Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “That’s a good girl,” Adam murmured, his smile knowing. “Now, answer me.”

  “You’re hateful.” Her eyes were hot with longing.

  “And you’re obstinate,” he whispered, a fiery passion of discord burning in the darkness of his eyes. “Say it.”

  “I won’t.”

  He moved, swift and sure, purposeful, wrenching up her skirt, forcing her thighs apart with a thrusting hand, sliding his fingers solidly into her pulsing cleft in a plunging assault so deep, she gasped at the shocking invasion. And a moment later she groaned as an answering molten rapture flooded her senses. “Now tell me,” he gently said, subtly caressing the hot, slick tissue. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”

  Silence engulfed them once again, a hushed quiet mutinous with suppressed, feverish need. He held her rebellious body immobile between himself and the solid wall, his fingers buried inside her, drenched with the opalescent fluid of her desire.

  “Damn you,” she murmured on a suffocated moan, her head thrown back, her spine arched against the rutting fire burning through her senses. Adam’s deft fingers moved inside her, an answering flare of unutterable pleasure spiked upward, and she cried out in a long, low, keening scream.

  “Would you like something better?” Adam murmured as her soft cry subsided. “Something more … substantial?”

  “Must I say it?” A whisper, hardly audible.

  He smiled. “It’s not so difficult …” He knew exactly how to touch her, how deep, how slow, how hard; he knew precisely where she lost control.

  And for long breathless moments she was oblivious to all but exquisite, delirious sensation. When she slowly opened her eyes again, she said in a low, heated whisper, her gaze orchid-black with longing, “I want you, Adam Serre … and I hate you for making me do this,” she went on in an almost soundless murmur. “And I hate myself for needing you so desperately, and if I don’t feel you inside me now, this instant,” she finished in a trembling rush, “I’m going to die.…”

  He grinned—a warm, singularly personal smile that was quite capable, she didn’t doubt, of luring an angel to earth. “A simple yes would have been enough,” he said, slipping his fingers free.

  “I want you inside me now,” she purred, rubbing against the mahogany half wall like a cat in heat.

  “You want satisfaction?” His mouth was almost touching hers, his long dark hair brushing her shoulders as he leaned close.

  “Ummm …” She reached for his belt, feeling for the odd serpentine clasp on the gold buckle.

  “And speed apparently,” he teased.

  “Initially,” she murmured, rising on her toes the scant distance to brush his smiling lips with hers. “After that, I’ll let you know.”

  “I already know what you like.”

  “Some of what I like,” she breathed, her smile seductive.

  “Jesus, Flora,” he muttered, perturbed by her flaunting prerogative, resentful of her amorous past, of the pleasures she’d given and received. “You can be irritating.”

  “Among other things …” She ran her hand over the prominent bulge in his trousers. “But, then, you’re more interested,” she murmured, her voice husky and low, “in other things … at the moment, aren’t you?”

  “You need a damned whipping,” he gruffly declared, stopping her insolence with a hard, bruising kiss. And he didn’t relinquish her mouth as he finished unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers, his mouth crushing hers, nor as he lifted her skirt, nor when he bent his knees slightly to ease himself inside her. He tasted her sudden cry of pleasure as he drove upward. And they both felt it. Untrammeled rapture, pure and sharp—white-hot, extreme, like a frontal attack on their senses.

  He held her pinned hard against the wall like a sacrifice to carnal pleasure, wondering in the indefensible, selfish tumult of his brain whether he could keep her permanently captive for his pleasure.

  The enormous power of his body engulfed her, aroused and tantalized and lured, and she wanted him with an all-inclusive hedonistic delight. “Adam … sweet Adam,” she whispered, his mouth leaving hers momentarily as he adjusted her hips to absorb the solid rocking of his lower body. She wanted to hear and taste the sound of his name on her tongue, as if paganlike, the words would make his spirit hers. So she could keep him beyond the transient peaking pleasure in some endless cycle of gratification.

  He kissed her again, responding to his name … knowing she wanted something more from him, feeling as though he too wished to give her more. Forcing himself deeper, he held himself hard inside her, a kind of unknown violence impelling him as if his savage penetration somehow appeased the turmoil in his brain. He never experienced this ferocious intensity with other women; he always played at love with expertise and charm, but never with feeling. And now furious emotion pervaded his mind, or perhaps, he cynically thought, only the screaming clamor of raw, convulsive nerve endings. But whatever the cause, his feelings were profound.

  “Can we … stay here … forever …” Flora sighed, almost delirious from the explosive pleasure … intent on prolonging the sumptuous gliding sensations … totally absorbed in the intoxicating flux and flow.

  “Here?” Adam whispered, moving deep inside her so she whimpered—acute overload assaulting her quivering senses, “or here,” he added in a throaty growl, lifting her under the arms so her feet completely left the ground, so his legs had better leverage.

  “Hey, boss!”

  The man’s sharp voice cut through the filmy light and dappled shadows of the stable wing, and for a moment Adam Serre stood arrested as his head swiveled toward the door.

  A second spun away as he focused on the man; then he shouted, “I’m busy!” And resumed his engrossing rhythm.

  Flora tensed in his arms, the glowing pink of her skin modified to the deeper rose of embarrassment. “Oh, Lord … Adam!”

  “He’s gone,” Adam whispered, bending his head to kiss her soft mouth in reassurance. “No one else will come,” he soothed, Matthew’s shocked expression burned into his retinas.

  “He saw us!” Flora’s whisper was breathy with horror.

  “I don’t care if all Montana watches us,” he answered on a suffocated breath, shifting her weight so he could penetrate deeper, peaking rapture so near, an entire world of voyeurs wouldn’t have stopped him. “Just this matters, bia,” he added, withdrawing slightly so she quickly clutched at his shoulders to draw him back. “And this,” he murmured, sliding in again, confident with her nails biting into his shoulders he once again had her attention, “and this …,” he went on, the rhythm of his lower body matching the melodic litany of his words. “Hold on, now.…”

  “As if I’d let you go …,” she purred, the shocking interruption banished from her thoughts, her body a receptacle for pure sensation, Adam Serre possessing the awesome potential of a dissolute satyr.

  She was his most engaging houseguest to date, Adam decided, although he was accomplished enough in the world of amour to acknowledge that she might retain the title for the foreseeable future.

  In his memory of hot-blooded females, Flora Bonham was unique.

  Their climax was lavish.

  Afterward—after the visions had cleared and the phantom music had muted in their ears—he carried her farther back into the shadows and took her up the narrow stairway to the hayloft. Lowering her into the sweet-smelling hay, he followed her down, kissing her tenderly to waken her from the drowsy insensibility of release. “You squander your body like a prodigal,” he whispered.

  “It’s only you … you have some sorcery …,” she faintly murmured, weak from the unbridled excess of her orgasm.

  “Or the Montana air …,” he softly said, settling in a comfortable sprawl beside her, his smile more gentle than ribald, his recuperative powers more potent.

  “They should mention the air, then, in the advertisements.…” Flora’s voice was still weak, her lashes half-lowered, her attempt at a smile ending in a languorous si
gh.

  “Would such copy attract you?”

  “If your engraved portrait graced it,” she playfully noted, her gaze drifting over his lounging form. He had a magnetic beauty not entirely the consequence of the stark perfection of his features. Imbued with a dark primeval power beneath the rumpled white shirt and opened vest, the polished boots and tailored trousers molding his long, muscled legs, he projected a curious serenity, or perhaps an assurance. She found that self-confident authority compelling. Even now, in repose, he exuded the privileged air of an exotic princeling, assured of his place in the world.

  “I’m glad I went to Judge Parkman’s,” he abruptly said, sensible of his vast content.

  “You didn’t mind my assertiveness.”

  “Au contraire.” He reached over to straighten the collar on her blouse, then smiled down on her. “I’m very grateful.”

  “Am I disheveled?” It was a female question.

  “You look luscious.”

  “Good enough—

  “—to eat? Definitely.”

  “Where do you get your energy?” She could hardly move, her senses still languid, blunted by surfeit.

  He shrugged. “I was born with it.”

  A flaring jealousy raced through her brain at the visions of Adam Serre dispensing his passionate vitality. “I don’t care to hear about it,” she coolly said.

  “What are we talking about here?” A small crease had formed between his dark brows.

  Conscious of her discourtesy and his perplexed expression, she quickly said, “Forgive me. A slip of the tongue.” And she stretched in a slow, luxurious movement, as if she could physically shake off the disagreeable covetousness she felt toward Adam Serre.

  Had she known, the Comte de Chastellux was understanding covetousness for the first time in his life with a mild sense of unease. And watching her move, voluptuous, feline, sensuous as a perfectly trained houri, enhanced his discomfort level. His scowl deepened.

  “Don’t pout, darling.” She smiled up at him flirtatiously. “I promise to be more prudent in my choice of words. I may even mind your orders once or twice.” She blew him a conciliatory kiss.

  How many times had she cajoled a man into a better humor? he suddenly wondered. How many times had she smiled like that in bed? How many men had seen her pose in such lush display—tousled, flushed from passion, her skirt raised above her knees, her open thighs inescapable carnal invitation?

  “Are you thinking of beating me?” she teased, his expression curiously reproving.

  “It’s a thought.” His voice was subdued.

  “Ummm … you look devilishly wicked when you say that, Monsieur le Comte. Will I like it?”

  He forcibly banished the galling visions, reminding himself that Flora Bonham was only a temporary diversion, and when he abruptly smiled at her, she saw the same fascinating wildness in his eyes she’d first observed in Virginia City. “I think I can guarantee a certain gratification,” he drawled.

  “How nice,” she dulcetly said, delight in her gaze, and she began unbuttoning her blouse.

  He stopped her fingers with a staying hand. “I don’t want you to do that.”

  Her fine brows rose in query.

  “I’ll undress you.” Her scent surrounded him, hothouse rose and ambergris—precious, costly, redolent of harems.

  She smiled. “And then I’ll undress you.”

  He should have casually said yes, and with anyone else he would have, but complex and incomprehensible reasons restrained him. She was too self-reliant and direct—neither trait at issue had he not considered to whom she’d offered the same unfettered choices. So he only said, “Later,” in a neutral tone, knowing she would soon be beyond sense and sensibility. Knowing there, at least, she would be pliant to his will.

  For a flashing moment he wondered why he required submission from the beautiful Lady Flora when making love had always been a pleasant game. But the contentious thought dissolved when the lady in question, warm and soft and willing, pulled his head down for a kiss.

  He left her briefly to fetch a clean blanket in the tack room, his mission executed with speed and dispatch.

  And when he returned, she sweetly said, “A true gentleman.”

  “Only a practical man,” he replied, spreading the blanket on the billowing hay. “Your father might feel inclined to call me out should you appear raked with scratches.”

  “The voice of experience?” She couldn’t disguise the coolness in her voice although she tried, although she knew she would make love to him regardless of his answer.

  “I’ve never been here before,” he honestly replied, his smile all roguish charm. “At least for this. Is that the right answer?”

  “Perfectly.” She gave him high points for gallantry as she kicked off her low boots. “I’m not usually so moody,” she admitted with a moue of self-reproach, “and I abhor myself for carping. You’d think I was your wife.”

  “You haven’t even qualified for the reserve team in that regard,” he said, charmed by Flora’s need for atonement. “Isolde’s in a different league—a different solar system,” he added in reconsideration.”

  “In contrast, you’re saying, I’m sugar sweet.”

  “A veritable candy plum.” And reaching over, he gathered her into his arms and deposited her on her back in the middle of the forest-green wool of his racing colors. “Now tell me about your childhood, or your favorite book, or the best dig you’ve ever been on, and I’ll see if I can get these ridiculously small buttons undone.”

  “I was born in Yorkshire,” she facetiously began, finding Adam’s struggle to manipulate the tiny pearl buttons a charming sight, “and my first governess fled after a week because I threw my chocolate at her when she scolded me for not sitting up straight, and she said she didn’t have to put up with a little hooligan no matter how much Papa paid.”

  He looked up from his task with a grin. “You haven’t changed.”

  “I’m still adorable.”

  “Ummm …” He was concentrating again, sitting cross-legged like a tailor beside her, his long, slender fingers moving more swiftly now that he’d established a rhythm.

  She touched his sleeve and he looked up, his dark gaze holding hers, both acutely aware of their indiscreet attraction. “You’re enormously strong,” she said, stroking the muscled length of his bicep, remembering how he lifted her as if she were weightless.

  “I’ll show you in a minute,” he promised, sliding her blouse from her shoulders, slipping the sleeves over her hands, noting the absence of a corset before placing the garment on the border of the blanket.

  “How long will it be before Father returns?” She found it difficult to speak in a normal voice with his cryptic promise to demonstrate his strength, with his fingers untying the ribbons of her chemise, with the golden sunshine warm on her naked shoulders.

  “I told the groom to take his time. An hour—maybe more.”

  “So you knew!”

  He looked up at her burst of words. “Didn’t you? I found your message pretty clear across the breakfast table.”

  She met his cool regard with her own direct stare for a moment, and then she smiled at him with an artless innocence. “Did it mention what I wanted?”

  “Not everything.” His gaze drifted downward to her breasts—magnificent and thrusting, asking to be kissed. “I’m improvising.”

  “And doing an admirable job,” she sensibly agreed, purring as his fingers slid over the plump roundness of one breast. Leisurely, his palm slipped under it, testing its weight as if gauging its ripeness. Then he gently released it, watching with a connoisseur’s eyes the satiny flesh quiver and tremble. Her nipple sprang to life, sharp and hard, and he bent his head to lick the peaked crest with a gentle, gliding tongue, ministering to the susceptible pap as he slipped her chemise from her arms. Her blissful sigh warmed his cheek as he leaned over, raising her slightly so he could draw the chemise from beneath her. Placing it beside the silk blouse, he u
nbuttoned her skirt, slipped it down over her hips, then untied her petticoat with deft skill. He said pleasantly, “Venetian lace,” as he lifted her hips to slide it free and didn’t notice Flora’s sudden displeasure until she said, “Your areas of expertise annoy me.”

  Dropping her petticoat beside the other clothing, he turned back to the nude splendor of Flora Bonham on his racing green, her white silk stockings and pink lace garters the only wanton ornament to her image of bursting opulence. “You’re very prickly, bia,” he said with a small sigh, although the counterpart of her volatile temperament was a decided asset in bed. “I sincerely wish I hadn’t mentioned it. Should I say my mother collects Venetian lace?”

  “No.” Thin-skinned discontent.

  “Should I lie?”

  “No.” Although she was restive now under her conflicting urges.

  “I don’t have an answer, then, unless you’re very understanding.”

  As she lay under his gaze, floundering in the intricate maze of her emotions, she thought: how curious the divergent sensations. Despite her resentment she was overwhelmed with need, despite chafing logic; she wanted only to feel his hard, muscled body covering hers. She could protest all the women he’d known, but she wanted him in the same critical way. “Lie to me,” she said.

  “I distinctly recall that lace from the museum at Chantilly,” he dissembled, quixotic and unabashed. “Does that please you?”

  She nodded, impudence in her gaze.

  “And do I please you?” His voice was low, almost diffident.

  And she thought him excessively modest for a man of wealth and power, for a man who drew attention when he walked into a room, for a man who held records in the boudoir. “You please me too much.”

  “It’s never too much.” He made the statement sound like a heated promise.

  “Soon I’m going to have to wake up from this abandoned state,” she said with a shameless, seductive grin, “and reclaim my psyche.”

  “Not too soon, I hope,” he said with a smile, moving closer, seating himself beside her. “Why don’t we finish what we started?”