by Lavinia Kent
“Were you afraid that someone would see me slipping into your bedchamber?”
His eyes widened slightly at her words. “I would have come to your chamber. I am after all a gentleman. But, no, that was not my thought. This was.” He pressed sharply on the panel and a portion pushed open. The candlelight shone into the revealed space.
Curious, she stepped nearer.
He ducked beneath the low opening and gestured for her to follow.
The space was bigger than she would have expected. The room hung with further paintings. Another gallery? A more intimate one? There were several upholstered chairs and a table with an elaborate candelabra. James lit the candles and the room filled with light.
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Intimate was right. More than right. She’d never seen such paintings in her life. She knew they existed, had seen the occasional rude cartoon, but this…this…this was beyond words.
“I think I must have had that same expression on my face the first time I slipped in here. I saw Langdon sneaking out and, of course, was curious, as only a young boy can be. I thought it was going to be a priest hole or a secret passage—and perhaps it was once. I was definitely not expecting this.”
“I imagine not.” She took a step closer to the nearest painting, one of the more simple ones. There was only one person in it, a woman. She sat staring right at the painter, her expression cool and formal, little different than any of the portraits out in the main gallery. What was different was that she wore no clothing, not a single stitch beyond the feather that swirled through her hair to lie against one rosy cheek—and her legs were parted.
Did she look like that without her clothes on? Cynthia found herself moving even closer, her eyes locked between the woman’s legs. She’d never even examined herself there and now she was…She should look away, but she could not. Her curiosity aroused—and, yes, aroused was exactly the word. Her feet shifted on the floor.
“I like to imagine she was one of my forefathers’ mistresses. Her face doesn’t match any in the long gallery so I don’t think she was a wife. Her hair and the style of the painting make me think it must have been done early in the last century.”
And what was she supposed to say to that? “She’s rather lovely.”
“Yes, she is, and the subject of many of my early fantasies.”
Now, that she had not needed to know. She turned from the painting, only to find herself confronting something even more shocking. “Are they both…?” It was impossible to finish the question.
“Yes, they are both fucking her. And I must say she looks like she’s rather enjoying it. I think this one has a Renaissance flavor.”
Again, she found herself moving closer, her eyes glued to the rear figure. That was what James had been talking about at the cabin, and at least in the painting it did seem to all fit. Although, despite the woman’s expression of rapture, Cynthia was quite sure that did not look comfortable. And if it had hurt to have one man in her, how much more painful must it be to have two?
“That one never entered into my dreams. I’ve never liked to share.”
No, he had not. She remembered that clearly.
She turned to the next painting. This one was also Renaissance. Zeus and Leda. She’d even seen similar paintings. Graceful Leda with her bare breasts, but never had the swan been quite so endowed, very humanly endowed.
“That’s not one of my favorites either. I much prefer this one,” James said, leading her down two paintings.
This was another single woman. She lay reclining on a long couch, her head thrown back, but her eyes staring out, inviting the viewer to come nearer. This woman was staring at a lover, tempting a lover, begging him to touch her even as she touched herself. One of her hands pulled at a nipple, a hard, ripe nipple, marked with a sheen of sweat, her fingers pulling it even farther.
Cynthia felt her own nipples tighten and had to fight the urge to cup her breasts, to press against their sudden need.
The woman’s other hand was placed between her legs, her long fingers stroking herself, displaying the moisture that seeped there.
James came up behind her, his body heat caressing her. “I’ve fantasized about seeing you like that, of having you pleasure yourself for me.”
“Oh.” It came out almost a squeak.
One of his hands slipped about her, cupping her breast as she had just dreamed of, his clever fingers targeting the nipple with ease. He pinched her slightly, through the thin linen. “Will you take off your gown for me, Sin? Will you let me see you touch yourself?” He said it as a question, but it was not.
Her fingers began to gather up the cloth at her sides, letting it slide up her calves. “There’s not a couch for me to lie on,” she said, as if that were the only reason she would protest.
Stepping over, he turned one of the upholstered chairs. “It won’t be quite the same, but I imagine you can manage sitting.”
She stared at the chair. This was her moment, her chance to have what she wanted even if only for one brief night. It was why she had come, one last taste of the forbidden before she fled, one last night with James. All she needed was to give herself to the moment. Her feet moved slowly toward the chair, her hands rising to the cord at the neck of her simple gown. Today there would be no struggle with laces and ties, one pull, one slide, and she would be free. It was all so easy. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and she placed it over the chair, draping it in the soft wool. Not turning to look at James, she let her fingers wander back to the cord. One swift yank and the bow loosed. Her fingers tangled in the cloth, not letting it fall.
She hesitated and then let it fall from one shoulder and then the other.
The floor creaked as his weight shifted behind her.
The linen slipped to her waist before she stopped it, the skirt beginning to pool about her feet.
James liked her behind. She’d seen the way he looked at it, stared at it. She let the fabric slip a few more inches, heard his breathing grow deep and heavy. Another inch and then another.
She shivered slightly. The room was not warm, no fire danced, the only light that of the flickering candles.
Releasing another handful of fabric, she caught it just as it curved about the fullness of her buttocks.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said in what could only be called a groan. “You remind me of the most exquisite of Greek statuary, but living, warm and breathing, and all mine.” He spoke with absolute authority.
A piece of her thrilled at his words, but another piece grew cold. He’d always been so sure that he was right, and she could hear it in his voice now. He believed that she was his and therefore she was; her feelings seemed to count for very little. Dampness lay behind her lashes and she was glad that he could not see her face, see the sorrow and resolution that grew there.
For the first time she admitted to herself that she had hoped this night would change her mind, would show her that she could stay, could marry James. She glanced over her shoulder at him, keeping her face in the shadows. What must it be like to be that strong, that confident, to believe that the world would move as you wished?
She’d felt some of that before her mother’s death and her father’s marriage to Gillian, but now she knew that she could be little more than a leaf tossed in a tempest. She shut her eyes for one brief second and let herself wish, but then opened them again and took the world as it was. And then she found her strength and courage. She might be a leaf, but this leaf was going to dance upon the wind while it could.
James’s gaze was focused on her behind, as she had known it would be. She let her gown slip lower and lower. She could see the strain in his body, the tendons in his hands as he fought not to move, not to come to her. The nightdress slipped to the floor, a white puddle about her feet. She let her feet slide on the floor, parting farther.
Counting to twenty, she slowly turned, giving him an opportunity to stare at every inch of her. The upholstery of the chair was soft
beneath her fingers, the fabric of the shawl she’d draped there even softer. With exaggerated care, she settled into the chair, leaving her legs parted.
James stood as if frozen, hardly a breath leaving him, but his eyes tracked her every moment.
Her eyes moved to the painting behind him. She positioned her hands to copy, but her mind was on the woman’s eyes. They spoke of temptation and power, but still stayed strong. They offered her lover the use of her body, but not her soul. And that was what Cynthia needed, the ability to do this, to enjoy it, and then escape unscathed.
Continuing to stare at the woman, she let her lips curl up in a smile of invitation, let her eyes half close.
“Don’t think of me, think of how your fingers feel as they move upon your body,” James whispered.
Think of herself, think only of herself. Think of the delicious feel of fingers pulling upon her aching nipple. Think of the dangerous feeling between her legs that cried with want and need. Think of…But in truth she could only think of James, of the look upon his face as she touched herself, the hunger. It was how she had always wanted him to look at her all those years ago, even when she’d been too innocent to understand what it was she wanted.
And now she had it—and still it meant nothing. He might want her, but he’d yet to trust her, really trust her, and how could love grow without trust?
Her fingers stilled.
Her body might want, but her mind was less sure.
James stepped forward, jerking her attention back. His eyes burned as they stared at her, she could feel their heat wherever they landed. She swallowed as her body tensed under that look, moisture pooling between her thighs.
Chapter 17
She was the perfect woman for him. The thought grew and grew as he watched her. And it wasn’t just sex. He almost chuckled. Nobody would believe him if he were to say that it wasn’t merely her body and her willingness, that it was something deeper, that just walking with her in the garden made him happy, that he loved the mischievous gleam that could appear in her eyes at the oddest moments. He loved that he didn’t always know what was going on behind those shining green eyes.
Although at this moment he had a pretty good idea; she was lost in herself as he had commanded. Only not quite—she was aware of him, of that he had no doubt and he knew that added to her pleasure. Her pleasure. God, when had it become all about her pleasure? He’d always cared to be sure his partners were well pleased, but never had it been the most important thing, the only thing.
He wanted Sin to burn with all that he could do for her, be for her, offer her.
He needed her to understand that she might be his, but he was also hers, that he would do anything for her. Anything.
He stepped forward, and placing a finger beneath her chin, raised her face to him. Her eyes were deep and dark, the pupils huge. He could read her desire easily. She liked this game. But there was something else there, something that he did not understand.
He pushed the needs of his body back. “What is troubling you, Sin?”
Her pupils widened even farther and then sharply narrowed. “What do you mean?” She tried to look away, but he held her chin firm.
“You do not look happy.” That wasn’t quite right, but it was as close as he could come to expressing what he saw on her face.
“Perhaps I am nervous. I am not used to being out in the wee hours and I can’t help but think that anybody could come upon us.”
There was some truth to that, but it was not the full truth. He did not like that she hid things from him. His thumb stroked her cheek. “That is most unlikely and even if a servant did stumble into the hall, I doubt that they know of this chamber.”
The ghost of a genuine smile flitted on her lips. “And do you dust the room? Someone must keep it clean, the candles fresh.”
He’d never thought of that. “Well, I am sure whichever of the servants is so trusted would know to never wander near when the room is in use.”
“And how would they know it was in use?”
Was she trying to distract him? “They simply know. I long ago accepted that servants are magical creatures who just know things, creatures that can become invisible and always pop up exactly when needed.”
“Magical servants. I like that.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Sin? There is something.”
She shook her head slightly, pushing against his hand. “It’s been a long and confusing week and I am tired. Nothing is the same as it was before I first went to Madame Blanche’s and it is taking me time to adjust. The woman I was a week ago would never have even believed this was possible. I am not sure I believe it.” Her eyes dropped.
That did make sense. He had asked a lot of her. It seemed so much longer that they had been together. Perhaps it was because of their past relationship. He found himself as comfortable with her as he had been with the girl she’d once been. It felt like he had known her forever and yet that everything was new. “I can certainly understand that. I would never have believed that I would actually want to marry, and yet I do.”
Her eyes grew clouded. Why was she not yet ready to accept that their marriage was inevitable? This time she succeeded in turning her head away. “And I am also worried about Jasmine,” she said. “If someone wanted to abduct her, how do we know they will not try again?”
Where had that question come from? Why was she talking about Jasmine now? And what was that extra note in her voice? For a moment he was tempted to tell her everything, to explain how he had felt forced to do whatever he could to get his sister away from Madame Blanche’s. And to explain that he knew he should be sorry that Sin had been taken instead, but that he could not be when it had brought them here. The words began to form in his mind, but he put them away. This was not the moment for such revelations. Tomorrow would come and words could be said then.
Tonight was not about words.
He stepped back and walked to the other chair, turning it to face her more directly. He sat, legs splayed wide. “I think we are forgetting our purpose in being here. I would not want you to catch a chill before we were through.”
For a moment he thought she would say something else, that she would refuse to let him turn the conversation, but then her eyelids dropped to half-mast, then closed, and her voice grew husky. “No, I would hate to catch a chill. I will have to see what I can do to warm up.” She dampened her fingers with her mouth and then used them to pull one tight nipple. It glistened and swelled at her touch.
His cock responded as if it were it her hands pulled.
Fuck. Where had she learned that?
—
She’d had another moment of hope. For a brief instant, she’d thought James would tell her about the abduction, would explain everything, would make her understand—understand and forgive. If he’d done that, then…No. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t done it, so wondering what would have happened if he had was pointless.
All that mattered was the here and now.
This is all she could have and she would grab it with both hands.
Letting her eyes stay closed, she brought both hands to her breasts. It was not the same as the painting, but it was what she needed. She pulled and pressed, cupping her breasts, letting her fingers trace patterns.
She could hear James’s breathing across the room, heavy and slow. Was he touching himself? She pulled harder on her right nipple, a slight zing of pain shooting between her legs, feeding the fire that had begun to grow. She pinched tight. Another zing.
She wanted to open her eyes and see him. She wanted to keep them closed and let her imagination run free, to pretend it was his hands upon her, the rough skin of his fingers scraping over her, the riding calluses of his palms tickling her, his pinch, his pull.
He’d pulled hard, harder than she yet had herself, seemed to know that perfect blending of pleasure and pain, that moment when sensation was all important. She pressed both nipples tight, holding them in, trying to contain the burn, the
need.
His lips would feel so good now. She imagined them closing about her nipple, drawing it deep. She wet her fingers again and began to pull and release, dreaming of his lips.
Then one of her hands slipped down her belly, dancing over the tender skin, the dark curls. She’d touched herself before, but always with shame, never with this feeling of exhilaration, of everything being right.
For a moment she ran her fingers about, enjoying the feeling, but avoiding that special spot. She wanted to prolong this, to keep it going as long as she could. She was not sure what came next, but she needed this now.
She circled again and again, her fingers slick with her honey. One finger trailed over her entrance but did not enter. Then finally, she allowed herself to touch just where she wanted. Good. So good. Sparks of feeling filled her with each stroke.
Harder. Faster.
She opened her eyes and saw James—and almost forgot to breathe.
His look was intent, his eyes focused on her moving fingers. She could see the effort he put into each swallow.
His eyes lifted and met hers. His lips parted.
God, she could feel his mouth upon her, even as her own fingers moved. She felt his tongue in her own touch, the brush of his teeth in her pinch.
And he felt it, too; she could see that in his eyes, see that every time she touched herself he felt it. Her fingers grew hurried, she felt it coming, knew she could not hold back for long.
He bent forward, his eyes again dropping between her legs. Without looking, he reached out and took a candle from the candelabra, raising it so that the light shone more directly upon her.
She should have been embarrassed, should have felt ashamed, but she did not. This was power. This was glory.
Her one hand pinched her nipple tight, the other moved faster between her legs.
And her eyes stayed on him. He was not touching himself, although she could see the large bulge beneath his breeches. His hands lay fisted on his thighs.
