Free Sin by Sharon Page Page B

revealing a stretch of pale satin skin.
    It took him a full minute to realize he was looking directly at her bare legs. Not quite bare—she wore creamy white stockings and pale blue garters. Rigid with sudden tension, he gazed upward at the stretch of her bare stomach, the curves of her naked breasts, at her cheeky, hopeful smile.
    Other than stockings, she wasn’t wearing a damned stitch beneath the cloak.
    “What in damnation are you thinking?” Marcus demanded.
    Venetia sat demurely, despite her nudity, her legs crossed at the ankles. On the seat opposite, Marcus was glorious. The buff breeches he wore displayed the hard muscles of his legs. Blue superfine fit like a second skin across a broad chest and broader shoulders. A heavy greatcoat lay discarded at his side. He was a man who had seen everything—done everything—and she’d gambled on a bold, wild tactic to intrigue him.
    She took a deep breath. “I want you to understand that I am not a frightened virginal miss, Marcus.”
    He gritted his teeth, growled between them, “You can’t travel to Dorset naked.” He rubbed his jaw and she watched the pass of his hand. Freshly shaven, his skin would be smooth, soft, and smell of his soap.
    “Why not? This is our own private world in your carriage, is it not? Who will see me other than you?”
    “What of meals?” he snapped. “Using the necessary?”
    She hadn’t expected him to be so enraged. “I can just hold the cloak closed.”
    “You plan to walk in public completely bare beneath your cloak?”
    “No one would know but you,” she protested.
    Agony flashed across his handsome features, twisting his sensual mouth. “God, and that’s the bloody magic of it, isn’t it?”
    Venetia summoned her courage and stood in the lightly swaying carriage. They were making haste out of London before the streets became congested. She lowered to her knees on the floor, the comfortable carpeting and the thickness of her cloak cushioning her. Heat rose from bricks in the floor, warming her skin.
    “Venetia—”
    She cut him off by cupping her hand over the bulge in his breeches. “I painted a picture,” she told him in a breathy voice as she fumbled with the first button on his flap. He was so engorged the placket was pulled tight. “A picture of a man who looked like you being pleasured this way by a courtesan with auburn hair. In his theatre box in Drury Lane.”
    When he didn’t immediately speak, she gazed up and saw turbulent thoughts behind his turquoise eyes.
    “In front of the audience,” she whispered.
    The solid ridge jumped in his breeches, straining against the buttons, making her task of undressing him more difficult. She couldn’t tell him more about her picture—that the earl fell in love with his ravishing courtesan.
    “Are you certain you want to do this?” His voice was raspy, hoarse.
    “Yes,” she whispered, freeing the second button from the loop. “I want to take you into my mouth.”
    Her hands shook with expected nerves, but also with weakening desire. When she’d seen this act in pictures, she’d marveled. A man’s penis was so long, how could it fit in a woman’s mouth? It couldn’t go down a woman’s throat, could it?
    With trembling fingers, she opened the last button. Parted the falls of his trousers, peeled down his soft linen underclothes. And gasped.
    She was eye to eye with his cock.
    She marveled at it, running her fingertip along the shaft. It bobbed at her touch like a top-heavy rose swaying in the wind. In pictures, rendered in purples and angry reds, it had looked enormous. Close up it was gigantic. Carefully, she closed her hand around the shaft, surprised to feel it swell and firm against her palm. A droplet of moisture gathered at the tip. The head was surprisingly adorable and begged for a kiss. It even possessed a small beauty spot—a dusky brown spot beside the glistening eye.
    “Is it so fascinating?”
    She met his gaze and noticed he was waiting,