Free Sinful by Charlotte Featherstone

slipped, and Jane reached for the edge.
    “How?” she asked. “How should I touch you?”

5
    He was delirious, not from fever, but Jane. The scent of her, the incredibly arousing feel of her petal-soft skin against his face made his flesh and blood blaze until he thought he would be consumed by the heat of longing.
    He was amazed by her presence, the calm she washed over him. He had never been able to bear the feel of another atop him, yet he craved Jane like this, her breasts against him, the beat of her heart in his ears. He was starved for this, for the touch, the contact of another human being.
    If he had been in his right mind, he would have refuted that wayward thought with a snort and a callous remark. But he was not in his right mind. Desire like nothing he had ever experienced before ruled him now. It was the same driving, relentless need that had fueled him with his first lover. But that had been lust, and animal need. The fucking had been hard, angry, soul stealing, yet the danger of it, the threat of being caught and punished, had made it arousing, made it just as good as the actual fucking.
    But this moment with Jane was soft and tender, soul stealing, as well, as he felt something that had long lain dormant begin to awaken. There was need here, too. It was not animal lust, but something else. Something he could not name, something he had never felt before.
    “You burn with fever, my lord.”
    “Matthew,” he corrected. He did not want to be Wallingford here with her. He did not want to be an earl and heir to a dukedom. He wanted only to be a man, a painter and lover. He wanted Jane, not as a damaged soul who could not enjoy the feel of another, but as someone who was whole, untainted.
    She was good and kind. He sensed it in her, and the devil inside him wanted to have a bit of her goodness all to himself. He had never known what it was to be good, or kind. He was cold and callous, purposefully hurtful. Yet here was this angel lying against him, allowing herself to be corrupted by a demon in a gentleman’s disguise.
    “We must stop this,” she breathed in a husky pant that sent his cock lifting beneath the sheet that had grown just as hot as his body. “I must see to ridding you of this fever.”
    “Yes, you must,” he agreed, his mind taking a turn down a wicked, wicked path. It was bad enough that he had envisioned her taking his cock into her lush mouth and swallowing him down, something he could never allow in any real way. Now he thought of her touching him, every inch of his body. When he felt the cool cloth return to his chest, he reached for her wrist and brought it low, guiding her. With his hand leading hers, he brought the cloth, which she clutched steadfastly, to his cock. He heard her gasp; it was followed by the rustle of starched muslin, and he imagined her shifting on the bed, her waist turning so she could look down at him, and the heavy sex that lay between his thighs. Her breasts wouldstill be exposed, and he knew the image of her like this would be forever imbedded in his mind. He would paint her the minute he arrived home.
    “Touch me, Jane,” he choked out as he forced her hand to release the cloth, and instead hold him. He groaned, threw back his head and gritted his teeth as her palm engulfed his thick shaft. With little pressure, he moved her hand up, then down. The image of his fingers locked atop hers as he worked his cock made his excitement grow. He was rasping in shallow, hard breaths, which mingled with hers.
    She was watching, he could feel her eyes searing into the spot where their hands wrapped around his shaft. It aroused him, not angered him, knowing her eyes were upon him. He did not feel defiled as he once had when his lover had watched him masturbate. His lover had taken perverse delight in ordering him to pleasure himself and come all over his hand. His lover had enjoyed barking out orders. Even now he heard them: harder, faster, now slower, stop…
    But Jane