Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  She knew what he was thinking, what he was going to do, and her vagina throbbed in an answering rhythm. Some nights at his house he’d sucked on her until she’d climaxed so many times she was weak from pleasure, until she’d pleaded with him to stop.

  When she cupped the great mounds of her breasts, her nipples had already swelled and lengthened, as if the message had been instantly delivered from her heated brain, their normal pinkness altered to a luscious bright red. Her hands looked small trying to support the opulent flesh, her breasts overflowing the capacity of each palm, their pale weight spilling over her fingers.

  “Give me the right one first,” Adam softly said, because she’d turned slightly to offer him her left breast—the one he knew was more sensitive, more erogenous. “I’ll kiss that one next,” he offered, touching the curved top lightly, “if you promise to be very quiet. You can’t scream, because the neighbors will complain. And then the manager will come, and I’ll have to leave you to make excuses. You wouldn’t like that—if I had to leave you.” He smiled into her heated eyes and whispered very low so she had to strain to hear his command. “The right one now.”

  She twisted her torso to accommodate him, her memory of the nights at his ranch piquant encouragement to obey.

  “Lift it higher,” he quietly ordered. “Use both hands.”

  She took the breast in both hands and raised it to where his mouth waited. And when his lips closed over the nipple, she felt the bewitching pressure in her toes and spine and wildly, deep inside where Adam’s erection stretched her wide. And she suffocated the delirious scream that rose in her throat.

  “Very good,” Adam murmured, lifting his mouth from her nipple to praise her constraint. “You didn’t wake the neighbors.” He languidly licked the tip of her nipple before he drew it back into his mouth with a strong, hard pressure.

  She could feel herself open as he sucked on her, the stirring quiver and quake of her breast as he nursed on her, palpable in her cupped hands; she could feel his arousal sink deeper as if he knew how to operate the code for the secret door.

  A master at gauging minute degrees of arousal, Adam lifted his mouth at last when she was hovering on the brink of orgasm, almost beyond reason, and the cold air on her wet nipple brought her to a shuddering awareness.

  “Now the other one,” he said with that authority in his voice that intoxicated her libido, as if she had no control over her body, as if he possessed her, owned her, mind and soul. “You’ve been so quiet, you deserve a reward.”

  His words flared through her brain like a beacon flame in the dark of night. The reward unmistakable.

  “Bring it closer.” He rested his head against the back of the chair and waited for her to lean forward to offer him the breast that always brought her to climax. “I think they’re bigger than they were …,” he murmured, sliding a fingertip over the thrusting nipple. “Are you sure no one’s been sucking them?”

  “No one. I’m sure.” She squirmed on his erection.

  “None of that now,” he warned, holding her hips so she couldn’t move. “Sit still. And if no one’s been sucking on them, why are they so large? And this …” He ran a palm over the creamy mound she held out to him. “It’s bigger too. Have you gained weight?”

  “I don’t think so.” She spoke in the merest whisper, her body defenseless against his touch, nearly orgasmic, throbbing so fiercely all her senses were centered on her drenched and pulsing vagina.

  “Are you ready to climax?” His breath was warm on her nipple.

  She didn’t answer, her mind so inflamed she had difficulty concentrating on his voice.

  “I asked you a question.” He ran his tongue over the turgid crest.

  “Yes,” she said, trembling at the enormous effort it took to gather her thoughts, her breast quivering in her hands.

  “You mustn’t scream,” he cautioned, his voice inflexible, stern.

  Subject to his tone, his whim, when he held her on the orgasmic brink, she quickly said, “I … won’t.” And pressed the large nipple against his lips.

  He opened his mouth slowly so she could feel the slippery passage of her nipple over his lips. He paused then, licking the hard peak, nibbling on it, teasing it with his tongue. And when he closed his mouth and softly bit down, the first shuddering spasm coiled deep inside her.

  He knew there was nothing she could do to stop the flow, and he drove deep inside her in a hard, steady rhythm, intent on meeting her climax, on joining her fevered journey to paradise. And seconds later, when he sucked hard and ravenously like a man starved for sustenance, her climax exploded, as he knew it would, and he released himself into her sweet welcoming body, filling her with great hot rivers of sperm, invading her so deeply she screamed at the reeling pleasure. Holding her hips between his large hands, he pressed down with such savage intensity she peaked for agonizing moments on the delirious, rapturous crest.

  She clung to him as the convulsive violence surged through her body, her orgasm so riveting, so prolonged, so excruciatingly acute that shaken from surfeit, she collapsed insensible in his arms.

  He held her sudden weight for a moment, then lifted her free and settled her in his lap, his own breathing still labored, his heart drumming at ramming speed, a faint, triumphant smile gracing his handsome face. Brushing a lock of hair from her forehead as she lay in his arms, he gazed at her fair beauty, at the sublime grace of her lavish form, at her ultimate yielding to him.

  She was a woman of inestimable glory, dramatic, sumptuous, his own resplendent prize. His gaze came up and traced the gold-filigreed hands of the clock. For forty-six and a half hours more, he pleasantly mused. His smile reappeared as he glanced at the four deuces lying on the nearby table. He should have them framed.

  Pulling his jacket across the table, he gently covered her nakedness, adjusted her head comfortably against his chest, and, lying back in the large chair, he shut his eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  A delicious languor warmed her body; her skin was so keenly attuned to sensation, she could feel her pulse tremble on its surface. A blissful, luxurious contentment pervaded her senses as if she were lazily lying in a summer field under a hot sun. Her eyes opened slowly as she came up from the gossamer world of sweet clover and liquid sunshine, her heavy lashes lifting drowsily, her mind still quiescent and dreamy, and then a faint smile touched her mouth.

  She saw him. And the bliss and contentment had a name.

  His eyes came open as if he could feel her gaze on him, and he smiled down at her with a tenderness she hadn’t seen before. “How do you feel?”

  “Perfect.”

  “You look perfect,” he softly said, tugging her a minute degree closer, bending his head to brush her forehead with a kiss.

  “I’ve never felt like this …,” Flora whispered, the warmth and power of his body enveloping her. “Is this nirvana?”

  “Very close, I think …” His smile touched her with warmth. “Or at least our own personal nirvana.”

  “Has this ever happened to you before?”

  “No.”

  “Nor to me.”

  The cryptic words were sufficient to two people touched with sensations unique to them both. But Adam Serre preferred less volatile topics, considering the limited duration of their time together, and he said with a smile, “This is our first morning alone without children or fathers at the breakfast table. Could I interest you in a sunrise and then some breakfast?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Flora amiably replied, understanding his sudden change in subject matter. She leisurely stretched in his arms. “Does this sunrise come to us, or do we go to it?”

  “Which would you prefer?” he inquired with a grin.

  “Now, you’re good Adam Serre, but you’re not that good,” she replied with an answering grin.

  But in the end he did make some adjustments in the sunrise, or at least their sunrise, because he rearranged the furniture in the sitting room so the sofa faced the east wi
ndows. He found a robe for Flora and one for himself, and after he carried her in from the bedroom and placed her on the wine velvet couch, he handed her a menu and said, “You order while I get into something more comfortable than last night’s clothes.”

  He undressed while she asked, “Do you want eggs? Bacon? Ham? Porridge? Toast?” and numerous other items on the menu, to which he invariably answered yes. Looking over the top of the menu at his hard, taut body currently sans shirt and about to be divested of trousers, she said, “How do you stay so lean when you eat so much?”

  Seated at the end of the sofa, he glanced at her over his muscled shoulder and said with a wicked grin, “I burn it off.”

  She felt the color flood her cheeks.

  “But why don’t we eat first?” he went on in a silky murmur. “You need sustenance.”

  “I suppose as a practicing libertine,” she retorted, “you understand the merits of good nutrition.”

  “I certainly do,” he smoothly replied, sliding his trousers off. Tossing them aside, he turned to look at her. “But if that temper in your voice is directed at me, perhaps I could soothe your cranky mood before breakfast.…”

  “Thank you, no,” she retorted, resentful of his damnable assurance. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

  “Darling, now, why would you say that when you know you like to be touched?” He settled back as if they were discussing the philosophical case for the decline of Rome.

  “I don’t need a reason,” she said with a sulky pique as he lounged opposite her on the couch, his powerful, bronzed body glorious to the eye. “Lord, Adam, do you always have an erection?”

  “With you I do.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  He shrugged. “Probably,” he calmly said, “but why not be fucked instead? It’s a little early anyway to wake up the kitchen staff.”

  “How can I turn down such a well-bred invitation?” she purred with dripping-sweet sarcasm and one arched eyebrow.

  “Suit yourself.” Crossing his arms behind his head, Adam shut his eyes. And waited.

  He’d silently counted to twenty when he heard the first small rustle. She was untying her robe; he heard the swish of silk on silk as the knot slipped free. And then the couch cushion dipped under her weight as she moved from her side to his. He stopped counting when he felt her fingers close around his erection, and long, pleasurable moments later, as her warm mouth drew in the swollen crest of his penis, he slowly opened his eyes.

  Her red curls lay in a tumble on his hard belly and thighs, the nape of her neck pale white in the dawn light. Tracing a fingertip down her graceful back, his hand ran over the curve of her bottom, under it, cupping her hot crotch. Slipping his fingers inside her, he held her securely, her body moving up and down on his invading digits as her mouth serviced him.

  Could one die of too much sex? Flora wondered for the first time in her life, her orifices filled, the heat in her brain burning away all thought but an indescribable hunger for Adam Serre. How could she want him so intensely? She’d intended to ignore him lying there; she’d always prided herself on her self-control. He could wait, dammit. But he was the ultimate temptation, like original sin in Eden, the glorious pleasure he offered explicitly visible, hard, long, swollen so large, the sight of it sent a shiver down her spine.

  And she couldn’t wait. And he’d known it.

  He lifted her off him after a time because he wanted to feel her under him in submission, because he wanted to ram himself so deep inside her, she’d feel him in her throat, because he felt an ungovernable need to endlessly possess her. He wanted to bury himself in her and ravage her ripeness; he wanted her to need him desperately, as he needed her.

  And when she cried out and wept at the end when their climaxes shattered their nerves into fragments, a gratifying sense of victory assailed him.

  This man who, until Flora Bonham, had only played the game.

  They lay in each other’s arms afterward while the pleasure settled from manic to a more manageable level of enchantment, kissing each other, basking in a lush surcease, watching the sunrise color the sky in magnificent flame and glowing apricot.

  Exalting in their sweet harmony.

  When a hard rap on the door ruptured their quiet repose. “Chambermaid with morning coffee, sir,” a female voice called.

  “It must be James’s doing,” Adam said, coming to his feet with a sigh. “His idea of humor,” he added, reaching for the robe he’d dropped on the arm of the sofa. “Just a minute!” he shouted so the maid could hear. “Do you want to go into the bedroom?” he asked, gazing down at Flora.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anyone at the hotel except Papa, and it’s obviously not him. How can it matter? Hand me that robe you gave me.”

  Adam tossed her the green silk jacquard garment, swept a glance around the room to find some suitable surface for a coffee tray, and, deciding on a small pier table near the door, said completely out of context of time, place, and circumstances, “I should take you to Paris sometime.”

  “Let me check my schedule.” Flora understood his odd impulse. She felt the same comfortable contentment, as though they’d spent years in hotel rooms together, as though they’d wakened to morning coffee in strange cities for decades.

  He tied her robe for her and rolled up the sleeves until her hands showed. “Your cheeks are rosy like a child’s,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles delicately over her flushed face.

  “You do that to me,” she whispered, wanting him with an insatiable longing as though her senses were attuned to his merest touch, as if the light brush of his fingers signaled her body to open for him and offer itself for his pleasure.

  “I’ll be right back,” he softly said. He smiled down at her with a lover’s warm smile.

  Pushing herself into a sitting position when he walked away, Flora twisted around and, kneeling with her arms on the back of the couch, watched Adam move toward the door. He was broad-shouldered and lean beneath the burgundy silk of his robe, his bare feet graceful, quiet as a whisper on the carpet, the rhythm of his stride unvarnished beauty, perfection of fluid muscle and power.

  As he turned the latch, the door swept inward with unexpected force, and a strangely dressed chambermaid with a pale-blue gown beneath her starched apron and a feathered hat in her gloved hands burst into the room.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Adam, but I had to see you and—” At the sight of Flora leaning over the couch, Henrietta Fisk’s explanation came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly surveying the room, she took note of Adam’s clothing lying on the carpet, at the rearranged furniture, at Flora’s tousled hair and dishabille. And her anger ignited like a flare. “How could you!” she explosively cried, as if she had prior rights to Adam’s time and person. “How could you when I want you and Auntie said I was going to have you!”

  Adam was already easing her back through the threshold before she’d finished. “You shouldn’t be here, Henrietta. Your aunt won’t like it, your parents won’t like it. And you’re very wrong about me. I’m not involved in your life.” His voice lowered then, and his remaining communication was hastily murmured into Henrietta’s flushed, stormy face as he placed her outside the doorway with a gentle propulsion. “Now, go back home, right now,” he quietly ordered. “Hurry.” He shut the door.

  And locked it.

  Leaning against the door, he ruefully said, “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘You’re compromised. You must marry me and save your reputation’?”

  Flora softly laughed. “If you weren’t already married, perhaps—”

  Her facetious answer struck him oddly.

  His words were to have been a wry jest, as was her answer.

  But they both noticed how the earth seemed to stop for a moment.

  How many times had she been proposed to? Flora reflected in the sudden suspended lull. And how many times had she politely refused?

  “Will this compromise you, and if so, how much?” Adam asked
when the brief moment passed, his sincerity plain, his voice touched with a nuance of regret.

  “No, of course it won’t,” Flora replied. “There isn’t a soul in Helena who has the ear of London society, and even if there were, my escapades have been the stuff of gossip for so long, another story from some far-flung frontier won’t raise an eyebrow. Now, come here and entertain me. I need someone to erase the disconcerting image of Henrietta’s red, blustery face.”

  “Someone?” he softly disputed, his jealousy of the men in her life an incredulous constant.

  “Only you, darling,” Flora whispered. “I want only you in all the world and star-filled heavens.”

  Walking over to the couch, he kneeled, took her face in his hands, brushed his lips lazily against hers, opened her mouth with a small pressure, and tasted her, his kiss slow, gentle. “You’d really enjoy Paris …,” he murmured against the softness of her lips.

  “I would with you …,” she said, her voice hushed. Her arms rested on his broad shoulders, her fingers were caught in his sleek dark hair. “And you can’t have her.”

  He leaned back a small extent so he could see her eyes, his expression questioning.

  “Henrietta.”

  His brows came together in a frown. “Lord, I don’t want her.”

  “She’s too young for you.”

  “She’s too stupid for me,” he softly corrected.

  “Just so long as we understand each other,” Flora purred.

  “Are you giving orders now?” he gently queried, smiling faintly.

  “About that I am. I don’t want any more interruptions.”

  “Is our schedule too full?” he murmured, slipping her robe off her shoulders.

  “I certainly hope so,” Flora whispered, leaning forward to kiss him. With her movement her breasts rested on the sofa back, pale mounds on the wine velvet, grandiloquently disposed, largess for his pleasure.

  Kissing her lightly, he stroked the satiny mounds, his warm palms exerting a light pressure downward. “I think I’ll keep you like this, without clothes … so you’ll always be ready for me to touch. So you can service me anytime.…”