Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “Occasionally.”

  “And sleep late too, no doubt.” Like his wife, he thought, and every other aristocratic lady.

  “No, I don’t. Do you?”

  “No. There’s too much to do each day, and Lucie gets up early.”

  “I noticed. We went riding this morning. She’s an accomplished rider.”

  “Her cousin’s a good teacher.”

  “She said that.”

  “We’re fortunate to have so many of my relatives near.”

  “Lucie took me to the lodges down by the river.”

  “Yes, she told me.”

  An awkward silence fell as both struggled to converse casually when both were remembering their last passionate encounter.

  “I—”

  “I’m—”

  “You first,” Adam said, his voice very quiet.

  Flora swallowed before speaking, thinking she’d not felt so awkward since adolescence. “I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable.”

  “I didn’t expect you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Is there someone else? I don’t wish to intrude.”

  “Someone else?”

  “A woman you’re involved with.”

  He debated for a moment—a facile lie would solve his dilemma. “No,” he said.

  “It’s just I, then, who makes you uncomfortable.”

  “No,” he softly murmured, “it’s not that simple, and you know it.”

  Flora gazed briefly at the golden liquid in her glass before her eyes met his again. “You’re tired,” she sympathetically noted, “and I’m being bothersome.”

  “No I’m not and”—he sighed—“you’re not.”

  “You’re very candid.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She leaned back against the cushions and looked at him for a contemplative moment. “Wary, then.”

  His brows raised fractionally. “Probably.”

  “Should I wait for you to ask? I don’t know if I can.”

  “Lord, Flora …” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry, I should be more circumspect.”

  He grinned suddenly as flagrant impulse flashed into his mind. “Circumspect sex?” His gaze was roguishly appraising. “That should be interesting.”

  She grinned back. “We could try, though I’m not sure you’re capable of it.”

  “Nor you. Lord, I need some help here.”

  “Perhaps—”

  “No. Don’t move. I’m trying to deal with this rationally. Do you know I’ve dreamed of you every night since Virginia City? And it’s bothering the hell out of me.”

  “How romantic.”

  He glared at her teasing smile.

  “It doesn’t have to alter your life,” she said.

  “It?”

  “Sex with me. Is that clear enough? I’m not looking for a husband.”

  “I think I’ve heard that before.”

  “Too many times?”

  “One time too many, for certain.”

  “But I’m not like her.”

  “I know. And that’s the dilemma.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a dilemma.”

  He sighed and slid lower in his chair, his leather-clad legs stretched out before him, the glass of bourbon in his hands resting just under his chin. “How long are you staying?” he quietly asked.

  “Here? Not long. In the Yellowstone—all summer. After that I’m sailing for the Yucatán.”

  “For?”

  “I’m meeting friends for an expedition to Tikal. I’m not inclined to impose on your life, Adam.”

  “I’m not certain I’m interested in a woman who fills my dreams. Lucie and I have just regained a modicum of peace in the last weeks. Forgive me for my bluntness.”

  “It’s just sex, Adam. Don’t be so alarmed.”

  He gazed at her, beautiful as a Titian Venus on his gilded settee, all voluptuous womanhood and soft skin and gleaming auburn hair. “You could be offering me tea,” he softly murmured.

  “I could be but I’m not,” she answered as softly, rising from the small sofa and placing her glass of champagne on a lacquered end table.

  He didn’t shift from his lounging posture as she walked toward him, until she stood inches from his beaded moccasins. Then his dark gaze leisurely traveled up her body, and when it reached her eyes, he said, hushed and low, “I think I’m losing this battle.”

  “It looks like it to me,” she whispered, her glance drifting downward until it rested on the obvious bulge in his doeskin leggings.

  “Shut the door.” His voice was no more than a murmur.

  Her eyes lifted to his. “And if I don’t?” The product of privilege, she took orders poorly—no matter how softly put.

  “Suit yourself,” he quietly said. Setting his glass aside, he pulled himself upright, leaned forward, took her skirt in his hands, and began lifting the heavy silk.

  She twitched her skirt away, pique added to the warm heat of her arousal, umbrage in her voice. “This is too public.”

  “Are you saying no?” he insolently inquired, looking up at her from under the dark fringe of his lashes for a moment before he sprawled back in his chair.

  “Are you?” she countered, her own insolence matching his, her gaze flickering briefly to his erection, the length blatant beneath the soft stretched leather.

  His smile appeared, full of grace and charm. “We could both shut the door.”

  She smiled back, mollified by his concession. “Or use your bedroom or mine.”

  He seemed to consider. “Or neutral territory.”

  She moved so swiftly, he almost didn’t catch her when she fell into his lap. Gazing up into his startled eyes, she whispered, her mouth only inches from his, her arms twined around his neck, “Would a bed be possible in this neutral territory?”

  She felt like heaven in his arms, silky warm and scented, her soft bottom settled in his lap adding inches to his arousal. With distance he could resist Flora Bonham, but in proximity she was irresistible. “Any of dozens,” he murmured, bending his head to kiss her. “Or all of dozens,” he added in a heated whisper. “If you prefer a marathon.”

  “Ummmm …” Her hands slid up to pull his head down, and just before their lips touched, she whispered, “Show me.…”

  Chapter Three

  He carried her up the servants’ stairs to avoid the hazardous possibility of meeting her father in the main corridors, the whisper of her crinolined skirts swishing against the wainscoting in the narrow staircase; the dim light defining the stark modeling of his face in grisaille; tempestuous desire warming their blood. In order to navigate the sharp turns, he adjusted her position in his arms in a smooth stirring of powerful muscles, his smile closer now and the scent of his hair fragrant in her nostrils. He stopped to kiss her on the second landing, a compelling, deep, heated kiss that left them both breathless.

  “Hurry,” Flora murmured on a deep inhalation. “Please …”

  He looked down at her, his dark eyes muted velvet in the shadows, her urgency matched by his. “Wait,” he whispered, the word hot with promise. “We’re almost there.” He moved quickly then, taking the stairs in great strides, glancing down the lamplit corridor as he reached the second floor, looking for the nearest empty room.

  They were inside in seconds, the door abruptly kicked shut, and in seconds more he made his way in the darkness to the bed, placed her on the silk comforter, and followed her down. She lifted her own skirts, so frantic was her need, while he ripped open the tie on his leggings, and in only breath-held moments more he was deep inside her. They blazed hot with two weeks of pent-up desire, and their first time that night was an incoherent memory, so ravenous was their passion, so overwhelming their hunger. Panting afterward, they wondered how pleasure could be so fleeting.

  “My … apologies,” Adam breathlessly murmured as he lay over her, his heart beating like a d
rum.

  “No need …,” Flora replied on a suffocated breath. “Believe me.…”

  He tried to smile in reply, but he didn’t have the necessary energy. Later he did when his body had cooled and his brain was capable of more than one thought, when he’d lit the bedside lamp and they lay side by side on the rumpled blue comforter. “Lie to me if I’m wrong,” he said with a grin, propped on one elbow beside her, still fully clothed, his finger tracing a lazy pattern over her collarbone, “but isn’t this combination—you and me,” he added in unnecessary explanation, “more intense than—say—other … experiences?” It was the understatement of his life.

  “Why would I lie?” Flora replied with a teasing smile, gazing up at him in tumbled disarray, her gown and petticoats pushed up in crushed folds, her bare thighs above her silk stockings rosy pink, matching the glow on her face.

  “I retract the phrase.” His finger drifted downward over the swell of her breast. “Tell me,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she whispered, moving his hand slightly to one side so his fingertips brushed her nipple through the silk of her gown. “Yes, ummm … definitely, yes.”

  “I almost rode to Virginia City one night to see you,” he whispered, lazily circling the rising bud of her nipple.

  “I wish you had.”

  “I wanted to feel your legs wrapped around me.…”

  “But it wasn’t worth a ten-hour ride.” Her smile was mischievous.

  “It turned out to be a three-hour ride,” he said. “I was able to bring my libido under control by the ford at Pine Creek.”

  “A shame,” she theatrically pouted. “When I was in decline.”

  “For lack of sex?”

  “For lack of your sex.”

  His fingers closed firmly on her nipple. “Whom did you sleep with?”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “I don’t get jealous,” he answered, the pressure of his fingers easing. His familiar drawl had returned. “Who was it?”

  “It’s none of your business. Whom did you carnally entertain these last two weeks?”

  “Is it a contest?” Withdrawing his hand, he studied her, a new cynicism in his eyes.

  “Not with me.” Her dark brows rose archly. “You’re remembering your wife.”

  “And you’re different?”

  “I didn’t even kiss a man in the last fortnight because I wanted only you. Is that plain enough? I’m not much good at subterfuge.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t believe you after our fascinating introduction at Judge Parkman’s.”

  “Whether you believe me or not doesn’t concern me, but I’m going to fuck you to death tonight,” she softly whispered, “because two weeks is a long wait.”

  He suddenly smiled. “I love a plain-speaking woman.”

  “Provided she’s talking about sex?”

  His grin widened. “Provided she’s talking about sex with me.”

  “And I’d adore you, Adam Serre, even more intensely than I already do, if you’d substitute performance for talk.”

  “Impatient libertine.”

  Rolling over on top of him, she kissed him lightly. “Very impatient,” she murmured, placing her palms on his chest and pushing herself upright so she straddled his legs. “And seeing how you seem to be … um, ready,” she breathed, tugging her petticoats out of the way with a tantalizing movement of her hips and bottom, “why don’t we”—rising slightly on her knees, she guided his rigid erection to her pulsing labia and softly finished—“be libertine together …”

  He shut his eyes as she lowered herself, the sensation momentarily heart stopping, and when he opened his eyes, his erection ensconced deep inside her, he said in a low, heated growl, “Maybe I’ll fuck you to death first.…”

  “Starting now, I hope, Monsieur le Comte,” Flora murmured, coquettish demand beneath the velvety resonance.

  His hands came up leisurely and grasped her waist, but his grip was hard and possessive, and his dark eyes were touched with a flash of temper. “You like to give orders.” His grip tightened at her waist.

  “Sometimes. Do you mind?” Her violet eyes were teasing and unintimidated, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

  He shrugged so she felt the small ripple of his muscles under her palms. “It depends,” he carefully said.

  “On?” She moved her hips slightly so they both felt the slippery friction, the acute throbbing response.

  “On what the orders are,” he answered with a seductive smile, his temper dispelled by carnal diversion.

  “You’re accommodating, then,” she whispered, his powerful shoulder muscles bunching under her hands.

  He lifted her as if she were weightless, sliding her up his rigid length. “To a point,” he murmured, intent on gauging distance.

  “Will I know … when that point is reached?” she asked in a breathy hush, tantalized by the exquisite gliding ascent.

  He held her suspended on the pulsing tip of his penis for a provocative moment. “You’ll know,” he whispered, exerting a gradual pressure downward with his hands so she was slowly filled with his hardness again, deeply penetrated, stretched. Then he arched his back and drove upward that small sensational distance more.

  She cried out in a fierce heated whimper at the irrepressible rush of pleasure. And when the flaring intensity had partially diminished and her lashes half lifted to let the world in again, he softly said, “Hello …” He smiled then, self-confident, assured, a man skilled at pleasing women. “And now we have to take your gown off, sweet bia,” he murmured, sliding his fingertips over the silk-covered stays at her waist. “It’s in my way.”

  “Only my gown?” It was a sultry courtesan voice, heated and low, and those violet eyes gazing down at him were wanton, audacious in their challenge.

  He chuckled at her unabashed sensuality. “We’ll begin with that,” he softly replied, “and go on from there. We’ve plenty of time. It’s a long night.…”

  The breakfast room was awash with sunshine, Lucie’s bright chatter sunny like the warm spring day outside. The small table held a steaming array of food on crested china and gleaming silver: scones: porridge; bacon; ham; poached eggs; buttered toast; colorful jams. A small bouquet of lavender-blue iris in a celadon vase graced the center of the table, the arrangement suitably low so conversation wasn’t impeded. Adam and Flora, seated opposite each other at the round table, exchanged discreet smiles over the delicate blooms. Neither had slept more than an hour, their senses languid in the aftermath of a night of heated passion, tantalized by their nearness, hot desire a tangible presence to the initiated.

  “Can we ride to see the baby foxes?” Lucie inquired, stirring Chantilly cream into her hot chocolate so briskly it splashed over the rim of the cup.

  “After your lessons,” Adam replied, ignoring the widening chocolate stains on the linen cloth, a silver spoon with a dollop of cream in his hand. “Do you want more?”

  “After my morning lessons?” Lucie stopped stirring in her excitement.

  “Right after,” Adam answered. Assuming her nonreply to his question meant no, he placed the sweet mound of cream in his own chocolate. “Tell Miss McLeod she can come along if she wishes.”

  “Cloudy doesn’t like to ride horses.”

  “But she likes baby foxes. She told me.” Reaching over, he began cutting the ham on his daughter’s plate.

  “Maybe she can ride old Charlie.”

  “Is Charlie the big chestnut?” Flora asked, thinking no man deserved to look that good in the morning after a near sleepless night. He appeared fresh, alert, his hair still damp from the bath, his white linen shirt crisply ironed, unbuttoned at the neck, the dark vest he wore over it a handsome Irish wool tweed. An ornate gold charm dangled from the watch pocket—an elegant touch, as if a valet had dressed him.

  Lucie’s curls bobbed in affirmation. “ ’Member,” she said through a mouthful of ham. “Charlie was the one who liked apples.”

  Adam’s gaz
e met Flora’s fleetingly over Lucie’s head, a swift, private look, explicit with torrid memory. “Tell Miss McLeod she can have the padded Mongolian saddle,” he said, his attention returning to his daughter, his neutral tone distinct from his obsessive thoughts.

  “Cloudy’s too fat,” Lucie explained to Flora and the earl, “so she always rides in a carriage if she can, but the foxes’ den is up in the hills and the baby kits are ever so cute and fuzzy, which is why Cloudy will probably change her mind just this once and try old Charlie.”

  Adam allowed himself to watch Flora as Lucie spoke to her, his observation ostensibly benign. He thought her ravishing even dressed simply in a tan silk blouse and twill skirt. Or nothing at all, his inner voice noted in pleasurable memory. She was astonishingly beautiful with her coppery hair pulled back in a sleek chignon, although the bright morning light accented the faint lavender shadows under her eyes, causing him a slight twinge of guilt. He’d have to allow her more sleep tonight.

  “Papa, could you put two Mongolian saddles on Charlie?”

  Forcing his mind back to the immediacy of his daughter’s query, Adam said, “Why don’t I check with Montoya in the stables? He knows what Charlie likes. Now, do you want strawberry jam on your scone?” he asked, the prosaic routines of the breakfast table so at odds with the lust so prominent in his mind.

  “Can we have a picnic too?”

  He smiled. “Why not?”

  Lucie clapped her hands perilously close to the full chocolate cup, but her father didn’t flinch. “I want lemon pie and sugar cookies and those little white puffy things with nuts inside.”

  “Perhaps we should see what others want,” he suggested, not certain a three-year-old’s favorite foods held universal appeal. “Why don’t you check with Lady Flora and Lord Haldane?” Adam said, his dark gaze resting on Flora.

  She immediately looked away, dropping her gaze from such vivid, hot-blooded allure. It felt as though he’d touched her intimately or kissed her in full sight of everyone, so uncontrollable was the heated sensation. It took her a fraction of a second to find her voice. “What do you think, Father?” she asked, needing time to compose her emotions. “Do you have any preferences?”