One Little Sin

by Liz Carlyle

  His hand fisted angrily in her hair. “You silly little fool!” he choked. “And you are ten times a fool to remain alone here with me.”

  She felt her whole body begin to tremble with rage and thwarted desire. “Stop pretending I don’t know what I want,” she hissed. “And stop pretending I don’t know you. I know the scent of lust on your skin. The heat in your eyes. I know you want me. God knows I want you, fool that I am.”

  Alasdair heard the passion and anger in her words, and knew he should walk away. This was dangerous ground. Esmée belonged to another. To a friend. But in the end, desire overcame honor. Bracketing her perfect face between his hands, Alasdair slanted his mouth over hers, and kissed her hungrily. Esmée goaded him, kissing him back with equal abandon, no longer his little innocent.

  She allowed him every liberty, opening her mouth to his tongue and tasting him deeply in return. Fleetingly, he tried to think. Tried to stop. But Esmée had come fully against him, tempting and tormenting him with her lithe, round body. When he hesitated, she coaxed him, sliding her tongue provocatively along his. When he tried to pull away, she slid her hands round his waist and up his back, her touch warm and sure beneath his coat.

  “Alasdair.” With lips like honeyed satin, she tempted him, wrapping her body round his, binding them together, heart to heart. At last, she tore her mouth from his. “Oh, Alasdair, make me forget you,” she begged. “Take me. Take this terrible craving and sate it. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

  “Esmée, love,” he whispered into her hair, “it doesn’t work that way. It only gets worse.”

  “Try.” Her lips moved lightly across his throat. “Oh, just try. Just once.”

  His mouth sought hers, and she kissed him again, exultantly and openly. All the impossibilities fell away. His good intentions crumbled. He bent her back, reminding himself of how small she was. He felt tall and a little awkward, like a boy again. But he was no boy. He’d bedded more women than he could count. But tonight, he was going to bed Esmée—and she would be the last. No matter what happened.

  “Nothing is certain,” his brother’s voice echoed. “Not until the vows are spoken.”

  She gave a little moan of pleasure, and she slipped one finger beneath the bearer of his trousers. Just one teasing, tormenting finger. She wanted him. He had always wanted her. And they had this moment, if nothing else.

  “God, Esmée.” It was a whisper. A plea. He needed her, and he was so bloody tired of fighting it. He let his lips slide down the tender flesh of her throat, drawing in her heathery scent as if it might be the last breath he drew. She smelled of warmth. Of comfort and joy. Of home.

  “Alasdair,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  Somehow, he found a shred of self-control and lifted his head without quite looking at her. “Esmée, are you sure?” he whispered. “I would sooner die than hurt you.”

  “’Tis the not having you, Alasdair, that hurts me,” she answered, sliding her hands higher still. “I’ve tried not to want you, but the ache never leaves me. I think it might, if…if you just…”

  “Oh, Lord.” He closed his eyes and bent his forehead to her shoulder. “I’ll burn in hell for this.”

  She turned her head and brushed her lips along the shell of his ear. “I’ll make it worth the trip.”

  He lifted his head, and looked at her. The warmth kindling in her eyes was no reflection of the fire. It was a woman’s knowledge. A woman’s power. It was real, and it was dangerous, and it was for him. She was no girl; he wondered he’d ever thought so. He stroked his thumb along her cheek, but it was not enough. She turned her face into his open hand, her mouth still open and seeking. Lightly, she touched his palm with her tongue and muttered something soft and needy.

  He pulled her roughly to him again and pressed his body to hers in a way which made plain his intentions. With his fingers sliding into the hair at her temples, he cradled her face in his hands, still kissing her, still drowning in her. He could feel her skin heating. Her heart beating. Faster and faster.

  She delved deep into his mouth with her delicate tongue, and he began to tremble in her arms. Desperately, his hands went to the tie of her wrapper, loosening it with unsteady fingers. Her hands did not shake. They slid boldly up his chest and over his shoulders, pushing his coat to the floor.

  His waistcoat followed. His cravat yielded to her small, clever hands, a stitch ripping as she pulled it from his collar. Behind them, the fire snapped, exploding into a hundred tiny sparks. Alasdair felt alive. Exhilarated. Like a man given a second chance at life. There was a throbbing—a mystical, driving drumbeat—pounding in his blood and his brain. He pushed her wrapper away and followed suit with her nightgown.

  Oh, sweet heaven! She was as naked beneath as the day God had made her. He let his hands slide over her, down her, shaping her every hollow and curve, worshiping the thing of beauty that she was. But Esmée was impatient, as if fearing sanity might reclaim her. With urgent motions, she pulled at his shirt hems, still kissing him, hot and openmouthed.

  He loosened the fall of his trousers and pushed everything—drawers, shoes, everything—off in an awkward jumble, leaving him in nothing but his shirt.

  She returned her mouth to his at once. When he slowed fleetingly, she made a sound of desperation. “Don’t slow down, Alasdair,” she begged. “Don’t think. Don’t let me think.”

  He was so easily convinced. Pressing the weight of his arousal against her, he slid his hands to her buttocks and lifted her against him. She pulled at him, urging him down. Somehow, he guided her down onto the Persian carpet, setting her back to the fire’s warmth. Esmée was all softness and beauty. Sweetness and heat. Her bare skin glowed in the firelight. His pulse pounded in his head and throbbed in his groin. She rolled onto her back and shoved his shirt over his head.

  Awkwardly, he helped her strip it off. She slid one hand round the curve of his buttocks and pulled him onto her body. He went willingly now, pinning her to the carpet with his weight and pushing her legs apart with his knee. Forcing himself to slow, Alasdair slid one hand down her belly and eased a finger into her womanly heat.

  Esmée thought she would explode the moment Alasdair touched her. She lay pinned beneath him, her body aching and throbbing. His mouth found her breast, suckling hotly. Raw need surged through her like nothing she’d ever known. Over and over he drew her nipple between the sweet heat of his lips, nibbling and tasting as his finger circled the center of her desire. Esmée was left writhing and gasping. And then ever so gently, he bit down, forcing her to stifle a cry of pure desire.

  Perhaps she was a wanton. Perhaps she was worse than her mother. It did not matter now. Nothing mattered except the awful ache between her legs. “Oh, now!” she choked, tilting her head back. “Let me—give me—oh, God!”

  With his finger, Alasdair touched the hard nub of her arousal, making her hips jerk. She opened her legs wider, begging him. “Slow down, love,” he crooned, his lips teasing at her earlobe. “Let me touch you. Let yourself feel it. Here—yes? Umm.”

  Esmée strained against his hand, unable to still her body. Her head swam with the scent of him. Soap and sweat. Male musk and luscious warmth. She wanted to drown in it.

  “Oh, so beautiful,” he whispered. “Let me make it perfect for you, Esmée love.”

  “It—it—it’s perfect now,” she choked. “I’m—I can’t…Please.”

  He raised up on one elbow, watching her face as he touched her. His eyes held hers, hard and dark by the glow of the dying fire. The long, sleek planes of his body were sculpted by the shadows. Then he bent his head and kissed her again, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth, tasting her deeply. He made a sound, a groan, and against the flesh of her thigh, she could feel the burning weight of his erection. The thought of it frightened her. Thrilled her.

  He was still touching her, but it was not enough. Madness. Oh, such madness. Esmée circled his tongue with her own and tilted her hips eagerly upward. Another finger
slipped inside, spreading her wide. His thumb eased higher, teasing the tip of her need, torturous and more demanding now.

  “Do you want me inside you, love?” he rasped. “Do you ache for me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, riding greedily down on his hand. “Yes.”

  To her shock, he bent his head, and his tongue trailed fire up her throat. He nuzzled her earlobe, then sucked it lazily between his teeth, matching the rhythm of his mouth to the touch of his thumb. Esmée arched off the floor again.

  At last, Alasdair sat back on his knees. His erection rose between them, a shaft of warm, silken flesh. Tentatively, Esmée slid her fingers around it, marveling at the size and the strength. Alasdair shuddered and let his head tip back. Intrigued, she eased her hand down to the base, then up again. He made a growling sound deep in his chest, and one tiny pearl of moisture beaded from the tip. Esmée touched it with her thumb, circling it gently around and around the satiny head of his erection.

  The gesture seemed to meet with Alasdair’s approval. His eyes were squeezed shut now, his nostrils flared wide. Suddenly, his head came up, his hair falling forward to shadow his eyes, which were hot and intense. She could see the depth of his need in them.

  “Come inside me, Alasdair,” she whispered. “Do it—please.”

  She couldn’t catch her breath. She really feared he was going to stop. And yet to go on was insanity. An insanity she craved, no matter the ruin it might bring. She could think of nothing save him; of his touch, his mouth, his essence.

  Wordlessly, he set one muscular arm above her shoulder, and with the other hand, pressed his male hardness slowly but insistently into her. Esmée closed her eyes and forced her legs to fall apart, relaxed and welcoming. The pressure was daunting, but she never once considered stopping. Right or wrong, this was inevitable. It was meant to be. Slowly, oh so slowly, he sheathed himself, rocking backward and forward, each stroke deeper than the last.

  A sharp, sudden pain made her cry out. His eyes snapped open, urgent and questioning. Esmée slid her hands around his hips, curled her fingers into the hard, sculpted muscles of his buttocks, and urged him deeper. The pain did not matter. He drew back and entered her again on a guttural cry. A sound of triumph. She rocked her hips experimentally forward. He filled her. Claimed her—at least in this one moment. He set the pace, a rhythm of pure pleasure. Esmée met him stroke for stroke, feminine instinct guiding her.

  Soon the pain was forgotten. Instinctively, Esmée curled one leg round him and dragged herself hard against him. The feeling building inside her was uncontrollable. She urged him deeper. Faster. There was something—oh, something wonderful just beyond her reach. Esmée closed her eyes, and begged him for it with words that were hungry and incoherent.

  Alasdair obliged her, driving himself madly back and forth. Sweat beaded on his brow. One drop fell between her breasts, warm and enticing. Something inside her broke away, and flew to him—her heart, she thought. “Look at me, Esmée,” he commanded. “Look at me. Come to me, love.”

  His dark, smoldering eyes held her prisoner. And then he drove into her again, and Esmée’s world exploded. Her entire being throbbed and cried out. Light surrounded them, melted over them, warm and pure. She felt his seed pump hotly into her, heard his guttural cry of joy. And she fell back onto the carpet, spent and glorious.

  Alasdair fell across her, the weight of his body pressing her down. “Oh, Esmée!” he said as he gasped for breath. “Oh, love.”

  Esmée must have drowsed for a time, gloriously sated and almost content. Eventually, Alasdair rose from the rug to turn the lock. Oh, what fools they had been! But better late than never. He returned, and tucked her back into her nightdress, then pulled on his clothes.

  She knew they should not remain here, stretched out before the dying fire like lazy cats. She waited for Alasdair to tell her so, but he did not. Instead, he rolled onto his side and drew her body back against his, encircling her waist with his arm. They did not speak—perhaps because they were both too afraid.

  Behind them, the fire was all but dead now. A sense of near peace stole over her as she listened to the soft, rhythmic sounds of Alasdair’s breathing. The arm which bound her to him seemed to fit so naturally. She could not even kiss Lord Wynwood without automatically turning her cheek. And yet she could bind herself to this man with an ease which she should have found alarming.

  She was not alarmed. Instead, there was a sense of inevitability about what they had done. She had believed him a scoundrel from the very first, and she had not been entirely wrong about that. But he was so much more. The blithe charm and physical beauty were unmistakable, but there was a rock-hard foundation of honor beneath it all. Perhaps she had inherited her mother’s impetuosity. Perhaps she was letting her heart rule her head. She simply did not care anymore.

  Quietly, she turned in his arm to face him. In the gloom, she could just make out that his eyes were open, and soft with sleep. Impulsively, Esmée reached out and traced its shape of his sinfully beautiful mouth with the tip of her finger.

  She had done something so irrevocable, some would even say dishonorable, that it seemed incomprehensible to her. And yet she did not regret it. God only knew what she would say to Lord Wynwood.

  “He will likely call me out before all’s said and done,” said Alasdair, as if reading her thoughts. “I would, were I in his position.”

  Esmée shook her head. “He does not love me enough to trouble himself.”

  “Then he is a damned fool,” said Alasdair, rolling away from her to stare at the ceiling. “A bigger fool, even, than I have been.”

  Esmée drew back to study his face, but he said no more. Oh, God, how she wished he would simply say what was in his heart, whatever it was. But her betrothal to his best friend hung between them, an awful, unspoken thing, and the next step was hers. She knew what it had to be, too, but the doing of it was her duty, not his.

  For a long moment, his eyes held hers almost beseechingly. But what did he want? What was he asking? He tore his gaze away, as if whatever he had seen there wounded him. Instead, he took her hand in his and entwined their fingers together. He pressed his lips to her knuckles and refused to look at her.

  “There is a part of you which must hate me, Esmée,” he said, “for what I have done to Sorcha. To your mother. To you. I have lived my entire life with a cavalier disregard, never thinking the damage my carelessness might do another. Some might say that my making love to you tonight was but another example of that.”

  “Oh, Alasdair! Don’t speak of it. Not of Mamma, nor of Quin. Not even Sorcha. Let us just pretend for a few moments that none of those complications exist. That it is just us, here, like this.”

  “But they do exist.” In the gloom, his eyes drifted over her face. “Will you ever be able to look at me with Sorcha and not feel a moment’s bitterness? You said there was ‘no us,’ Esmée, and there isn’t—or shouldn’t be—because I was trying so hard to make it right for both of you. I was trying to give you the life you were meant to have, and to give Sorcha the father every child deserves. But it is so bloody hard. If I had met someone like you a decade earlier, perhaps I would not have wasted so much of my life.”

  “Perhaps you ought to stop wasting it now,” she suggested. “But that is a discussion, I daresay, for another time and place.”

  There were a great many other questions she wished to ask him, too. But those questions would wait. Tonight was for cherishing the moments they had together. Tomorrow was for making things right with Wynwood, and asking his forgiveness. After that…well, life was unpredictable.

  Alasdair drew his arm tight again and set his lips to her forehead. Esmée vowed not to think about the future, or of the painful task which lay before her. Instead, she tucked her head on his shoulder and forgot about scurrying back to her room as she ought to have done.

  Just then, a noise beyond the door made her jump. Alasdair pressed his lips to her ear. “Shh,” he whispered. “A servant.
”

  Esmée’s heart leapt into her throat. “Good heavens! At this hour?” She heard it then, a racket which sounded like the scrape of the shovel on the hearth. The clank of a bucket being moved about.

  “Damn, they’ll be here next,” said Alasdair. “And wondering why they’re locked out. Quin must have bloody insomniacs for servants.” Silent and sleek as a cat, he rose and swiftly neatened his clothing.

  Esmée felt a moment of panic. “How will we get out?”

  Alasdair offered his hand. “This way,” he whispered, pulling to her feet. “There is an old butler’s pantry which leads to the parlor. Let them figure out how the door got bolted.”

  Hitching up her wrapper as they went, Esmée hastened after him. The pantry opened silently, but the room beyond was devoid of all light. They slipped inside, and Alasdair set an arm about her waist. “Stay close to me,” he mouthed against her ear.

  With great care, he wound them around the furniture. In the room behind them, Esmée could hear the servants—two of them, debating about the locked door. A very close call. On the opposite side of the room, Alasdair opened the door which gave onto the main passageway, then peered out.

  “It’s clear,” he whispered, tucking her wrapper close about her neck. “Go, love. You mustn’t be seen with me.”

  Esmée was loath to leave him, and he sensed it. Swiftly, he kissed her, hot and openmouthed. “Oh, Esmée, Esmée!” he whispered, his lips pressed feverishly to her throat. “What is to become of us?”

  A sense of urgency drove her. “I do not regret it,” she whispered hurriedly. “Please, Alasdair, tell me you feel the same.”

  She felt the heat of his eyes on her, even in the dark. “I do regret it, Esmée,” he answered. “But God help me, I would do it all over again.”

  “As would I,” she said simply. “Oh, what a soss we’ve got ourselves into!”

  His hands tightened on her waist. “Esmée—I—oh, God, I have no right to ask anything of you just now,” he rasped. “Indeed, I won’t. Do what is best for you, my girl. Take care of yourself. Take care of your heart.”