Free The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe by Sabrina Darby Page A

village down the path, the manor a mile away.
    In the last hours she’d forgotten why she was there, been consumed with John, with this other world they had created. Now, she remembered with cold clarity that she was employed to be here, to lie in his arms and seduce him toward some future marriage and progeny.
    Not imagine staying there indefinitely, as if all those societal trappings didn’t matter. As if they were Adam and Eve.
    Which they were not.
    This was not the Garden of Eden. It was a broken-down castle housing two broken people. Two?
    She’d flung herself at him earlier, desperate to feel attractive, worthy. To use intimate relations as sustenance. Trying to heal her own wounds the way John’s mother had thought a mistress might heal his.
    Angelina rolled away, the heat of his body suddenly too much for her, and laid back, resting her head on one arm. She was pitiful.
    John had seen that. Seen straight into the center of her, to what she hadn’t even known existed. She wanted to scream, or to curl up and die from the embarrassment. She took a deep breath instead, and then sat, reaching for her chemise with shaking hands.
    She pulled the loose muslin shift over her head and then let it fall, pool around her hips.
    Jasper barked. She glanced to where he stood. He shook himself and then slowly padded over to the basket of food. She laughed, perhaps a touch too harshly. The distraction was welcome and well-timed. Of course, it was likely noon, and the dog had learned in the last week to expect a midday meal.
    She crawled toward the basket but stilled at John’s hand on her calf. She took another steadying breath. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”
    She started again, but he didn’t let go. Instead she felt him move behind her, his heat nearing, and then his hands were on her thighs, lifting the fabric to her hips. She didn’t pull away. This was , after all, what she was here for.
    The dog whined, as if he sensed his meal would be delayed, but after a glance at his master, he barked once and then slunk back to the corner.
    She laughed breathily.
    â€œHe’ll have his meal later,” John said huskily, pressing himself against her, hard and ready, as if he wanted to prove his virility. Not that she’d had any doubt after their last bout. “But what I am starving for is you.”
    It was the basest of lines, of flirtation, but desire gathered low in her belly, heavy and slick between her legs. She parted her knees, pressing against him even as she looked back over her shoulder.
    The look in his eyes stunned her. Made her forget all of her own concerns. He needed her. No, he needed her.
    What would have happened if his mother had hired some other woman for this role?
    â€œAngelina,” he whispered. “Turn over. I want to see your face.”
    She turned. Lay down again, embraced him as he covered her. Sighed at the sensation of completion as he entered her, at the feeling that his body belonged joined to hers this way. Her heart ached, wanting more, wanting him to fill her with everything that was him.
    She curved her hips up against him, trying to still the insidious thoughts. This insanity was the very reason the act was called lovemaking. It should be called love faking .
    â€œAngel.” The endearment melted her inside. Men had used it before, thought themselves clever or charming, but as with everything John said, there was a ring of sincerity to his words. She could love him so easily. If only there weren’t her lies between them. But those thoughts were stupidity.
    She clung to him, watched his hips undulate against her even as she felt the thrust of him inside her, again and again.
    Until he pushed her down, hands on her shoulders, loomed over her, thighs pressed against her thighs, and locked his gaze with hers. He moved within her so slowly it was torture. Delicious torture. She pushed thought aside, focused instead on rhythm and