She would sooner die than return to Cousin Bartholomew in disgrace, so close to having won her freedom from him and yet, at the last minute, denied. But the longer she had waited for Rafe in his room, pacing the carpets and rehearsing what she must say, reminding herself she needed to inform him of his brother’s suspicions and then leave, the more another, wanton part of her had wondered what would happen if she remained.
The moment he had pulled her into his embrace, bringing their bodies together, hers flush against his, his heat and strength burning into her, the wanton part of her had taken the reins. The rational, calm Persephone had disappeared, no match for the fiery sensations Rafe inspired in her.
Still, she did not know what the repercussions would be for him. It was her understanding that the Sutton siblings owned The Sinner’s Palace together. However, it was possible Mr. Sutton, as the eldest of his family, owned more than the others. It was possible Rafe could be dismissed as well, or that Mr. Sutton would take other action against him.
She had to try one more time to dissuade him from his course. To dissuade them both.
“Staying here is foolish,” she said on a gasp as he sucked on the tender flesh of her throat. She was breathless. Nearly mindless. She was his, whatever he wished of her. “I could be dismissed, and you…” Her words trailed away as he kissed back up her neck, not stopping until he reached her mouth.
He kissed the right corner, denying her what she craved, the full press of his lips on hers. “And you?”
He was prompting her to complete her thought. But the impediment to doing so was that she no longer was capable of thoughts. Not rational, reasonable ones, anyway.
“Oh, Rafe,” she managed, cupping his face in her hands. The slight prick of golden whiskers on his jaw was a new delight. At last, she felt its texture on her palms and the sensitive undersides of her fingers. She had been longing to feel the rasp of his whiskers from the moment she had first seen them. “Kiss me.”
He kissed the opposite corner of her mouth, obeying her command but not in the way she wanted. “I’m not like the other one, you know. If you want to leave, you’re free to go.”
Of course she knew he was nothing like Viscount Gregson. The two men could not be more dissimilar.
“I know you are not,” she reassured him, allowing her touch to trail over his cheekbones, the high, carved slashes she had only admired but never touched. “I want to be here with you, though I know it is most unwise.”
His head lifted, his hazel stare meeting hers.
“You’re safe with me, Persephone,” he said solemnly. “Safe with me and safe from others. No one will come to my room, and I’ll make certain no one sees you return to yours when you decide to go.”
He sounded so confident, as if he conducted trysts every day. But then, with his sinful good looks and his confident, sensual air, perhaps he did.
She did not want to think of that now. Nor did she want to think of the others who would inevitably follow her. For this stolen moment, he was hers, and she was his. The scars of the past and the uncertainties of the future could not find them here.
“I do feel safe with you,” she reassured him, touched by his need to be sure she felt no danger.
“You didn’t always,” he reminded her wryly, still searching her eyes, as if they possessed all the answers he sought. “You drugged me.”
Guilt lanced her. “It was not you. It was never you. It was merely my own desperation and fears.”
He nodded, his jaw tensing beneath her fingers. “If you want to stop, tell me. If you don’t want this, say it now. You’re in control.”
She nodded, grateful that he understood so well what she needed. Perhaps better, even, than she knew herself. She was in control, he had said. Which meant she did not need to wait for him to kiss her.
They were almost the same height. All she needed to do was roll to the balls of her feet and press her mouth to his. He responded immediately, his lips moving against hers, hungry and demanding and hot.
So hot.
She came to life, opening for his questing tongue. He tasted of spirits and sin and something indefinably heady. Him. Rafe. He may have told her she was in control, but she had lost all ability to rein in her body. Her arms wound around his neck, and she aligned herself shamelessly to him, seeking, searching.
This was what had been missing from her life. This man, this feeling.
The kiss went on, and she gave herself to it fully, just as she intended to give herself to him.
Give herself to him?
Yes! Why had the thought not occurred to her earlier?
The realization struck her like a knell of sudden clarity. A lady was told all her life that her worth was in her virtue. That she must guard and preserve it at all costs. What if she had none?
If Cousin Bartholomew were to find her tomorrow, no longer the virginal miss he had been determined to claim for his own, would he stomach the prospect of forcing her into marriage? The answer was elusive, but she felt quite certain it would, at the very least, prove an appalling discovery to him. And if he were indeed to discover her before she reached five-and-twenty, at least she would have this memory to cling to.
Persephone was justifying her shamelessness, but there was no longer a need for that when Rafe’s knowing fingers found the ties of her gown and undid them. Her bodice sagged. Fabric pooled down her arms. And still he kissed her, devouring her with lips, tongue, and teeth.
Her gown fell to the floor, leaving her feeling curiously light. She wore only her shift, stays, petticoats, and stockings. His fingers slipped into her simple coiffure, pulling all the pins and dismantling her morning efforts. His lips moved over hers, coaxing the response he wanted, the low growl in his throat gratifying. To think, this handsome, seductive man wanted her. Persephone Wren, a drab governess who had done everything she could to blend in with her surroundings.
He wanted her without knowing who she was. He wanted her, not the power he had over her, not her inheritance, nothing but what she would willingly surrender. How strong and beautiful he made her feel. She told him with her kiss, her tongue mating with his as her fingers sifted through his soft curls and then traveled lower.
To the knot of his cravat. Removing their outer layers seemed both symbolic and necessary. She wanted all the barriers gone, longed for him as he had been the night he had spent in her bed, all bare, masculine flesh, sinew and muscle. The knot came undone, and blindly, she moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers gliding over silk, plucking each one from its moorings.
He shrugged it and his coat from his shoulders.
But when she moved to the short row of buttons at the neck of his shirt, he broke the kiss, stepping back. She knew a pang of disappointment along with a rush of embarrassment. Had she mistook his intentions?
“Have I displeased you?” she asked, searching his gaze, her lips still tingling from his passionate kisses.
“Never, lovely.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You please me far too much. I don’t trust myself to remove all. The rest of my articles must stay on.”
“But—”
He silenced her protest with a swift, maddening kiss.
By the time their lips parted, she forgot what her objection was. With the practiced ease of a lady’s maid, he stripped her of her undergarments. Tapes and knots could not deter him from what he wanted. From her. Until at last, she stood in only a shift and stockings. And then, one more sweet, slow kiss, and even the shift was gone. She stood before him in nothing but her stockings, the plain garters tied above her knees.
Naked as she had never been before another. The cool air of the chamber swirled around her, but she was warm. Warmer still when he stepped back to look at her. Beneath his admiring gaze, she felt lovely for the first time. She felt worthy of that admiration, and more than that, she reveled in it.
His hazel stare traveled over her with undisguised hunger. “You are so bleeding beautiful, Persephone. Christ. I could look
upon you all day.”
She pressed her thighs together to quell the ache, wishing he were as bereft of garments as she was. “Thank you.”
He held out his hand to her. “Come.”
She placed her palm in his, their fingers intertwining, with the wild, impulsive thought that she would follow him anywhere he wished flashing through her mind. He led her to the bed instead, which was much larger and more ornate than hers, befitting the guest chamber of such an impressive town house. Her heart sped. The bed was his. He had lain in it. She was going to lie there with him.
It will not be the first time, Persephone.
Yes, she had shared a bed with him before. But he had been snoring, and she had built a wall of pillows and coverlets to protect her. This was different. Quite different. She knew him now. She trusted him now.
They stopped just short of the mattress, and he drew her against him, kissing her lingeringly until the desire overtook her tension. She felt achy in strange new places, her nipples hardened, the flesh between her thighs throbbing. He dragged his lips down her throat to the place where her shoulder and neck met, then over her shoulder blade where he lightly bit.
Her knees went weak, but Rafe’s arm banded around her waist, catching her and keeping her from falling. Slowly, tenderly, he guided her to the bed, and then she was on her back, with his big, strong body atop hers.
The desire dissipated once more, chased by the unwanted remembrance of the night Lord Gregson had come to her room at Lord Landsdowne’s town house. The bedclothes had been twisted about her ankles, and he had used his upper body to pin her to the mattress, denying her the ability to escape.
This is not Gregson. This is Rafe. You are safe with Rafe.
But no matter how many times she repeated the reassurance to herself, the panic was rising within, swiftly and uncontrollably. Her body and mind were at war, wanting and yet fearful. She stiffened, going cold, the memories of that awful night chasing her passions and leaving her like the ashes in a grate after the fire had burned out.
Rafe’s face rose over hers, concern lining his handsome countenance. “What’s wrong, sweet?”
Her chest was suddenly heaving, tremors shaking through her. Her voice failed Persephone. It was as if she had no power to stop this sudden dread threatening to overwhelm her.
He rolled to his side, his weight lifting from her, and she could breathe again. Gradually, the alarm subsided, her heart slowing. She drew air into her lungs, staring at the plasterwork on the ceiling above them, trying to gather her wits.
Tenderly, he stroked her cheek. “Have I frightened you? Do you wish to stop? Talk to me, Persephone.”
He was so much more than she had supposed he was that fateful night of their first meeting. Such a complex and caring man, one who championed her and touched her with such gentle reverence, but yet could inflict vengeance and pain upon others with the same hands that caressed her. She had only to look into his eyes to calm, to understand she was in no harm. To return to her senses.
Words accompanied the lucidity.
“When I awoke that night, he was atop me,” she struggled to explain. “It… For a fleeting moment, all I could think about was Lord Gregson holding me in place, and I… I panicked. Forgive me, Rafe.”
Tears stung her eyes. Tears of frustration and humiliation. She wanted Rafe Sutton more than she had ever wanted anything, aside from her freedom. And yet, why could she not escape the damage Lord Gregson had done to her? She had ruined everything.
Or perhaps, to be more accurate, she was ruined.
“Hush.” He kissed her forehead. “There is nothing to forgive. Christ, I should be begging your forgiveness. With what that bastard did to you, I never should’ve touched you.”
“No.” She seized his shoulders, frantic, fearing he would leave the bed. “Please. I want you, Rafe.”
And she did.
She could overcome the fear, she was sure. She could overpower her body, those terrible memories.
“Maybe you aren’t ready, lovely.” His gaze was warm, soft with understanding. “You’ve been through a hellish scrape.”
“I am ready.” At least, her heart and her mind were.
He leaned into her, careful to keep his body from pressing against her, his lips finding hers. It was what she needed, the seductive governing of his mouth slanting on hers, calming her, bringing her back to the reason she was here. This man. His kisses. The way he made her feel.
Lovely.
Desired.
Powerful.
Fearless.
As if there were no troubles in her world, everything in its proper order. As if she had no need to fear the future, the coming day. All was right when Rafe Sutton kissed her.
He ended the connection, pulling back to study her with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness. She could not shake the sense he was delving into her, finding a part of her she had not previously known existed. Seeing all her secrets. Which was foolish, of course. He could not see the truth. He was not omniscient. He was merely a man.
“There will always be another day,” he said, breaking the silence.
But that was the trouble. For her, there was every possibility there would not. On another day, she would lose her daring. Or he would have found another woman to ply with his charms. Or Mr. Sutton would finally uncover the entire truth about her and dismiss her. Mayhap Cousin Bartholomew would find her and force her to return to Silwood Manor. A myriad of possibilities, of lost chances. She could not bear to let him go without at least trying once more.
“What if there is not another day?” She swallowed hard against a swelling tide of emotion, trying in vain to read his expression. “What if this is our only chance, Rafe? If there will never be another night when we can be so free?”
That fear, more than the terror which beset her whenever she was reminded of the day Lord Gregson had nearly forced himself upon her, spurred her the most. If she was forced to marry Cousin Bartholomew, or if she spent the rest of her life as a governess, or even if she was able to free herself from her cousin’s plans and live out her life as a spinster, she wanted more. She wanted the memory of having known passion, real and true, once in her life.
He kissed her again, so softly it was little more than a whisper of a touch, his lips feathering over hers before it ended. “Is it my body on yours that sparked your fears?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “Yes. I do think so.”
He kissed her brow. “I can pleasure you without being atop you, sweet. Do you want to try?”
Heavens and angels, did he need to ask?
“Yes.” In her relief, she leaned forward, kissing him so hard that her teeth slammed into the sensitive insides of her lips. But never mind. She did not care.
He broke the kiss and rolled to his back. “Come here, lovely.”
He offered her his hand once more.
And she took it.
CHAPTER 9
What he was about to do was not the sort of thing a man attempted with an innocent. And yet, in this instance, it was a necessity. That rank, chicken-hearted scoundrel had hurt her, and unlike a physical lashing, the scars dwelled beneath the surface. Now, it was for Rafe to undo the damage as best he could.
Giving Persephone pleasure was a start.
Not that his motives were entirely pure. Pleasing her would also please him. Very much.
He lay on his back and guided her legs until she was astride his chest. All the saints, what a glorious sight to behold. Persephone was naked save her stockings and garters, creamy thighs parted to reveal the pretty pink bud between her lips, the thatch of sunset curls on her mound not enough to shield the slick pink folds from view. He caressed her hips, aware she was nervous and embarrassed to be displayed for him thus. The scent of her, musky and rich with desire, made his mouth water.
He was desperate to taste her. To suck her and fuck her with his tongue until she screamed. His cock had never been harder in his life. But it would
have to wait.
“Beautiful,” he praised, palms gliding over the soft inner flesh of her thighs, as he allowed his gaze to travel the luscious curves of her waist, the generous handfuls of her breasts. “How do you feel?”
“Shy,” she admitted, her tongue darting over the seam of her lips. “This is terribly wicked.”
He was capable of far greater depravity, but no need to mention that now. Her nipples were puckered and hard, her face flush with desire. What a delicious combination she was, equal parts the prim governess and lusty wanton, the innocent and the seductress all at once.
“Never be shy with me,” he told her. “I want you bold and daring and brave. Give me your wickedest.”
He moved his touch nearer to her center, thumbs dipping into the creases on the edges of her plump lips. Her quim beckoned, open, wet, ready for his tongue. She shifted, sliding her arse forward in an instinctive effort to achieve more of his touch. He was unable to resist swiping his thumbs over the outer folds, gathering some of her wetness and painting it over her flesh.
“Oh,” she said softly, part moan, part exclamation of wonder. She rocked forward, arching her back.
Her breasts were thrust forward, offerings he could not refuse.
He shifted her. Using his upper body’s strength, he sat up, careful to keep his hands on her, his thumbs tantalizing her by lingering on the periphery of where her body would naturally want him most. He latched on to a nipple, sucking hard while he continued to tease her, and was rewarded by her soft sound of delight and her fingers threading through his hair.
There’s my girl.
His? Yes. Hell yes. No time to question the possessive way he felt about Miss Persephone Wren now. For tonight, these precious, stolen hours, she was his. And she was naked, on him, her cunny soaking the thin fabric of his shirt. He had never known a more erotic moment in his life when he still had his bleeding togs on.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 10
