight flesh. The thought of how snugly she’d hold his cock increased his frenzy. Raking the edge of his teeth lightly over the hard knot of nerves, he pushed her into another climax on the heels of the second. He kept at her until she came again, driving her hard and fast. Relentless in his need to own her desire completely.

“No more …” she pled hoarsely, shrinking away from his avid mouth. “Please …”

Alistair lifted his head with reluctance, his drenched fingers pulling free of her quivering flesh. Wiping his mouth on the inside of her thigh, he slid his shoulders out from under her lax legs and then his body straight off the bed.

“Where are—” she began as he stood.

“I can’t stay.” He reached to free her wrists and retrieve his cravat. As the knots loosened and she pulled her arms down to her sides, he saw her wince and understood the cause. She’d pulled tight against the bonds with every wrenching orgasm, stretching muscles unused to such abuse. He reached for her shoulders and massaged them, pressing gently but firmly into the sore muscles to alleviate their discomfort.

“Don’t leave,” she said.

“I must.”

“I want …” She swallowed. “I want you.”

“As was my intention.” Dear God, it would kill him to walk out of the room with her begging for sex. But it would be far more torturous to face regret from her on the morrow. Cupping her nape, Alistair kissed her hard and quick. “You were magnificent.”

She caught his wrist before he straightened. “Why must you go?”

“I need you unimpaired. I want no self-recrimination or faulty memory between us.” He began to wind his cravat around his neck. “Ask me again when you are temperate, and it will be my great pleasure to oblige you.”

Jessica pushed up onto one elbow. “If you stay, I will pay you whatever you desire.”

Alistair froze. A dousing with icy water could not have cooled his ardor faster. Worse, a sharp pain pierced his chest like a blade, twisting mercilessly until he staggered back from the bed to distance himself from his tormentor.

He spun away and tied his cravat with a hasty, sloppy knot. “Good evening, Jessica.”

It was only by the grace of God that no one was in the hallway as he fled the cabin.

It was after midnight when Michael vaulted down from his carriage in front of the impressive three-story, columned entrance to Remington’s Gentlemen’s Club. He ascended the wide steps to the watered-glass double doors, which were held open by footmen liveried in black and silver. As he handed his hat and gloves to the waiting attendant, he noted the curricle-sized floral arrangement gracing a massive round table in the circular, domed foyer. Lucien Remington had long been acknowledged as a man of impeccable taste, and his establishment remained the most exclusive in England in part due to his willingness to continuously update the décor. Remington did not follow prevailing inclinations in design; he set the standard for them.

Directly ahead was the gaming area, which was the center of all business. From there, one could access the stairs to the fencing studio, as well as the many lovely courtesans and their private rooms. The lower floor accommodated boxing training and lessons. To the left was the bar and kitchen. To the right was Lucien Remington’s office.

Michael crossed the black-and-white marble floor to the gaming area, then moved beyond that to the great room. The smell of leather and fragrant tobacco helped to settle nerves kept on edge since his visit with Hester the day before.

At least that was true until the Earl of Regmont caught his eye.

Seated in one of a half dozen wingbacks surrounding a low table, Regmont laughed at something said by Lord Westfield. Also in his circle were Lord Trenton, Lord Hammond, and Lord Spencer Faulkner. Since Michael was well acquainted with all but Regmont, he felt no qualms about taking the remaining open seat.

“Good evening, Tarley,” Ridgely drawled while signaling for a footman. “Seeking escape from all the debutantes eager for your new title?”

“I have an increased appreciation for the toll the Season can take on an unwed peer.” Michael ordered cognac from the waiting server, as did Regmont. The rest of the men at the table had half-full libations.

“Here, here,” Westfield concurred, lifting his glass in toast.

“Better you than me,” Lord Spencer said. As a second son, he enjoyed a less hunted existence; the other men at the table had wives.

Studying Regmont, Michael wondered why the man was out carousing with friends when he should be home making amends to Hester. It was difficult for Michael to restrain his tongue after witnessing her unhappiness. If she had been his, he would ensure nothing marred her existence.

The footman returned with two glasses of cognac. Regmont took an immediate drink, which brought Michael’s attention to the hand the earl wrapped around the bulbous glass. The knuckles were swollen and bruised.

“Engaged in fisticuffs lately, Regmont?” he asked, before taking a drink himself.

To his knowledge, the earl was a genial fellow who was well liked by one and all. Lauded by women for his golden good looks, easy smile, and ready charm, Regmont made it very difficult for Michael to like him. The man seemed too blithesome, to the point of lacking any real substance. But perhaps that was what made him suit Hester, who’d once been the merriest and most enchanting woman anywhere. She was still the latter and would always be to Michael’s mind.

“Pugilism,” Regmont replied. “An excellent sport.”

“Agreed. I enjoy it myself. Do you practice here at Remington’s?”

“Often. If you’re ever of a mind to practice together—”

“Absolutely,” Michael interjected, relishing the possibility of championing Hester, even if he was the only one who knew his motivation. From the sight of Regmont’s knuckles, the man preferred training sans mufflers, which suited Michael perfectly in this instance. “Name the time and date, and I will be there.”

“I shall require the betting book,” Lord Spencer called out, deliberately drawing attention.

Regmont grinned. “Spoiling for a fight, are you, Tarley? I’ve had such days. I would be happy to oblige you now.”

Michael sized the earl up. Regmont was shorter than he and lean, with sinewy musculature that lent well to the prevalent fashion of snug tailoring in breeches and coats. Michael had the advantage in height and arm reach. Settling more comfortably into the butter-soft leather, he said, “I would prefer an early-afternoon bout. We’ll enjoy ourselves more if we are both rested and free of drink.”

The betting book was brought to the table, which lured an audience.

An unusual appearance of somberness possessed Regmont’s features. “Excellent point. This day next week, then? Three o’clock?”

“Perfect.” An anticipatory smile curved Michael’s lips. He reached for the betting book and placed a wager on Alistair’s behalf with odds on himself.

It was just the sort of bet his friend would appreciate.

Chapter 8

Jessica awoke the next morning with what she likened to a megrim. The hard, insistent throbbing in her head and the horrid taste in her mouth made her ill. She fought nausea valiantly but lost. She was also highly aware of the tenderness between her legs. Memories from the day before made her blush, then cringe. How could she have been so undisciplined? And inflamed enough by Alistair’s skillful hands and mouth to make a crude suggestion that led him to leave her bed in anger?