Chapter 5

Chapter Five

" P leasure is everything, darling." Sirena's husky timbre filtered into his side of the confessional. "Nothing is forbidden."

Her voice was hypnotic, unlike anything he'd heard. And he'd been around countless women—swived countless of them. During the height of his popularity as a virtuoso, females had mobbed him, offering every carnal diversion under the sun. Drunk on music and success, he'd taken what was given.

He liked wicked women and the games they played. But when fame deserted him, they did too. He'd told himself it was a good thing because, to be frank, none of them had been the sort of female a man would want for a wife. It was time to settle and settle he did: for a lovely widow whose very name evoked what he now needed.

If the few times he'd bedded Constance had been less than inspiring, he'd told himself he was a different man now. Life was no longer his oyster, and he shouldn't expect so much. The lack of a physical spark with his future wife didn't matter as much as her other virtues. Constance was well-bred and would preside over his supper table with grace. She accepted his moods, never argued with him, and gave him space. She was perfect for who he'd become.

He'd convinced himself of all this…and then she ran off with his crony.

The fury that swelled in him was all the greater because of the humiliation. Because of his changed circumstances, he'd been willing to accept a marriage far from his ideal. Before his injury, he would never have considered such a thing—would have never questioned whether he deserved true and ultimate happiness.

Now he questioned everything, and he was bloody tired of it.

He'd held himself back sexually with Constance because she'd made it clear that she expected him to be civilized in bed. His beastly moods she could tolerate, but when it came to coupling, it was lights off and clothes on. Any deviation from her idea of normal had made her cringe…which hadn't exactly been an aphrodisiac for him.

Well, he was done with Constance. Done with limiting his desires. He hadn't had a satisfying fuck in three years. Yet the damnable truth was that being publicly jilted had spooked him and made him hesitate to get back into the saddle again…which was where Sirena came in. She was safe, and she was naughty: the perfect way to ease back into the depravities of bachelorhood.

"Tell me your desires," she cooed. "Don't be shy. I'll do whatever you wish."

Lust pulsed in his veins, amplified by his residual anger.

"I haven't been shy a day in my life, wench," he said sternly. "I want you naked in front of me. Now."

The screen melted away, and Sirena emerged like Aphrodite rising from the waves. Her luxuriant flame-red hair tumbled over her creamy shoulders, matched by the fiery thatch between her thighs. Her rounded tits looked like they would fit his palms perfectly, her blushing nipples making his mouth water. She came to where he was sitting and struck a saucy pose.

"Like what you see, darling?"

Her smoke-and-honey voice heated his blood. He reached up and gripped her nape, dragging her onto his lap. She straddled him, her pussy pressing against his burgeoning erection. Devil and damn, she was wet. Her dew soaked through his trousers. He jerked her face close to his, and gazing into her eyes, he saw exactly what he craved.

Real desire. Feminine lust, raw and honest.

Her reaction burned away his self-doubt and misery. A fog lifted. He felt as if he were surfacing from a deep, dreamless sleep—and he awoke with a powerful hunger.

"I like what I see," he told her. "And I'll like touching it even more."

He clamped a hand on her rounded hip, guiding her cunny against his lengthening ridge. She clutched his shoulders, tossed her head back, and gave a throaty whimper.

"Look at me," he said.

Her lashes swept up. He took in her enlarged pupils and parted lips. Her breasts heaved, and against his throbbing prick, her cunny radiated needy heat. Her reaction gave him the same exhilarating satisfaction as an audience's thundering applause.

She wants me. She is mine to pleasure, to fuck…however I want.

He drew his fingers along her rear crevice. When he teased her little pucker, she shivered and arched her back, her breasts bobbing tantalizingly by his face.

"You'll give me anything I want," he said.

"Anything."

Her sweet submission enthralled him. He was hard as a rock as he drew his fingers lower. He circled the entrance to her pussy, pushing two fingers inside. The slick squeeze of her passage confirmed what he knew. The desire between them was real. Real and hotter than anything he'd experienced.

"Ride my fingers," he said thickly.

"Oh, yes."

She plunged downward, taking him to the knuckles. He urged her on, thrusting his fingers while she impaled herself again and again.

"Touch yourself," he growled. "Play with your pearl, naughty minx."

Moaning, she diddled herself as she bounced on his digits. When he leaned forward and sucked her nipple into his mouth, her response was instant. She gasped, her pussy contracting around his fingers, her cream coating his palm. He couldn't wait any longer. He took her by the waist and lifted her off him. Twisting her around, he positioned her on the ground on all fours.

"I want you this way," he said.

She turned her head to look at him, her hair a spill of fire and her eyes even hotter.

"You can have me," she purred. "Any way you wish."

He unfastened his trousers, his rock-hard prick springing free. Palming her plump bottom, he fitted his bulging tip to her slit. He drove inside, groaning at the decadent friction, the heat and snugness of her pussy. Closing a fist in her silky locks, he withdrew, then hilted himself to the balls.

"Ask for it," he demanded.

"Fuck me, please," she breathed. "Take me with your big cock."

He obliged, pounding her cunny, which fluttered exquisitely around his driving shaft. He reached under, stroking her pearl as he swived her. Pleasure brewed at the base of his spine, and his cock swelled. He slammed into her, about to blow like a cannon…

She let out a wail so loud that he jerked to a confused stop.

She screamed again, this time with full-throated fear.

He awakened with a start, panting harshly. He was…in bed? He rubbed his hands over his face. He was hot and perspiring, his bare skin damp against the sheets.

Devil and damn. I was dreaming.

His dream had felt enticingly real. Grimacing, he gazed past the twitching bands of his abdomen to the tented bedsheet. He considered taking matters into his own hands. It wouldn't be the first time since his injury…

A scream tore through his thoughts. He hadn't dreamed it? The likely cause of the sound slammed into him.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "She opened the door."

Exiting his bed, he got dressed and stalked toward the servants' quarters.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

Darkness swarmed Xenia, a flapping shroud that muffled her screams. She hadn't been a good person, and this was a fitting end. Bitten to pieces, dying alone and afraid, unwanted and unloved…

"I've got you."

A strong arm hooked her around the waist. She was dragged out of the dark vortex. She felt her feet hit the ground, but her legs wouldn't work. She heard an oath; an instant later, she was hauled against a hard chest and carried with dizzying speed. A rectangle of light appeared, and they went through, their departure punctuated by a loud slam.

She blinked, panting. She was back in the corridor of the servants' quarters. A winged beast swooped by, and she squeaked, trying to duck from its path.

"Of the two of you, I wager the bat is more afraid."

The deep tones rumbled beneath her ear and jolted her back to her senses. Odds bodkins, she was in Lord Ethan's arms. She was huddling against his chest, her arms flung around his neck. Slowly, she tipped her head back…then back some more. Until she met her master's smoldering gaze.

Blooming hell.

He was looking down his noble nose at her, his sinfully handsome face as brooding as ever. Seeing the violet storm in his gaze, her belly sank. The consequences of her actions struck her.

Am I going to get sacked my first day on the job?

This was why she didn't deserve nice things. She always ruined them. Ruined everything.

"I can explain," she said weakly.

"That will be interesting."

He started moving, and seeing as he was carrying her, she had no choice but to go along. She didn't feel up to walking, and since she was about to get fired, she might as well enjoy the novelty of being swept off her feet. She'd always wondered what it would be like to play the role of the damsel in distress. Although she'd been in distress on numerous occasions, no one had ever treated her like a damsel. No one had thought her worthy of care and protection.

Except for Papa and Mr. Trelawney. And I paid them back by getting them killed.

Her chest tightened. Maybe she deserved everything bad that happened to her. Maybe it was her comeuppance for being a bad apple grown from a bad seed.

Nonetheless, when Lord Ethan nudged open the door of her bedchamber, exposing the warm and cozy space, yearning crept through her. This was the nicest place she'd ever stayed. She didn't want to give it up.

Her rescuer shouldered the door shut.

"To keep the bats out," he said.

She shuddered, not about to argue with his logic.

He carried her over to the bed. Through her threadbare nightgown, she felt the sleek bulge of his muscles surrounding her, and her tummy quivered. His scent was delicious: a mix of crisp, sophisticated spices and virile male musk. She stole another whiff before she found herself unceremoniously dumped onto the bed.

Lord Ethan towered over her, his hands braced on his hips. For some reason, he was wearing gloves. He was also wearing a black silk dressing gown that exposed a vee of his muscular chest, which had an enticing sprinkle of dark hair. His large feet were shod in fine velvet slippers.

"I am waiting."

She yanked her gaze up from his bulging, hair-dusted calves. "For what?"

"Your explanation," he bit out.

Oh, right. Think, Xenia, think.

"I heard a noise in the hallway," she said. "It came from behind the door. I thought it might, um, be a burglar or something of the sort. So I went to investigate."

His expression was stony. She had no idea if he believed her.

Then his eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong with your voice? You sound different."

Drat! She'd forgotten to disguise it. Now that the horse had left the barn, she decided it was too troublesome to keep up the prim tones.

"This is my usual voice, sir. If I sounded different yesterday, it was because I was recovering from a head cold," she said glibly.

"Hmm." He looked unconvinced. "Be that as it may, you disobeyed my direct order. I made it clear that you were not to enter that room under any circumstances. The infestation was discovered the day before you arrived. Until I can find someone to remedy the situation, I've kept the bats quarantined. Thanks to you, they are now loose in the house."

Eek! That's disgusting.

Wisely, she kept her reaction to herself.

"Since I caused the problem," she said, "I shall take it upon myself to rectify it."

He stared at her, not even bothering to voice his skepticism.

"I'll ask in the village," she clarified. "I am sure I can find help."

He crossed his arms.

"You needn't worry about a thing, my lord," she said stoutly.

Eager to persuade him (and keep her job), she rose and put on a brisk, the-housekeeper-will-take-care-of-it smile. She gave his arm a reassuring pat—which was a mistake. When her fingertips brushed the hard curve of his biceps, she felt as if she'd touched an electrifying machine. A charge buzzed through her, blood rushing to her cheeks and the tips of her breasts, which jutted visibly against the worn fabric of her nightgown.

Can he see my nipples? Her legs trembled.

As she jerked her hand away, his indigo gaze remained locked on her. Tension gripped the room. Her heartbeat measured out the seconds, his silence amplifying her anxious arousal.

"How did you intend to spot the burglar without your spectacles?" he asked.

Drat, again! Did the man have to be devilishly attractive and observant?

Her gaze shot to the escritoire, where she'd left her spectacles. Since her vision was perfect, she hadn't thought to wear them on her excursion to the forbidden room.

"I, um, only need them for reading."

As explanations went, she could have done worse.

"In the future," he said in ominous tones, "kindly refrain from risking your damned neck. If it were a burglar, I would expect you to lock yourself in your room and call for help. What do you think would have happened if you confronted a criminal? He would take one look at you and…"

He gestured at her, trailing off.

The unexpected flare of heat in his gaze shredded her composure. He was looking at her as if he were seeing her for the first time…and, she realized with a burst of nerves, perhaps he was. Without her spectacles, bulky frock, and face paint, she was far too exposed. At least her hair was still dyed.

Do not panic. Keep playing the part of Jane Wood.

"All's well that ends well," she said quickly. "I apologize again for disturbing your evening, my lord. Now, if you don't mind, I have an early day ahead."

He looked as if he might say something—argue with her, probably—but instead he regarded her for a long moment. She swallowed, feeling her knees wobble under the weight of his scrutiny.

With a slight shake of his head, he headed to the door. There, he paused, his hand on the knob.

"Keep your door locked," he said shortly. "The bats."

"Yes, sir."

After he left, she secured the door. Flopping onto the bed, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. She prayed that things would improve on the morrow.

At least they can't get any worse…can they?