Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  But it was his mouth that drew her interest. Well shaped, full and sensual. She couldn’t take her eyes from it.

  “May I kiss you?”

  She started. “What?”

  “May I kiss you?” He ran a finger over her lips. She caught her breath and suddenly she wanted him to kiss her. Very badly.

  She glanced back at Alex. “Is it allowed?“

  Alex’s features were sharp with excitement. He nodded. “He knows what’s allowed, trust him.”

  She turned back to Peter; his eyes were bright cerulean with desire. Shyness consumed her and she dropped her eyes to his cravat pin, watching as its diamond luster caught the candlelight.

  “Well, my valet will be pleased to know you approve of my cravat.” His deep, masculine voice, so close to her, vibrated through her bones.

  She laughed, again that worldly, wicked woman’s laugh that seemed to belong to someone else. Her hand found its way to press against his chest. His heart beat strong and quite fast. His body heat radiated through the pale gray satin and she could feel the coiled strength of him tensing under her touch. Her cunt clenched. Her body jerked with the shock of it. A sexual reaction to a man other than Alex. This man. Kind, sweet Peter. Who knew she could feel this way?

  Peter took her other hand and linked her fingers with his. “Is that yes or no, gorgeous?”

  She laughed. No one had ever called her gorgeous. “Yes—” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat softly. Her gaze flickered back to his mouth then hurried back to her lap. “Yes, I should like it very much.”

  He released his breath as if he’d been holding it in anticipation of her answer. As if it had mattered a good deal if she would allow a kiss. And then he touched her cheek and tilted her face up to his. His gaze was as heated and piercing as Alex’s had ever been. He wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted it. That shocked her. She had never guessed that he desired her. She had thought all his teasing was to be kind.

  His lips touched hers. Strong yet soft. And he kissed very differently from Alex—not seeking domination but communion. He held both her hands now, tenderly, almost romantically as he continued to kiss her with a soft intensity. When she returned his pressure, he released her hands and let her take over the kiss.

  The realization of her power was heady. She pressed his chest and then let her hands slide up to his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders. She opened her mouth and allowed her tongue to trace the seam of his lips. His mouth opened and in the next second their tongues were touching. She thrust hers at him and he answered her with light, feathery, unhurried strokes, warm, velvet moisture that sent pure fire down her belly and into her cunny. She tightened her grip on his shoulders, his crisp, starched linen shirt crinkling under her hands. God, he kissed like an angel would. She couldn’t get enough of it. She turned her head to get a better angle and she plunged deeper and it was sweeter yet. Wetness surged from her quim and she moaned in her throat.

  He answered with a groan, his hands cupping her face. She moved her hands from his shoulders to twine them in his hair. It was as soft as thistledown. She pulled back for a breath and his tongue followed hers, caressing it outside of their mouths as they both gasped for air. At the pure sensuality of the moment, she moaned. The sound echoed loudly over the steady thudding of her heart. She caught her breath. Then she returned for another taste of his kiss.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  It was so unbearably sweet. Like wine and honey and the smell of a May afternoon. Like ripe strawberries during that one week in late spring. She turned her head again and drank even more deeply from him.

  His hands were shaking on her. His cock throbbed beneath her. Her inner lips swelled and wetness flowed between them. She moaned again and squirmed in his lap. He touched her breast, his trembling fingertips lightly grazing her excited peak and then moving to the other one. Her arousal reached painful proportions. The wetness was pouring from her now; she knew she was wetting the leg of his breeches. He had to know it.

  He broke their kiss. “Touch your pretty quim, sweetheart.”

  “What?”

  He kissed her, deeply yet swiftly, then tore his mouth away. “I can’t touch you there, it is against the rules.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t think she could do that. Not here.

  His hand moved in a circular path on her belly. Her flesh quivered.

  “Go on, give yourself pleasure. I would dearly adore having you come in my arms.”

  His fingertips traced along the inside of her thigh. Knowing now that he wouldn’t, couldn’t touch her where she most wanted to be touched made her need it all the more. Her nub grew erect and throbbing. She rocked herself on his leg, feeling the corded muscles beneath the wool, and it only increased the ache, increased the wetness.

  She slid her hand down to caress her lower belly, as if she could ease her rapidly growing tension by doing so. His hands teased her nipples again and the ache in her cunt became pain. Her whole body quaked with hunger.

  Almost of their own accord, her fingers brushed her nub once. Pleasure and relief washed over her and she drew in a shuddering breath. She did it again and again and soon she was rubbing herself with firm, steady pressure. Practically bouncing up and down on his leg. His hands were still on her breasts, tweaking her nipples harder now. His breath sounded harsh. Her tension rose to unbearable levels. Her cries sounded feline.

  Oh, God, it was always so hard to come this way. It wasn’t exciting enough. She needed a man’s touch, a man’s tongue, a man’s cock.

  Peter’s mouth covered hers, open, moist. She opened her mouth and let him kiss her. His taste, oh, his taste—

  Her inner walls began to contract, hard, fierce contractions. Swift, sweet sensation raced through her, and her whole body shook as she cried out into his mouth as she came. Oh, damn, it wasn’t—it wasn’t nearly… She worked herself furiously and then she was coming again. His mouth lifted from hers and her cries echoed in her ears.

  She leant forward, falling on to his chest, and her hand fell limp. The aftershocks were slow to ebb in the intense yet not quite deep enough way of an orgasm achieved by only stimulating her nub.

  And it left her crashing, like when she was a child at Christmas and had eaten too many sweets. She had desired Peter—for those moments his kiss had been her whole world—but now that sensation was suddenly gone. She could easily leave him and go crawl into her bed and go to sleep and not regret the lack of him beside her.

  So this was the difference between lust and love. She had never felt this way with Alex. She always wanted to curl into him and never let go after lovemaking. What a shock to discover it, but she must have loved Alex from the start…

  Peter gently pushed her to the edge of his knees and began to unbutton his breeches. Once his fall was open and he pulled his cock out, she found herself fascinated anew at his difference from Alex. He was not as big. She might even be able to swallow him completely. But it wasn’t going to be necessary apparently, for he wrapped his hand about his shaft.

  “Stroke him, my love.”

  Alex’s voice startled her but she obeyed instantly, touching Peter, taking over from him.

  Peter groaned. “Oh, Christ, you do that sweetly. Alex has taught you well.”

  “Well, just don’t forget yourself. Don’t come on any part of her body.”

  Peter sounded pained. “Oh, Alex, it is like having her but not having her.”

  “You’re a lucky bastard tonight and you know it.”

  Peter chuckled but the sound came out halfway as a groan. He pulled a snowy white handkerchief out of his pocket. In a matter of moments, he was coming into it and moaning his pleasure openly.

  Emily started at the touch of large, strong hands seizing her waist. She was lifted up and off of Peter and then she was in Alex’s arms, held against his hard stomach and muscled chest. His body hair tickled her bareness. He had undressed. She wrapped her arms about his neck and the bookshelves and other furni
ture of the study whizzed by in a blur. Her laughter echoed in her ears. She landed on something soft and her bottom slid over its cool, satiny surface. The other settee. Alex loomed over her, his face fierce as he covered her with his body. His hardness touched her entrance.

  “Yes, yes, yes,“ she panted, writhing frantically. “Oh, dear God, yes.”

  He cupped her face and stared into her eyes. He kissed her.

  If Peter’s kisses had been wine and honey and strawberries and sweets, Alex’s kiss was ale and roasted beef and hot, black coffee laced with rum on a cold January morning and all things nourishing and strengthening. Sustaining. Everything she could ever need. With a moan, long and lingering deep in her throat, she gave herself up to him.

  He plunged deep within her. She cried out his name and wrapped her arms and legs around him at the same time. He pulled back and thrust deep inside her again and she screamed his name. His lips fastened into the curve of her neck and then he was fucking her with savage abandon and she soared with the incredible pleasure.

  ****

  She opened her eyes. What was she doing in the study? Oh yes, right. Dear heaven, she didn’t remember anything past the astounding orgasm. At the sound of Alex catching his breath, she turned. He sat beside her. Had he? Of course he had. He must have. The smell of their sex and sweat permeated the air. She shifted and his seed gushed from between her legs. So much of it the settee would be ruined. She caught her breath and, frantically, reached beneath herself and made contact with a folded linen towel.

  Thank God.

  Heavy-lidded, Alex looked down at her and then gripped the base of her throat lightly. His eyes were glowing with love. “Damn.” He breathed the word like a prayer.

  Joy filled her and overflowed. She laughed, the sound broken by her still panting breaths.

  He tightened his grip just a bit. “Nymph, you nearly killed me.”

  She glanced at the other settee. It was empty. “Peter?”

  “I think he went home, my love.” He removed his hand from her throat.

  “Oh,” she said. “Do you think we should have… Were we rude?”

  He laughed softly and traced his fingertip on her cheek. “I don’t think there are any standards of deportment that cover this situation, love.”

  “Yes, of course.” She felt foolish. What did she think—that Peter would stay and crawl into bed with them? How silly. She wouldn’t have even wanted him there. Not now. Was it callous to feel that way? Had they used Peter? Did Peter even care?

  “In any case, it’s a moot point.” Alex’s voice cut into her worries. “Once I saw you come so totally undone, so beautifully uninhibited and lost to yourself, no force on Earth was going to stop me from taking you. I have never been so insane to have a woman. My cock was so hard, I thought it might break.” He caressed her lank, sweaty hair as if it were the most treasured silk.

  They remained quiet, all the while her breathing and heart rate slowly returning to normal.

  Finally, he stood. He put his arms behind her back and she remained limp as he lifted her into his arms. “Shall I carry you up to bed?”

  She nodded and wrapped her arms loosely about his neck. She could never have walked—her whole body was weak. Spent. “Yours… not mine.”

  “My bed is not as soft as yours.” His deep voice vibrated through her.

  “Don’t… care.”

  He began walking. But then he paused and buried his face into the curve of her throat. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  His whispered words sent warmth all through her.

  Something had broken between them. A barrier. She could feel it. She didn’t understand it completely, but this had been something he’d needed and now things were different between them. They were closer than ever now. Almost one person.

  Triumph rushed through her.

  She had won.

  Chapter Five

  Alex lay atop her, and, aside from the bandages on their feet, they were naked. His soles had been treated with salve but he could feel the fiery pain still burning under the numbness. However, he was young and she was flawlessly beautiful. The kind of woman a man dreams of having as a wife. He put his lips to her ear, touching her golden hair. “I am sorry, I am sorry.”

  Her head moved; she was nodding. “Why must he insist on watching? Isn’t the shame great enough already?”

  Futile rage swept through him, strong enough to kill the Dutch devil, had he only stood a chance of getting to him. “He always watches. He envies that which he cannot do. Pretend he’s not there.” He pressed a soft kiss just below her ear. “Pretend we were married this morning, we spent the day feasting and celebrating with our families. You had a beautiful silk gown, there was a huge bridal cake, your father drank too much and your mother cried.”

  “Yes,” she said breathily. “I can picture it.”

  “They are happy to see us wed. We’re in love…”

  “Yes, yes we are.”

  “We’ve courted a long time. We’ve waited forever for tonight and now it’s finally here.”

  “Yes.”

  Alex opened his eyes. Gray light flooded from the halfway open curtains. The placid safety of his home, somber and dignified in its American furnishings, was always a shock.

  No, he had not been in love with her. Nor she with him. They had been forced to come together and to create a child all for the vain whim of the Dutch devil.

  In the wake of the dream, he waited for the usual shame to flood him. The sense of being unclean. Followed by the cold sweat and irresistible urge to vomit his guts out.

  The moments ticked by and he felt nothing but an aching remorse. He should have been able to do something to prevent what had happened in that madman’s domain in Constantinople. Yet he’d done nothing but capitulate and give the bastard exactly what he’d wanted.

  Well, not exactly what he’d wanted. That had been the final push to the horrific end.

  An image of water vapor and water trailing down blue and yellow tiles flashed into his mind. He pushed it out. A feeling of disloyalty immediately arose.

  I am sorry, I just don’t want to think about it any longer.

  Was it wrong to want to forget? To want to focus on his life with Emily and make a family with her when Catarina would never have the chance to enjoy a real wedding and the joys of married life? She would never know the joy of being a mother. All because he had failed her when she had needed him most.

  A man did not fail those he was responsible for. At least not a man who would call himself a man.

  Alex sighed, rose from the bed and went to pour himself a brandy. He sat in the wingchair, sipping the burning liquid.

  Yes, he’d always bear the shame of what had ultimately happened in Turkey. The blame. But he wanted to forget.

  The yellow and blue tiles of Catarina’s private bath flashed into his mind again.

  Compelling him to glance down.

  Just one glance.

  He’d be undone if he did and it would take hours for him to recover. He steeled his mind against the compulsion.

  But his inner demons never gave up easily. They niggled him with the truth.

  She did it because she had no hope—you gave her no hope. Glance down and relive it, again and again and again. Because she never will. Only you can keep her memory alive. Her own family disowned her memory, denied the existence of her child.

  Only you remain.

  Only your memory of her.

  He slammed the glass down on the window ledge. Damn it, he was tired of flogging himself with these images. He pressed his hands to his forehead—he just wanted them to vanish and never return.

  “Alex?” Emily’s voice was soft, sounding concerned. She touched his head.

  He reached for her, pulled her close. She still smelt of the gillyflower-scented water he’d sponged her with before she’d slept. A scent of innocence and sweetness.

  “I am too old for you.”

  “You are only
twenty-eight.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. I have done too much, seen too much. It has damaged me.”

  “You’re not damaged.”

  “I am, on the inside, where you can’t see.”

  “Then I’ll take you the way you are, cracked, broken.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” he croaked the words out past a sudden tightness in his throat. He dropped to his knees then nestled his head upon her flat yet soft belly. “You deserve better.”

  She caressed his hair. “Shh-shh.”

  His body had begun to shake. Wracking shudders that seemed to come from inside his bones. Dry, wrenching sobs tore up from the pit of his soul. Her gentle hands caressed his head, offering him shelter from the past.

  ****

  After that strange encounter early this morning, Emily hadn’t expected Alex to wake in such a distant mood. However, he’d dressed in silence, kissed her briefly then left.

  Now Emily sat at the kitchen table, idly sipping black coffee yet consumed inside with images of the night before.

  Herself with Alex.

  With Peter.

  With Alex.

  Acidic coffee lurched up her throat and she swallowed it back.

  She did not regret what had happened the night before.

  Not precisely. It had been somehow right in the moment it had happened. But it could never be right again. She would never share herself with another man again. But she was grateful for the experience.

  Any artist needed novel experiences to see life from new angles.

  What disconcerted her was the why of it all. Alex had seduced her into it.

  It had seemed so important to him. But why?

  Boots on the hardwood floor made her heart leap. Alex had gone already. There would be no servants until Sunday. She jerked her head up.