Sin. Sharon Page

love to six women at once?” she asked.

      The innocence of the question seared him. “No love, only three at once.” But even as the memory of it made his cock pulse, it was her curious face that made him hunger the most. He leaned back against his desk, shifting his hips.

      She stepped toward him. “And you think it is perfectly acceptable for you to do it, while you condemn a woman for wanting to be adventurous? If a woman doesn’t expect marriage, if she is completely independent, why shouldn’t she enjoy erotic games?”

      “And you think you would?” He’d never expected a woman to argue women should be as promiscuous as men. Usually women argued that men should learn to be faithful.

      “Men will demand things of you. What would you do if a man did this to you?” He tipped up her chin and forced a kiss upon her. He quickly changed to the kiss to a sensuous melding of their lips, and slid his tongue within. Demanding. Filling her mouth.

      She kissed him back until he broke it, breathing hard.

      “I am not afraid of a kiss,” she said.

      He grabbed her left breast. “Then I shall have a squeeze of your lovely tits, my dear.” God, he hated behaving like this—but at orgies, he’d seen it all the time amongst those drunk or fired by aphrodisiacs. Her breast was a lovely weight in his hand, ripe, soft, warm.

      Her nipple hardened and poked into his palm. Her hand snaked out, grabbed his ballocks in his breeches and squeezed hard. “Christ Jesus!” he yelled, and he let her go.

      “Try that at an orgy and you’ll only enrage a man,” he warned. “They think a woman is there to play.”

      “Then I would tell the man I was ready to play, arrange a meeting and then slip away.”

      “And what if he doesn’t want to wait.” His blood thundered in his head. “What if he tosses up your skirts where you stand?”

      He felt her heat steaming through her dress. His head swam. Enough blood had surged down to his cock so he could barely think straight. “You are a beautiful woman. You tempt a man to madness.”

      “I want you to toss up my skirts.” Desire—innocent, tentative, but fiery—burned in the hazel depths of her eyes.

      “I won’t deflower you, angel, but there are many ways to pleasure you.”

      “I know. Pleasures with mouths and hands.” Her voice was soft, throaty. “I’ve drawn many pictures of that—of women swallowing a man’s privy member, of men licking a woman’s quim.”

      Her words played havoc with his soul. He didn’t debauch virgins. He would not do it.

      But her hands slid down, between their bodies. Marcus heard her gasp as they slid over her breasts. She began drawing up her skirts. “Pleasure me, please.”

      He glanced down. Her skirts were at her waist, lacy petticoats spilling over her arms. The erotic scent of her arousal flooded his senses. She possessed an abundant bush of sherry-red curls between her smooth creamy thighs. Demure white stockings and ivory garters graced her shapely legs. Her juices shone on her nether lips.

      He cupped her naked bottom. Her skin was satin-smooth, her cheeks full, firm, enticing. Sweat beaded his brow, prickled along his collar.

      He began to sink to his knees, then stopped. No, he wanted her on her back, legs spread, with her cunny displayed to him.

      Scooping her up, Marcus carried her to the daybed.

      Venetia tumbled gently back against the silky fabric. She felt as though she were floating, even though she was firmly anchored to earth by the earl’s strong, powerful body. Her dress was a jumble at her waist, her legs spread wide.

      The earl kissed her lips, nibbled her ears, brushed his mouth down her neck, and licked the sensitive spot in the hollow of her throat. She arched with each touch of his tongue. Sensation swamped her senses. Her sensitive skin, his wetness, warmth. She wanted to see, smell, taste his naked skin—

      With shaking fingers, she tried to push off his coat.

      He took over, sliding his tight-fitting riding coat from his broad shoulders. She watched, breathless, as he dropped it to the floor, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, rock hard bulges beneath exquisite lawn. With one hand he undid his waistcoat buttons, with the other he cupped her breast. Her bosom seemed so small beneath his large, masculine hand. Pleasure sizzled from his touch. Like a firefly seeking light, it raced through her and burst between her thighs. Oh!

      She shut her eyes as he kissed her deeply. Their tongues twined. His hands slid between her back and the daybed, splayed wide over her. The buttons dropped from their loops. He pulled the neckline of her bodice down. Her breasts perched atop her crumpled bodice, lifted for his admiration and pleasure.

      He licked the valley in between. “Lovely.”

      “But not large.” In pictures, women possessed succulent breasts. “Don’t men favor large—”

      “I assure you that you have beautiful tits.”

      He nuzzled her nipples. He’d been shaved close, his cheeks and jaw wonderfully smooth, skimming over her sensitive skin. His mouth opened—her nipple disappeared inside. Her touches to herself had been nothing compared to the suction of his mouth, the swirling of his tongue. He laved, licked and suckled, and her dampened nipples gleamed in the faint daylight.

      She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Freed the first. Then she sensibly let him do the rest. It was all she could do to breathe.

      His shirt fell open, revealing ridges and planes of muscle, swirls of dark hair, dusky brown nipples. She stroked the soft curling hair, tracing it down over his flat, rippling stomach to the snug waistband of his breeches. Daringly, she coasted her fingers lower, and touched the hard ridge of his cock. She skimmed her hands back up. Her thumbs brushed his nipples, which tightened instantly. “Your nipples are so different than mine.”

      “But they are as sensitive and they enjoy the same attentions. Stroke them, pinch them—”

      “Suckle them?” she suggested softly.

      “Yes, sweeting, but for now you are to lie back.” He moved off the end of the daybed and dropped to his knees. He was going to…to kiss her there. Yes, she’d drawn the act, had trembled with illicit desire each time she sketched a man’s head between a woman’s thighs, and now she was burning with anticipation.

      Soft golden light traced his cheekbone, his firm lips. In the candlelight, his skin was the color of toasted meringue.

      Her breath left in a whoosh as he kissed her nether curls.

      His tongue tangled within them. Luxuriant pleasure washed over her. She dug her fingers into the smooth fabric of the chaise, curled her toes.

      He slid his tongue down to her quim. Warm and slick, it flicked her nether lips apart. He tasted her juices, groaning as he did.

      He watched her over her nether curls—she stared helplessly into his turquoise eyes, a slave to the pleasure he was giving. Then, above her mound, he winked at her.

      How could she be so shocked—and suddenly worry about Maidenswode propriety—while arching and moaning on his chaise?

      He slid his tongue into her passage, filling her with wet heat. Plunged it in and out and she cried out with each spearing thrust.

      He lifted his mouth from her throbbing quim. “Tell me what you like, love. Do you like my tongue to slide inside your cunny?”

      She nodded, unable to speak.

      “Have you seen your beautiful pussy, my dear?”

      Again she nodded. She’d held a mirror there to look. She’d been so curious. In paintings it was a mysterious oval-shaped opening. She’d had to know for herself.

      “Have you touched your clit?” he