This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

Without thinking, he walked forward. His hands slid up her waist. She was separated from him by the thinnest layer of cloth. She shivered as he drew her toward him. And then he leaned forward and closed his mouth around the dusky tip of her nipple. Even through her chemise, he could feel it contract, pebbling under his tongue.

“Oh!” Her hand clutched his arm spontaneously.

He licked that hard tip, as if somehow, her response would count as real acquiescence. Maybe, if he was good enough to her, if he brought her to the most trembling peak of pleasure, she would forgive him. Maybe he could give a hint of truth to this lie. He set his leg between hers as he tasted her body, and she ground her hips against him. She was either an incredible actress, determined not to flinch, or she truly wanted him.

He let one hand skim down her body to the edge of her chemise. He pulled it up, up, until his fingers slipped between her thighs.

She was not acting. She was silky wet. There was no space in his mind to encompass the wonder of her desire. He was lost, sliding his fingers through her curls until he found the spot that made her arch her back even more. He pinned her against the wall, pressing, tasting, touching, until she trembled, her breathing ragged. And then he sent her spinning over the edge.

She made a high, keening noise as she came.

A small sense of intelligence returned as she looked up at him. She was breathing heavily. Her skin glowed. Her chemise was rucked up to her waist. Her body pressed into his. He could feel her heart beat against his chest, feel her ribs expand with her every breath.

He was still dressed. His member was hard; his body screamed to sheathe himself deep inside her.

“William?”

No. He couldn’t fool himself any longer. This was not some delicate virgin, submitting to his coarse lusts out of an excess of familial feeling. This was Lavinia. She was robust, and unbreakable. And for some unknown reason, she was not acting. She wanted him.

And he shouldn’t take her. Not like this.

But when he pulled away, she followed. When he hesitated, she set her hands under his shirt. Her fingers slid up his abdomen, over his ribs. Any good intentions that might have entered his mind flared up in smoke, illuminating William’s path to hell. He pulled off his shirt. The air was cold against his bare skin, but Lavinia was warm, and she was caressing him. Her hands slid to his waist. Her mouth found his again, and he could think of nothing but having her skin against his, her flesh pressed naked under his. He pulled his breeches off and pushed her onto the bed.

She landed and looked up at him. And then—time seemed so slow—she lifted off her chemise. Every fantasy he’d ever had compressed into this one moment. Lavinia Spencer was naked in his bed, lips parted, eyes shining. He spread her knees with his hands and leaned over her. He had a thousand fantasies, but only this one chance. He positioned his member against her hot, wet cleft.

He should not have been able to think of anything except the pleasure to come, but she looked into his eyes. Her look was so clear, so devoid of guile, that he stopped, arrested on the edge of consummation.

You don’t have to do this.

He didn’t know where the thought came from—perhaps some long-atrophied sense of right and wrong had exerted itself. The tip of his penis was wet with her juices. Her ni**les had contracted into hard, rose-colored nubs and she lay beneath him, legs spread.

The next step would be so easy.

It was not just her innocence he would take. Lavinia’s beauty was not a mere accident that arose from the fall of hair against shoulder, the curves of her br**sts, the petals of her sex. No, even now, spread before him like an offering, she glowed with an inner light. Her appeal had as much to do with the innate trust she placed in those around her, in the way she smiled and greeted everyone as if they were worthy of her attention. If he took her, like this, he’d shatter her trust in the world. He would show her that men were fiends at heart, that there was no forgiveness in the world for sins committed by others.

You don’t have to do this.

But men were fiends. And there was no forgiveness. He had never been granted any forgiveness.

He didn’t have to do it, but he did it anyway. He slid into her in one firm thrust, and it was every bit as awful—and as good—as he’d imagined. It was wonderful, because she was sweet and hot and tight about him. It was wonderful, because she was his, now, in the most primal sense. But it was terrible, because he knew what he destroyed with that single thrust. Her hands came involuntarily between them, and he tensed and stopped.