A Touch of Sin (12 page)

With his hands on her hips, Pasha guided, disciplined the rhythm, the extent and depth of thrust, how far she was allowed to descend, deliberately orchestrating the intoxicating flux and flow. Her deep cleavage flared wide on the downstrokes, converging on the ascent; her pleasure was expressed in a low, throaty purr.

"Tight, but not too tight." He forced himself deeper, his breath a warm ripple on her cheek. "The perfect pussy."

His words floated through the lustful haze and pungent heat and she lifted her lashes, his eyes surprisingly close as she drifted back into reality, his gaze dispassionate as though he were quite separate from his hard cock inside her. She was dying for him and he was letting her fuck him. A shocking thrill tore through her. It was depraved and shameful that she should want him so, more so because he knew it.

"Are you enjoying your ride?" His voice was hushed, a knowing undertone to his words. "You're almost there again, aren't you?" Neither question required an answer, nor was she capable of one for he'd tightened his grip on her hips as he spoke, and holding her, he shoved upward with such force, she felt herself stretch wide, fiercely wide.

And drenched and pulsing, she heard her orgasmic scream rise into the shaded interior of the carriage.

She collapsed on Pasha's shoulder, clinging to him while he held her gently, their bodies swaying with the motion of the carriage. Moments later, roused from her lethargy, she whispered, "No… no more," and began to lift herself away.

"Are you sure?" Pasha stroked her back, holding her lightly in place on his erection. "Umm… now that's nice." He moved in a small, succinct way, a blissful way that made her feel faint.

And she was no longer sure about anything.

"Let me show you something," he said, smiling. "Tell me what you think."

The heat inside her rekindled as he shifted slightly beneath her, burned degrees hotter if possible, frightened her with its intensity, as though she were mindless to all but an abject sexual craving.

"Don't do that," she protested, trying to pull away, some remnant of self still operating beneath the sensual deluge.

"This?" He slid deeper, glided along every shuddering susceptible nerve in her vagina, invoking an inarticulate whimpering need that made her forget all but her distended, pulsating core, the splendid flux and flow of Pasha's thick, hard penis. She dissolved around him, helpless against the opulent, swelling desire.

The carriage lurched, slowed. Her fitful gaze came up, anxious, uncertain. "Don't worry," he murmured, sustaining the lush rhythm, kissing her half-parted lips.

Seconds later, raised voices signaled the approach of a post stop and a moment of panic showed in her eyes. But she was already beginning to crest and it was too late, the tidal wave of sensation impossible to curb or deter, the swelling tumult irrepressible. Her orgasmic cry reverberated as the carriage came to a rest.

"Everyone heard," Trixi whispered several moments later, nervously pulling her bodice up to cover her bare breasts, as though those outside could see as well.

"Don't do that," he abruptly said, pulling her gown back down. "These are much too luscious to hide."

"Pasha, no," she protested, her horrified gaze flicking from window to window.

"The shades are down, darling. Relax." He eased the gray silk from her fingers. "I still haven't had my turn."

"Pasha, not here!" she said in a panic. But even as she uttered the words, a perverse excitement rippled through her senses.

He read the flush on her cheeks and the twinge of shameful terror in her eyes. "Does the danger excite you?"

"Don't say that."

"I'm sure the post boys would love hearing you again, or seeing you." A wolfish smile appeared. "But I'm too selfish. These are for my eyes only," he whispered, tweaking her distended nipples. "
You're
mine." He slid his hands beneath her skirt, cupping her bottom, his fingers slipping over the verges of her drenched vulva stretched around his erection. "Tell me you're mine," he murmured, astonished by his possessive impulse, disconcerted. "Because I intend to fuck you all the way to the coast," he added, clarifying his sense of possession into recognizable motive. "Beginning… let's see where we are." Freeing one hand, he pulled the shade back enough to glance out, his wet fingers leaving stains on the silk.

A hot, sticky imprint, a memento of her passage through his life, she thought, gazing at the blemished silk, wondering how many other women craved him the way she did.

"Beginning at the Coq d'Or," he drawled, dropping the shade back in place, familiar with all the post stops to the coast. "How appropriate," he said, half smiling, "with you liking cock so much."

She should say no, she didn't, when he looked at her like that with such wicked, carnal assessment, but she couldn't when he looked at her like that. When his eyes told her he knew how shamelessly she liked
his
cock inside her.

"You can hardly wait for more, can you?" His fingers stroked her lavish breasts. "Luckily, we still have hours. Look." He lightly flicked her nipples with his thumbs. "They must have heard. They've swollen larger. With hours to go, you'll be sore by the time we reach Calais. I'll be sore." His appetite for her was as insatiable, a disturbing thought for a man who had always reached the point of indifference quickly.

"Let's get rid of this dress." His voice took on a hard edge when he considered his unwanted compulsions. "I want you naked."

"You as well," she replied languorously, still suffused with postcoital mellowness. "If you're not afraid of getting cold."

Amusement returned to his gaze. "I don't anticipate being cold."

"You
feel
hot," she said, very, very softly, moving her hips in a slow, serpentine undulation that brought a smile to both their faces.

"And you feel really fuckable," he whispered, putting aside disquieting thoughts in favor of more pleasant activities.

The journey to Calais turned into a sexual marathon, one of discovery and indulgence, excitement and urgency, sweetly virginal at times for them both, all hot haste and enthusiasm at other times—until shortly after the moon came up. "We have to stop," Pasha said. "I need food or you're going to complain."

"What makes you think I'd complain?"

He cast her a droll look. "Let's just say I have this feeling you can be a shade demanding."

"In that case, stop by all means," she cheerfully acceded. "But you just go in. I'm lazy. I couldn't possibly go anywhere looking like this anyway." Illuminated by moonlight shining through the carriage shades, she lay nude on the opposite seat, her hair loose on her shoulders, her clothes in disarray on the floor.

"Why not?" he inquired. "If you're tired, I'll carry you in."

"Lord, Pasha, that's all I need. As if I wouldn't appear improper enough with a crumpled gown and disheveled hair."

"You look fabulous," he disagreed, relishing his view. "Now if we can find some decent food, life will be bloody near perfect."

"A hairdresser and a lady's maid for my gown would add to that perfection."

"Do you want me to find you some servants?"

"No, no—really, I don't." She could tell he was quite willing to do just that, which would only embarrass her further. She wished she had his contempt for public opinion.

But he eventually prevailed upon her to accompany him inside, helping her put her hair and gown to rights with sweet intent if not competence. But it required a high-handed arrogance to stare down those who gazed at them when they walked through the public rooms to their private dining parlor.

Warm water and a mirror were procured in their private parlor, together with a substantial meal. Sometime later, thoroughly refreshed and nourished, the young couple returned to their carriage.

After assisting Trixi in, Pasha took a half-step back and glanced up at his driver, Mansel, who sat at the ready, waiting for orders. "We won't be stopping again, save for changing horses. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Mansel understood his master wasn't to be disturbed.

"We should reach Calais by morning?"

"Before dawn, more likely."

Pasha smiled and entered the carriage. At the snap of the door shutting, Mansel cracked his whip and the horses broke into a canter.

They reached Calais in the early morning and found the
Peregrine
only recently docked. Pasha's captain had unfurled all sail to bring the yacht up to Calais in record time. Pasha's message had been clear—all speed was required.

Pasha carried Trixi aboard. Sated, replete with pleasure after the long hours to Calais, she made no protest even when he tucked her into his berth in his stateroom. "Sleep, darling," he murmured, kissing her flushed cheek. "I'll join you once we're out into the Channel."

"You're much too nice."

"And you're too damned delectable," he softly replied, knowing he could have her a hundred times more and not have enough. Mildly unnerved by such need, he swiftly left the stateroom, putting distance between her and his lust.

The cool sea air brought a modicum of reason back to his brain, and on deck he was able to view his obsession more dispassionately. She was a strikingly beautiful woman with a fresh innocence that tempted his jaded soul. And, he reflected with a faint smile, she possessed a lush, extravagant sexuality—both flagrant and startlingly unaffected. He'd be a fool not to enjoy his holiday with her. And when it was over, he'd return to Paris. That was simple enough. There was no need to justify every nuance of sensation.

But despite his attempt at a rationale, he found himself wanting her again, only minutes later, with a covetous urgency that caused him considerable misgiving, and he forced himself to remain on deck until the
Peregrine
was well out into the Channel. He went belowdecks, though, shortly after and slipped into his berth beside her and slipped into her body as well and gratified his inexplicable need.

She welcomed him with an addictive fervor she could no more understand than control. She'd given up trying to comprehend her startling sexual need for him long before they reached Calais. Reason had proved useless, no convoluted explanation sufficed to fathom the degree of her response. Pleasure alone impelled her, and she allowed herself to simply savor the feeling.

The sea air, tantalizing and pungent, enveloped them, the isolation of Pasha's small stateroom enfolded them; they felt a kind of deep, contented togetherness separate from their passion.

"It's because I'm going home," Trixi said, her voice winsome, her smile enchanting.

And the man who would have scoffed at the word enchantment two days ago wondered if one of his mother's shamans had cast a spell over him.

They stayed at anchor offshore England that night, waiting for dawn before docking. At sunrise, they stood on deck together, watching the white cliffs of Dover turn from pink to tangerine to gold, contentment warming their souls.

Pasha had never experienced this degree of satisfaction, his life since adulthood devoted to more feverish degrees of sensation.

Like a prisoner recently allowed her freedom after years of emotional deprivation, Trixi only savored the joy.

That rare bliss, unique to both their lives, forged an uncommon bond between them, and a sweet affinity quite separate from lust pervaded their senses.

At quayside, Pasha helped with the complexities of transferring his carriage to land, working the block and tackle with a deft touch, swinging the large conveyance over the side and setting it down so delicately the springs barely bounced. The green lacquered barouche glistened under the pale sun, oddly out of place on the docks stacked high with cargo, like a dazzling objet d'art amidst swine. While his men harnessed hired horses and packed the dray wagon engaged to carry their luggage and most of Chris's toys, Pasha made arrangements for his men at a local inn.

Seated in the parlor with a cup of tea, Trixi observed another side of the man who had charmed her so. Brisk and efficient, he paid the drayman and the stableman, talked to the harbormaster about the
Peregrine's
berth, and gave orders concerning the rooms and meals for his crew, his manner authoritative yet cordial, his English without accent. He offered his hand to everyone in parting, so unusual a gesture from a gentleman, the locals were momentarily startled. But, beaming, they all shook his hand, his name now not only a byword for generosity—he'd tipped everyone a princely sum—but for courtesy as well.

"The crew's arranged for," he said, walking over to the table to join Trixi. "And the landlady is bringing us some breakfast. A little of everything I told her, if that's all right with you?"

"I haven't eaten so well in years," Trixi replied, smiling.

"I haven't
enjoyed
myself so well in years. It must be kismet," he added with a grin, dropping into a chair in a comfortable sprawl.

"Food and lust you mean," she teased.

His brows arched, amusement twinkled in his eyes. "Always a good combination."

"The tastes of a Parisian libertine, no doubt."

"Do you think so? English rakes don't eat?"

"We'll have to ask when next we see one."

His eyes narrowed minutely. "I'd just as soon you not see any."

"Are we jealous?" she playfully inquired.

"Oddly, yes."

"How nice." His brusque reply warmed her heart.

"And very strange," he said with a tangible perplexity. "Perhaps I'm hungry," he mused, masculine logic at work. "Actually, I
am
hungry." Subtleties of emotion rarely occupied his interest for long. "Ah, there's my coffee," he exclaimed as a maid entered the room carrying a tray.

Within the hour, well fed and refreshed, they were away from Dover on the road to London, and a scant hour later, they were turning onto the country byway that would lead to Burleigh House.

"You must think me a ninny, always filled with doubts and uncertainties," Trixi said, as the familiar landscape rolled by the carriage windows, "but in my parish everyone knows everyone and when you appear in our midst, questions will be asked."