Any Wicked Thing (9 page)

Sebastian considered himself an expert on obscure sexual practices, and knew of several other methods for a bride to lose her virginity—one, for example, by her publicly mounting a fertility statue's phallus. It was even, God help the poor girl, part of the marriage ceremony, her blood or lack thereof witnessed by the wedding guests. But he wouldn't have to worry about that with Freddie. He'd already relieved her of her virginal barrier.

Freddie raised her chin. Her nightgown had been washed many times, rendering it almost transparent in just the right places, but she might as well have been wearing a queen's robe. Her innocent braids begged for unraveling, but she held herself like the virtuous chatelaine of the castle. She stepped away from the doorway, her velvet slippers soundless on the cold stone floor.

“I still have over an hour until midnight, Your Grace, and I've not quite finished the wording on the bill of sale. Of course, a solicitor will draw up the actual document, but this is between us. If you would be so kind as to leave—” Her voice was cool and dismissive.

She had bottom, he'd give her that. It was not every spinster who could converse with a nude man with such aplomb, but perhaps she'd taken other lovers after him and was used to the sight of a man's cock. Apart from the first few seconds of their encounter, she had not inspected his manly parts, which were rising to the occasion with alarming insistence despite the chilly temperature in the room. Her eyes had risen to his and were watchful. Soon they would be half-lidded in rapture.

His blood was still hot from his earlier sense that Freddie was in danger. An hour seemed like an eternity to wait, and he didn't want to. He would not be bound by an arbitrary time. It was a minute after midnight somewhere.

“No.

“Oh, I'll leave your room, but you will come with me. There's a fire in mine. Wine.” He held out a hand. “Come, Freddie. It's pointless to delay.”

She clenched the fabric of her night rail. Her hands were reddened and ink-stained, a pity when the rest of her was so perfect.

“I—I'm not ready.”

“We can iron out the details of the castle business in daylight, my dear. Let's not waste any more of our first night together.”

She made no effort to take his outstretched hand. If she could not come to him willingly, whether out of fear or aversion or pride, he would make her decision for her.

A minute ticked by, and his arm grew weary. Just as he determined to sweep her up and carry her up to his beast's lair, she took one shaky step toward him.

“I do not plan to enjoy myself,” she said.

Sebastian had always enjoyed a challenge. The more she fought him, the better he'd like it—and so would she. He knew every button to push, every lace to knot, every kiss to corrupt. She'd be screaming for him within a quarter of an hour, or he wasn't the God of Sin.

F
rederica marveled at her composure. She had barely batted an eye when she found Sebastian poking about her room. Poking was the operative word—his member looked like a dowsing rod that had located a vast underground river. She had fixed her eyes on his damp midnight hair, but the rest of him was all too visible. To think he had come naked and gleaming to her rescue, when all he would do in the end was bring her to grief.

She was used to the peculiar noises of Goddard Castle but had not thought to warn the new duke. Maybe she should have claimed an army of ghosts resided here to drive him south. But he didn't strike her as a man who feared much of anything. He was certainly fierce enough now, looking at her as though he wanted to gobble her up.

Frederica was acutely aware of her threadbare nightgown and her childish hair. She had wanted to deter him with her appearance, but it seemed she'd have to be covered in sackcloth and ashes to repel Sebastian Goddard. He was hard for her standing half a room away. She ought to be flattered, but as evil Mrs. Carroll had said, he fucked anything.

She'd been a naïve child the last time she'd seen him naked, and had been hopelessly impressed with every decadent scrap of him then. If the planes and angles of his face caused her heart to stir now, his body had more than lived up to its early promise. He was broad and well muscled, without an ounce of fat. He looked as though he
could
defend her from ghosts or dragons or anything inconvenient. Except for himself.

Oh, she was naïve
now
, entering into this ridiculous agreement with him. And for what? The uncertain roof over her head? But it was too late. She took another step forward. And then another.

He pressed his thumbs to her cheeks, his fingers resting lightly on her temples. His pupils were huge, black as his soul—if he still had one—ringed in dark, fathomless green. She longed to touch the bump on the bridge of his nose, the only imperfection she could detect in his shadowed face. He was whispering something scandalous, but she couldn't listen for watching his lips move. Then he smiled and slanted them over hers, the soft strength of them warm and insistent. Her mouth opened in protest and his tongue traced the seam of her top lip slowly, as if he were measuring by touch, calculating the inches of pink. He did the same to her bottom lip, shocking her with his gentleness.

When they'd last kissed, he'd tasted of too much brandy and smelled of sweet smoke. Tonight there was the merest hint of wine. His clean skin was scented with the rose petal soap she had made herself from the overgrown canes that tumbled over the outer wall. What should have been feminine had been converted into something else altogether—he'd captured the briar as well as the bud. She hoped to steady herself with a deep breath, but instead was swept away to the wild roses and the heat of last summer. Her skin beneath the pressure of his fingertips tingled as he drew her closer, his mouth skimming effortlessly over hers, brushing, savoring. There was nothing to do but meet his tongue and shiver as he tore her defenses down lick by wicked lick.

She felt herself sway, and reached for something to hold on to, although she was still sweetly trapped between his hands. She should touch him, if only to feel his smooth brown chest or span his narrow hips or tousle his curling dark hair. But there was no safe place to touch that wouldn't scorch her as he brought her to him, his velvet mouth angled expertly so that even the corners of her lips received attention.

Frederica had dreamed of kisses like this, though doubted their existence. How odd that her oldest friend and newest enemy was the man to prove her wrong. He lulled her into discomfiting comfort, banishing all thoughts with the steady skills of his tongue and teeth. His fingers slipped through her hair, loosening the braids. Her scalp tickled as he massaged her head, and she felt a wash of heat down her neck. Her nightgown was suddenly too heavy, too warm, her arms useless at her sides, her knees weak. Sebastian seemed to know the exact moment of her capitulation, broke the kiss and lifted her from the floor.

“I'm going to carry you upstairs now and take you to bed. Fuck you.”

His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. Frederica nodded. She could not have whispered herself if her life depended upon it. Her hand went to her swollen lips, still so sensitive that her own fingers sent shots of longing through her. He held her as if she weighed nothing and climbed the circular stairs. His room blazed with light—too much light. The scent of her rose soap was strong. The tub was still centered in front of a roaring fire, the dropped towel on the carpet. The least he could have done before he came downstairs to slay her was wrap up in it. No mortal woman could withstand his male beauty for long. It had taken just one kiss—one consummate, carnal kiss—for Frederica to lose every shred of sanity.

He set her down on the edge of the bed and wordlessly began the arduous process of unbuttoning her. Frederica raised her arms and he pulled the garment over her head. Despite the blaze from the fireplace, her nipples pebbled to aching peaks. Sebastian flicked a thumb across one, his face shuttered.

Was he disappointed with what he saw? She was not powdered now—she'd had her own anticipatory bath—and tiny freckles spangled her torso and beyond. He cupped both her heavy breasts in the welcome heat of his palms, then dropped to his knees. He peeled her slippers off her feet and now she was as bare as he.

His black curls were drying in riotous disorder. She reached briefly for the silk of his hair, wishing hers was not such a prosaic brown. Wishing she were not so afraid. Wishing she hadn't wished for this night for years. If wishes were horses, she'd be riding away from here right now. But there was nowhere for her to go, and nothing for her to do but sit, waiting for Sebastian's next move.

It didn't take him long to make it. He parted her legs so that the brown of her nether hair was completely visible. His face was so close, his stare so hard, she wanted to snap her legs back together in embarrassment. His hands gripped her hips and he brought her to the very edge of the mattress. Her bottom slid easily on the ruby satin of the bedcovers and she almost tumbled headlong to the stone floor. But he stopped her in the nick of time, his fingers splaying deep into her flesh. She might see the fingerprints of his ownership on her tomorrow, as she bruised easily. The thought was somehow wickedly appealing, the secret of their night visible on her skin.

“Very, very pretty,” he said.

She supposed he would know from his current vantage point. Frederica licked her suddenly dry lips, feeling as if she were under a magnifying glass, his eyes as hot as the sun's refracted light. His breath was moist and warm against her thighs as his hands continued to steady her. She willed herself to be still to his thorough inspection. But she lost her control when he parted her folds and buried his mouth in her slit.

“Sebastian!”

He glanced up at her, his lips never leaving her center, his tongue teasing and torturing, watching her reaction, his nose buried wickedly in her curls. She should tell him to stop. This wasn't right, wasn't natural. She opened her mouth but no sound emerged. She could tell he was smiling by the faint crinkles near his eyes and the feeling of his upturned lips on her most private of places. Blood rushed from her throat to her core, her skin flushing pink.

He increased the delicious pressure, his mouth fully covering the center of her pleasure. With one hand on her belly, he pushed her backward on the bed, spreading her legs farther with the other as he licked and stroked and swirled. His hand held her down, as if she would ever want to escape now. She could no longer see what he did to her, but felt every graze, every imprint of his fingers and tongue. The scarlet canopy and curtains above her and around her made her think of the flames of Hell, for surely Sebastian was a devil. A divine one, who seemed to know what pleased her even if she could not tell him herself. She was capable only of gasps and quivers as she fisted the coverlet in sensual agony. She reminded herself she was probably but one of hundreds whom he'd tortured thus with his tongue, but the thought did not lessen his effect in any way. She'd willingly veil herself in his harem to experience this again, idiot that she was.

And she would. Thirty more days of this and she'd be a hopeless wreck. This was nothing like their coupling before, when Frederica had done most of the work. Not that she had known what she was doing then. Not that she knew what she was doing now but lying on her back, her legs stretched wide, her body glazed with sweat and her core weeping into Sebastian's mouth.

His fingers traced a pattern up her thigh and then two were gloved within her, bluntly slipping through her wetness and his saliva with a sucking sound. She clenched around them, too wild to care about the unladylike noises that seemed to be coming from her orifices. She wanted more and told him so, no longer a lady, no longer coherent, her breath ragged. But he understood her jumbled words and obliged, inserting a third finger, rubbing and stroking as his mouth worked in concert with his hand.

And then the waves hit, and she couldn't speak at all. Her scream was as bloodcurdling as any wind through a castle window, enough to raise all the dead for miles around. She felt him chuckle against her as he pushed her further, ignoring her pleas to stop.

Not that she meant them.

His fingers pumped inside her. She wished it was his cock, helpless against the onslaught of her own desires let loose after a decade of chastity. The hand that cupped her belly relaxed, one finger dipping into her navel, and somehow that was every bit as sinful as his tongue laving her core. She was pinned to the bed, body pulsing, heart pounding. Oh, best to leave her heart out of it. This night was nothing but a means to an end. She'd gain her experience and keep her home. Only thirty more nights like this. That would have to be enough.