Louise Allen Historical Collection (87 page)

‘Later,’ he said, his voice husky as he began to unfasten her gown. ‘Now is not the time for talking.’

‘But—’ And then the gown slid from her shoulders and he bent his head and took her right nipple in his mouth, sucking through the fine lawn of her shift and Lina felt her protest vanish in a gasp as sensation lanced through her from breast to groin. Quinn’s fingers were busy with her laces even as he switched from one aching bud to the other, tormenting, licking, soaking the lawn until it moulded to her breasts.

Her stays fell away and he lifted the chemise and once again she was naked in front of an aroused man. Panic seized her, then she looked up and met his eyes, clear, green, intent, and the fear changed into a quivering apprehension laced with need and desire.
Not quite naked,
she thought, biting her lip against the wild laughter that was bubbling up, trying to escape.
I still have my stockings, my garters, my shoes.

Quinn knelt, took her left foot and eased the soft kid slipper off, then took the other and removed that too. Lina caught her breath as she looked down on the dark head, bent so that the long hair parted, exposing his nape. He looked curiously vulnerable and she touched his head, a feeling of tenderness she had never experienced before sweeping away the shocking urgency of her desire.

This is why women yield,
she thought, no longer trying to understand why she was doing this. Expediency, desperation, the need for protection all vanished in the overwhelming need to be touched, to be loved, by this man. Then he leaned in, kissed her right leg above the garter, his hands stroking down over her hips to hold her, and any trace of tenderness melted into the desire.

The bare skin was sensitive where it was constricted by the garter and Quinn’s questing mouth felt scandalously intimate as he licked upwards. Lina groped behind her and found the bed post, seized it gratefully and hung on, waiting for him to stand. But the soft kisses, the wet, luxurious licks, kept travelling higher, higher until she gave a little scream as his tongue flickered into the moist secrets between her thighs.

She had seen pictures of this in the wicked little books that were scattered around at The Blue Door, but she had never imagined that a man would do that to her the very first time they were together. Nor had she imagined it to be anything but embarrassing and strange.

It was strange, yes. Her head fell back against the post as her hands reached out to cradle Quinn’s head, to hold him, to prevent him ever stopping this shameful, wonderful thing that was turning her into a quivering, liquid creature of flame and passion.

‘Yes!’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, standing up in time to catch her as her knees gave way. ‘But time for that later. Show me, Lina. Show me those skills you have been keeping so secret.’

H
e wants me to make love to him?
Lina closed her eyes on the sudden alarm.
I want him, I want to pleasure him…but he will guess, surely?
Or would he? Could she counterfeit enough skill from what she had heard, observed, read in those explicit little pillow books? She had begun to understand her own body now, what pleased her, what made her shudder with terrified delight. Could she use that understanding to make love to Quinn?

He was standing there, his hands supporting her, waiting. She opened her eyes and studied him under lowered lashes. He was beautiful and she wanted to touch him, to taste him. She licked her lips and saw his eyes following the movement, saw the effect that whatever was in his imagination had on his arousal.

Lina turned, bringing him with her until his back was against the bed post, then she caught his hands and put them behind his back, making a pretence of shackling his wrists with one hand. She was so close that their bodies rubbed together intimately, sending heat spiralling through her. She was wet with desire for him already, she realised, trembling with daring at what she was doing.

Quinn’s eyes on her face burned with desire, with demands she could only guess at. Trembling, Lina bent her head and swept her tongue over the flat muscles above his right nipple, tasting salt and musk and man. The kick of delight surprised her, then the tip of her tongue found his nipple and she teased it, closing her eyes at the sensation, feeling it knot under the laving strokes.

He groaned, deep in his throat, and his hands shifted as he gripped the bed post as though she had truly tied him there. She licked her way across to the other nipple, tormented that until he was shuddering, then slowly slid to her knees, her tongue trailing down to circle his navel.

Lina put her hands on his narrow hips, more to steady herself than to hold him and Quinn shifted his feet apart as she realised where she was going, where this was leading, what he expected. Her shyness, her fears, seemed to have vanished. Lina stroked her cheek against the hot, hard length of him, fascinated at how soft the skin was, intrigued to feel the reaction to her slightest touch.

‘Lina.’ It was a plea and a gasp and a groan and she reached for him, took him in both hands, felt him shudder. ‘More…’

There was that book that had shown… Dare she? Her grip tightened as she thought it, drawing a groan from Quinn’s throat, and she tried a tentative stroke, up, down. It was so arousing, so overwhelming. Yes, she dared. Lina bent her head to him and let herself drown in the sensation of pleasuring a man. This man.

His hands came to grip her head, she could feel his whole body shuddering with the effort not to thrust, then he freed her, bent and caught her up. Lina felt herself being laid back on the bed. The mattress dipped, his hands slipped under her buttocks, raised her and then, before she had time to understand what was happening, Quinn entered her with one long thrust.

It was shocking, so much faster and harder and
more
than she had been expecting. Lina, even as aroused as she was, gasped,
‘Quinn!’
Her body arched beneath his, fighting to accommodate him, searching instinctively to make the joining possible. But the shock was not the pain—she had expected that and it was fleeting, unimportant. The shock was the pleasure. She had not realised how he would feel within her, how she would be completed by his body, how the sensation of being filled almost to the point of endurance could be so terrifying and so wonderful all at once.

Her body quivered and almost instantly she felt it yield, to begin to caress him, to open to him. Sensation flooded her, even through the lingering discomfort, the consciousness of her own clumsiness as she tried to mould herself to Quinn’s long body and the drive of his hips.

‘Hell!’ Lina’s eyes flew open as Quinn pulled away from her, out of her, the heat and weight of his body vanishing to leave her bereft and confused. He flung himself to one side of the wide bed and lay there breathing like a man who had run hard and fast.

‘Quinn?’ Lina reached for him and he rolled away and off the bed to stand with his back to the wall as though she had gone for him with a knife.

‘Quinn?’

Quinn fought his way past the string of swear words that was all his brain seemed able to produce and managed to articulate. ‘You were a virgin.’

He had just taken a virgin with the briefest of caresses, hard, fast, without care.
Dear God, I have ravished a virgin.
His mind filled with the nightmare images that still tormented his dreams: the huddled, bleeding figure in rags that flinched away when he tried to touch her, her eyes glazed over in pain and anguish. He had bought the girl when he bought Gregor, two broken, abused pieces of human wreckage. Gregor had fought back to life, had tried to help him with the girl—they never discovered her name—but men, any men, simply terrified her. The fourth night she killed herself as they slept.

For weeks afterwards Quinn had not been able to bring himself to lie with a woman. Gradually the revulsion against his own desires became rational again. He did not behave like that to women and he had done his best for her. But the experience had left him, he knew, with reservations that were not shared by most men of his age and class. He had paid for a night of frustration before now when he had realised that the apparently willing professional in his arms was being forced by a pimp. The idea of buying a virgin nauseated him.

And now, because he was aroused and angry, he had taken Celina as he would have an experienced Cyprian. He had expected her to behave like one, she had taken him in her mouth as a result of his demands. How could he have done that, how had she managed to overcome the revulsion she must surely have felt? What had he become if he had not even realised?

She was lying there just as he had left her, Quinn saw as he turned his head. As he stared at her, the image of the slave girl cleared, replaced with Celina’s slim, pale body. His brain struggled with the confusion: she admitted she came from The Blue Door, that her aunt was a Madam, that she had been with a man, intimately, before he died of what sounded like a stroke brought on by excitement.

But she was a virgin. Don’t make excuses. There are no excuses for what you have just done.
Celina looked back at him, her eyes wide and dark with questions and confusion.

‘You were a—’

‘Don’t you want me?’

They spoke together and answered together. ‘Yes,’ Celina admitted.

‘Yes,’ Quinn said between clenched teeth. She looked vulnerable and soft and infinitely desirable and he wanted, more than anything, to take her back into his embrace and love her—love her gently and sweetly and with skill, as a virgin deserved from her first man.

‘Then, why have you stopped?’ she asked and he realised that, much as he wanted to make love to her, he was losing his temper as comprehensively as he ever had in his life and that he really did not feel safe touching her. Which was a good thing, he concluded grimly, because he should not be touching her, gently or otherwise.

‘Do you really have to ask?’ Quinn demanded as he snatched up his robe. There was blood on his body, a smear. Hers. ‘I do not deflower virgins—or I did not until you lied your way into my life.’ He belted the robe and flicked one side of the coverlet over Celina as she sat up.

‘But…’ She paused and he saw her collect herself, fight the after-effects of unsatisfied passion, just as he was doing. ‘You are upset because I did not tell you. But I tried—’

‘Upset?’ He stalked over to the dresser and poured himself a large glass of brandy, thought about it, poured another and went back to the bed and handed that to Celina. ‘Yes, I would say I am upset. And all I can say is that you did not try very hard, Miss Shelley. In fact, you deceived me, did you not?’

‘Yes,’ she said, chin up. She was not defiant, he realised, feeling a sneaking admiration for the fact that she was making no effort to placate him or wriggle out of this. If his body would only stop admiring her too…

‘Did you think it would not matter to me?’

‘I realised I would not be very good at making love and you might be disappointed,’ Celina began and Quinn saw red. ‘But men seem to like—’

‘I do not force women,’ he snarled between gritted teeth as she flinched away. ‘I do not deflower virgins—but I have just done so because you, I presume, thought you had better attach me in some way to ensure I do not hand you over to the authorities after all. Which means that I have somehow given you the impression that you cannot rely on my word any more than I can rely on yours.’

‘No!’ Celina protested, sitting bolt upright and letting the silk coverlet slide down to her hips with devastating, innocent, effect. ‘I wanted you to make love to me because I desired you.’ The wide blue eyes vanished as her lashes came down in confusion. Quinn winced at the stab of ridiculous, treacherous pleasure the words gave him. He could not trust this woman, yet his own instincts threatened to betray him.

She was acting again, of course, and he was coming to believe that this wide-eyed protestation of innocent desire was her best performance yet. Miss Celina Shelley was a courtesan in training being groomed to take over from her aunt one day. She had been about to lose her virginity very profitably to Tolhurst when he had keeled over and, while it cannot have been anything but a very unpleasant experience, it was difficult to believe that she had been a prisoner of her own aunt, a woman she said she loved, or had been forced against her will.

There was no other explanation for her willingness to make love to him as she had, to be as bold and as sensual.

‘I should have told you, but I had no idea you would take on so,’ she finished with a gasp of indignation. ‘You are a rake, you told me so yourself. You have a shocking reputation. I thought rakes did that sort of thing all the time!’