Chapter 15

I am a wicked, sinful man, dear reader. A man you should never, ever trust.

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl

Her lips were so soft and giving and warm beneath his. Her rump was two delicious handfuls. Her curves melted into him.

Kissing her should not feel so good.

Sin had been determined to avoid his new wife for the entirety of the day. Decker's taunts had kept him from returning. Instead, he had spent his time dining, drinking, and playing billiards with his old friend. Keeping himself from returning to his wife's side like a well-trained mongrel.

He was a mongrel.

But he was not trained, by God.

Except, the moment he had seen Callie standing on the threshold in her simple white nightdress, looking deliciously innocent, all his good intentions had fled. She had wondered where he had been. Had she been jealous? Had she cared? Worried after him?

Why should he give a damn?

He did not know, other than that he did. He gave a damn about her. He liked her. He wanted her. He had been hungering for her all day. Even as he had distracted himself with drink and good company and Decker's collection of erotic art, she had never been far from his mind.

He feasted upon her lips now as if he could devour them. And the darkness within him wanted to. He wanted to tear her virginal night rail off her luscious body, carry her to his bed, and fuck her all night long.

But she was likely sore, and he could not treat her as if she were no better than a common strumpet. Instead, he would have to settle for kissing her. And for making her come. He wanted her in his bed again tonight, and Decker could go to the devil. Nothing was going to stop him from taking what he wanted.

Taking what was his.

Her lips moved, kissing him back. Her tongue glided against his.

Her head drew back, ending the kiss before it had properly begun, a frown marring her forehead. "You taste of whisky."

"How do you know what whisky tastes like?" he demanded, though he knew he should not be surprised.

His new wife was no ordinary English rose. She wore trousers and had been painted in dishabille by Moreau.

"In the ordinary way," she returned. "By drinking it."

"I had some whisky after dinner," he admitted.

And before dinner, as well, but she need not know that. He was not a souse, and he did not often over-imbibe. Indeed, the last time he had done so had been in the wake of Celeste's death over a year ago.

"You had dinner and whisky with your friend," Callie said, emphasizing the word. "Whilst I remained here alone, uncertain whether or not you would return?"

"Jealous, love?" he asked, unable to refrain from taunting her. In truth, he had supposed she would be relieved to be rid of him.

After all, she hated him, even if her body responded to his quite well.

She bit her lower lip. "No. Of course not. Why would I be?"

He groaned. "Stop torturing your lips, woman."

Her frown deepened. "I am not yours to order about."

"You are mine now, and if you do not cease nibbling at your lips, I will have to give them quarter the only way I know how."

His cock was ridiculously hard. He ought to have drowned himself in whisky. Perhaps then he would not be so desperate to be inside her again.

Before she could say anything, he kissed her. Why was she so irresistible? Why could he not keep his distance? Exercise some restraint?

She had spent the previous night in his bed. He would be lying if he said he had not known a stab of disappointment when he had entered his chamber this evening and found she was not waiting for him. His reaction to her did not make sense, and he knew it. He had shared a bed with lovers before her. There was nothing special about the act, about the woman.

And yet, he had found her presence oddly comforting. Pleasant.

He kissed her with bruising force, wanting to punish her for the way she made him feel. But all he succeeded in doing was heightening his own desire for her. She kissed him back with equal abandon, her tongue gliding foraying into his mouth. Good God, he was not sure which of them was teaching the other a lesson.

The need to pleasure her rose within him, surpassing all else. Consuming him.

He released his grip on her tempting derriere and scooped her into his arms, intending to get her into his bed before she could attempt to escape him. Her mouth jerked from his, ending the kiss.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Put me down at once."

He made it to his bed in three strides. "As you wish, princess."

Sin tossed her lightly. Manhandling her was pathetically easy—she was so damned small compared to his hulking frame. She landed in the center of the bed with a feminine squeak.

"I am not…giving you husbandly rights this evening," she protested, scrambling to her knees.

She intended to put up a fight. He was not surprised. Anticipation jolted through him. The hem of her night rail was trapped around her thighs, baring her knees. She was creamy perfection. Not helping his cockstand to abate at all, that sight. Her hair was a wild, dark halo of riotous curls around her face, streaming down her shoulders and back.

He remembered how it had felt in his fingers, silken and cool. How it had felt wrapped around his fingers, too.

"Calm yourself, Callie," he told her with a composure that belied the fire coursing through his veins. He began slipping the buttons on his shirt free, one by one. "I have no intention of bedding you tonight. You are likely sore, are you not? Do you think me an unfeeling cad?"

Her cheeks darkened to a pretty shade of pink. "My lord!"

He grinned. Her embarrassment was strangely endearing.

"Sin," he reminded her as he shed his shirt.

Stripping it off was likely unfair, he knew. He had not failed to note the manner in which her brown-gold gaze had lingered previously upon his chest. He could not deny he found her interest pleasing.

"Sin, I must insist you not speak of such personal matters aloud," she said, her prim governess voice returning.

The dichotomy of proper Callie with the flushed cheeks and the wild woman who kissed him with such skilled ferocity intrigued him. He had supposed their union would be bloodless and cold and marked with their mutual hatred.

But their hatred had sparked flames of a different sort.

And this was one particular inferno he did not mind being scorched by.

He unbuttoned the fall of his trousers next. "There is my prudish governess once more. Will you not undo a few buttons, love? I fear your night rail will choke you in your sleep, that endless line all the way up your throat."

"There is nothing wrong with my nightdress," she argued, fingering the lacey frills at her throat. "Aunt Fanchette said husbands prefer their wives to be clothed modestly when they sleep. She chose this herself."

He could not stifle his laugh. "How the devil does Aunt Feather-wit know what husbands prefer from their wives when she has never had a husband herself?"

Her little white teeth emerged yet again, nibbling at her lip. "You must not call her that dreadful name. It is disrespectful. Aunt Fanchette is the only female relative I have to guide me, with my brother and his wife still on their honeymoon."

True. But he would be damned if he would allow himself to entertain even a drop of remorse for denying her the chance to receive wifely guidance from her new sister-in-law. Had they tarried, Westmorland would have done something to interfere with the wedding. Of that, Sin had no doubt.

He removed his trousers in one swift move, and then bent to pull off his stockings as well. "Do me a favor, wife? Cease relying upon the advice of Aunt Featherbrains, will you?"

"Aunt Fanchette," she snapped, her gaze traveling down his chest to his torso.

When it dipped lower still, his cock twitched. His erection was tenting his bloody smalls, and he knew it. If he were a gentleman, he would turn away or adjust himself. Do something to ease her discomfit. Think about kittens and puppies and elderly dowagers to kill his cockstand.

Instead, he whipped his smalls away as well, standing before her nude, his prick at attention. He ached to stroke himself. To take himself in hand while she watched. To do everything wicked with her. But this was only their second night as husband and wife. No need to debauch her entirely just yet.

They had time.

The rest of their lives.

"Do you truly want to talk about Aunt Fanchette at the moment?" he asked politely as he turned down the gas lamps.

"What are you doing?" she sputtered.

So full of objection and shocked outrage this evening, his little wife. Last night, she had been naked and wanton in his bed, wet and sweet beneath his tongue.

Bathed in darkness, he settled into the bed.

"Going to sleep," he told her. "The hour is late."

"Oh."

Did he detect a note of disappointment in her voice?

He pulled the bedclothes over himself. "Are you going to sit there all night, princess, or are you going to get beneath the covers?"

"I will return to my chamber," she said stiffly.

The bed shifted.

Did she truly think she could flee him that easily?

"You will not," he clipped, reaching for her through the shadows.

Happily, his left hand met with her linen-covered breast. Her nipple was hard, prodding his palm.

She inhaled sharply. "You said you would not enforce your husbandly rights."

But she remained where she was. Her protestations did not fool him. She was a passionate woman, and her body responded to his each time he touched her.

"And so I shall not." He rubbed his thumb over her nipple. "But I must insist you remain here this evening."

"Aunt Fanchette said husbands and wives do not share the same bed."

Her persistence was maddening. Also, somehow, adorable.

Adorable again?

What the hell was she doing to him?

He rolled her beaded nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Callie?"

"Yes?" Her voice was hesitant.

"If you do not get under the bedclothes where you belong in the next five seconds, I am going to lift your virginal governess nightgown and spank your rump. Is that what you want?"

"You would not dare," she breathed.

Oh yes he would, and he would enjoy it too. One spank, then a kiss to dull the sting. And then he would flip her to her back and sink inside her. Or, better yet, he would put a pillow beneath her and slide into her from behind.

Bloody hell.

There went his cock again.

"Tempt me," he muttered.

"If you ever try such a thing, I will plant you a facer," she warned.

It was his turn to bite his own lip now, to stifle an unexpected burst of laughter. He had no doubt she would try. And though she was a small scrap of silk, he was willing to wager she would manage to land a decent enough blow.

"Hmm," he said on a yawn. The whisky he had consumed was beginning to take its toll upon him. Though he was itching to take her again, he was also exhausted, and his honor was not allowing him to indulge this evening.

His honor and his concern for her. What the devil ailed him?

"Attempt it and you shall see," she warned.

But the bedclothes lifted, and then a rustling filled the silence, punctuating her pronouncement. She was settling in, his little wife. Sin realized a smile was curving his lips. Not one of victory, either. But contentment.

He liked having her here with him.

Not that he would ever tell her as much.

Decker was right. He needed to be wary where she was concerned, especially after all the trouble she had caused him. But that was a worry for another day.

"I see you are not willing to test your theory this evening, darling," he could not resist adding.

"You are insufferable, my lord," she accused.

But there was no heat in her voice. In truth, she sounded wearier than he was. Still, he could not let her my lord go unanswered.

"Sin," he prompted.

For an indeterminate span of time, she said nothing. There was no noise between them save for the slow, even sound of her breathing.

Stubborn wench.

Just when he was about to slide into slumber, her dulcet voice interrupted the night.

"Sleep well, Sin."

He smiled. "And you, Callie."

He fell asleep to the soft sound of her breathing alongside him, and her presence did not feel wrong at all. Rather, it felt far, far too right.

Callie woke with a foot pressed against hers. And a hand on her hip. And something thick and long nestled against her bottom.

Her eyes fluttered open to early morning sun.

For a moment, she was disoriented, forgetting where she was and why.

Slowly, reality returned to her. It was her second morning as the Countess of Sinclair. And she was in the earl's bed. In her husband's bed.

But this time, unlike the morning before, he was here as well.

And that was his foot large and warm and yet also somehow comforting against hers. That large hand splayed possessively on her hip was his as well. And as for the thick and long object prodding her…

Dear heavens.

She knew precisely what that was.

His hand moved then, traveling from her hip in a slow, seductive path to her breast.

Was he awake? His breaths were even and rhythmic, suggestive of slumber. Surely she ought not to disturb him? She should lie still lest she wake the sleeping beast. Yes, that was the only reason she remained as she was whilst his hand cupped her breast. Whilst his thumb moved slowly over her nipple.

Heat pooled between her thighs.

His nail grazed over the taut bud.

She arched into his touch instinctively. It felt so good. Too good. His long fingers tightened on her breast. She swallowed and tried to recall all the reasons why she should not indulge in the wicked sensations he brought to life within her. All the reasons why she should disengage and quietly slip from the bed.

But his presence, hot and warm at her back, kept her here. She liked his foot against hers. She liked his hand on her breast, his slow and even breaths stirring her hair. She liked his nearness, his scent, his bed.

Something was wrong with her, surely. This was the man who had spirited her away from London and coerced her into marrying him. The man she had once believed capable of murder. The man she had vowed to destroy.

She had changed, however. Her feelings had changed. Despite everything, she was attracted to him, and she could not deny that magnetism. But it was more than the physicality of their union. There was good in him; she felt certain of it, even as she feared what it meant.

As his thumb continued to lazily stroke her nipple, she thought back over the curious events of the day before. His disappearance. His return. His claim he had been with a friend. A male friend. His insistence she sleep in his bed. Did she dare allow herself tender feelings toward him? Dare believe him? Dare suppose he would be a faithful husband?

More remembrance washed over her.

The sight of him, naked.

Another pulse of need came to life at the apex of her thighs. All the forbidden flesh he had so thoroughly pleasured throbbed with remembrance. His invasion of her body had been unfamiliar and painful. But it had also been…

Blissful.

Delicious.

His foot moved, traveling slowly up her bare calf. The hem of her night rail had twisted around her thighs while she slept. His warmth seeped into her. Never had she thought the stroke of a masculine foot over her skin could be erotic.

Until now.

His hand left her breast, and she almost made a sound of frustration at the loss. Her nipples were painfully sensitive. She never wanted him to stop touching her there. But then, his hand drifted. Over her belly. Back to her hip. Down her thigh. Slowly, he dragged the hem of her nightdress higher. His caress chased every patch of skin he exposed beneath the bedclothes.

She shivered, but not because she was cold. Because the want was suddenly a vibrant, pulsating need quivering to life. His fingers dipped between her legs. She shifted, rolling toward him incrementally, holding her breath as she opened her thighs.

He parted her folds, his touch unerringly finding that bundle of sensation that demanded attention. In that moment, it was the center of her being. Need throbbed. He moved slowly. Softly. Petting her, tantalizing her.

She was impatient. Callie wanted more. Her body felt as if it were inhabited by a stranger. She scarcely recognized herself. She was aching. Needy and wanton and desperate. She undulated against his hand, seeking increased pressure.

Lips feathered over her ear in a soft kiss. "Are you awake, sweet?"

Sweet.

She liked when he called her that, too. Callie thought about feigning slumber. Pretending she was asleep so he could not see the effect he had upon her. But what would be the point in that? They were husband and wife. Every time he touched her, all her good intentions turned to ash and scattered in the wind.

"Yes," she admitted.

His fingers slid lower. One dipped inside her, stretching her. "Good."

In and out, his finger went, sliding with ease. She was slick, and the friction felt wonderful and frustrating all at once. He nuzzled her throat, kissing and sucking and nibbling a sensitive place. She stared at the wall, the dark squares where all the pictures gracing the faded damask had once hung.

"Did you sell them?" she asked suddenly, bothered anew at the thought of how near penury he had been.

There was pockets to let and then there was desperation.

His finger stilled, lodged inside her. "Pardon?"

"The pictures," she clarified. "They are almost all gone, and—Oh!"

She ended on an exclamation, because he curled his finger and sank it deeper, finding a new, deliciously sensitive place inside.

"Oh is right." He bit her ear. Not hard enough to even sting, but with just enough possessive pressure to make a surge of need pound through her. "Never mind that, Callie. I want inside you. Here."

His finger retreated and then sank into her again, joined by a second.

"Yes." It was all she could manage to say.

"How do you feel?" he asked against her ear, still tormenting her with his long, knowing fingers.

Words? He wanted speech from her? She could scarcely even think any longer. He had turned her mind to rubble. Her body was awash with need. His thumb found the bud of her sex, swirling over it.

He nibbled on her throat. "Are you sore, sweet?"

"Yes," she gasped, her hips pumping against his wicked ministrations.

He stilled.

"No," she corrected herself. "Sin, please. Do not stop."

He growled against her neck. "You are so wet for me. So tight. Tell me what you want."

She did not know what to say. Instinct told her what she wanted. He moved his fingers in and out in a tantalizing rhythm. She wanted him to replace his fingers with his manhood. To fill her the way he had on their wedding night.

"Callie," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, his teeth nipping again. "Say it. Tell me what you want."

"I want you to make love to me," she managed.

He withdrew his fingers and rolled her onto her back. In an instant, the bedclothes were gone, and he had settled himself between her thighs. His rod was thick and stiff and huge. She reached for him, wanting to touch him. Just one pass of her fingertips over the rigid length. He was warm, his heat searing her. Surprisingly smooth, soft as velvet.

A groan sounded from deep in his chest, and she released him, wondering if she had done something wrong in her neophyte enthusiasm. "Forgive me," she hastened to say. "Did I hurt you?"

"Hell no," he reassured her, taking her hand in his and bringing it back to his length. "I love your hand on my cock. Touch me again, sweet. Touch me all you like."

He wrapped her fingers around him, showing her how to stroke and bring him pleasure. Touching him like this sent a pang of pure, unadulterated need to her core. She loved the sense of power she felt—knowing he enjoyed what she was doing. Watching the way his dark gaze traveled over her, devouring her.

She realized then that she was still wearing her night rail, bunched up around her waist, whilst he was completely nude. The sight of him between her bare, parted thighs, his body naked and so blatantly masculine and ready to claim her, made her heart pound. She ran her thumb over the head of him, catching a bead of moisture leaking from the tip.

The urge to taste him as he had done to her—wild, wicked, shocking—could not be contained. Holding his gaze, she brought her thumb to her lips and sucked. He tasted salty and earthy.

"Damn it, Callie," he growled, grabbing his stiff cock once more before guiding himself to her entrance.

They were perfectly aligned. She ran her tongue over the pad of her thumb, making sure she got every drop of him. He hooked her legs around his waist and plunged forward, sheathing himself inside her in one powerful thrust.

This time, there was no pain. There was only the glorious sensation of being filled. Her body had never felt more alive. All the breath fled her lungs. She reached for him, pulling him down upon her, wanting to be as close to him as she could possibly get. Wanting to merge with him, to become a part of him.

His mouth slammed down on hers. She held him tight, banishing every other thought, fear, worry, concern—everything—from her mind except him. Her husband.

Sin.

He moved then, withdrawing almost completely from her body before sliding back inside, deep, so deep. She kissed him back with all the fury of the pent-up emotion and desire rioting within her. His tongue was in her mouth. Her hands found the hard planes of his shoulders, her nails scoring over his heated flesh. He surrounded her, filled her, consumed her.

And she wanted it. Wanted everything he had to give her, all the decadent sensation, the awakening of her body. Everything was Sin—his scent, his taste, the heavy weight of him atop her, his cock gliding inside her passage, his dark gaze boring into hers as he claimed her. She could not look away. Could not blink.

Again and again, he sank inside her. The feeling of him was exquisite. She clenched on him, dragging him deep. Her body bowed from the bed. She could not get enough.

Sin's lips tore from hers as he broke the kiss, his breathing harsh and ragged. Bracing himself on one arm, he stilled in his claiming long enough to grasp the neck of her night rail and tear it in two. Buttons popped off. The sound of the fabric rending echoed in the early morning silence, blending with their desperate breaths and her wildly beating heart.

"My night rail," she managed to protest.

"It was in the bloody way," he said, his glittering eyes boring into hers.

And then he lowered his head, kissing the peak of her breast. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, moving at a faster pace. The combination of his hot mouth drawing on her breast and his cock ramming in and out of her body was electric. Too much. Her hands sank into his hair, grasping handfuls. His hair was thick and luxurious. Her every sense was heightened to the point of painful pleasure.

Her nightdress lay in shredded halves, but she forgot to care. His fingers found the bud of her sex again, toying with her. It was all she needed. Pure bliss rocketed through her. He bit her nipple, then sucked harder as a potent rush infused her, bathing her core in wetness. Her eyes fluttered closed at last, her head falling back upon the pillow as wave after wave of intense pleasure pounded down. Bright bursts of light, sparkling like stars, lived behind her eyelids.

She clasped him to her, unable to muffle her cry.

His name.

"Sin!"

"Yes, sweet." He raked his teeth over the swell of her breast, then moved to her other nipple as he continued pumping into her. "Come for me. Come on me."

She did. His words, his mouth on her breast, his cock plunging into her, his possession, all mingled. She was mindless, helpless to do anything other than move with him, to let him feast upon her and give him her complete surrender. The second explosion of desire took her by surprise. He thrust into her and took her lips in another kiss.

Suddenly, his body stiffened, and the warm rush of his release filled her. Another set of tremors rocked through her body. She cupped his face and held him there, kissing him as he collapsed against her, pinning her to the mattress with his big body. They kissed long and slow, their tongues tangling, their ragged breaths uniting.

They were one.

He ended the kiss first, raising his head to stare down at her. "I am probably crushing you."

"No," she said, shaking her head as her eyes searched his. She did not know what she was seeking. "I like the way you feel."

Far, far too much.

He caressed her cheek with his thumb, his expression almost boyish. "And I like the way you feel."

The more time she spent with him, the more impossible it became for her to believe he was the man she had once thought him. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it, feeling emotions she did not want to feel.

"Stop torturing your beautiful mouth," he said, kissing her swiftly before withdrawing from her and rolling away.

He thought her mouth was beautiful? She lay there, pressing a tentative touch to her lips, wondering just what manner of man her husband truly was.