Seven Years to Sin(4)
“I shall enjoy walking you through here,” she said over her shoulder, “when the sun is up and I am properly attired for the activity.”
Temperance finished her business and moved into view. The pug started back toward the house, tugging on the leash with notable impatience after taking so long to find a proper piddle spot. Jess was following when a rustling noise to the left put Temperance on alert. The dog’s dark ears and tail perked up, while her tan muscular body tensed with expectation.
Jess’s heart beat faster. If it was a wild boar or feral fox, the situation would be disastrous. She would be devastated if something untoward happened to Temperance, who was the only creature on earth who did not judge Jess by standards she struggled greatly to meet.
A squirrel darted across the path. Jess melted with relief and gave a breathless laugh. But Temperance did not stand down. The pug lunged, ripping her leash from Jess’s slackened grip.
“Bloody hell. Temperance!”
In a flash of tiny limbs and fur, the two creatures were gone. The sounds of the chase—the rustling of leaves and the pug’s low growling—quickly faded.
Tossing up her hands, Jess left the walkway and followed the path of trampled foliage. She was so focused on tracking, she failed to realize she’d come upon a large gazebo until she very nearly ran into it. She veered to the right …
A female’s throaty laugh broke the quiet. Jess stumbled to a startled halt.
“Hurry, Lucius,” the woman urged breathlessly. “Trent will note my absence.”
Wilhelmina, Lady Trent. Jess stood unmoving, barely breathing.
There was a slow, drawn-out creaking of wood.
“Patience, darling.” A recognizable masculine voice rejoined in a lazy, practiced drawl. “Let me give you what you paid for.”
The gazebo creaked again, louder this time. Quicker and harder. Lady Trent gave a thready moan.
Alistair Lucius Caulfield. Inflagrente delicto with the Countess of Trent. Dear God. The woman was nearly a score of years his senior. Beautiful, yes, but of an age with his mother.
The use of his middle name was startling. And, perhaps, telling … ? Aside from the obvious, perhaps they were intimate in a deeper sense. Was it possible the roguish Caulfield had a tendre for the lovely countess, enough that she would have reason to call him by a name not used by others?
“You,” the countess purred, “are worth every shilling I pay for you.”
Dear God. Perhaps not an intimacy at all, but a … transaction. An arrangement. With a man providing the services …
Hoping to move on without giving herself away, Jess took a tentative step forward. A slight movement in the gazebo prompted her to still again. Her eyes narrowed, struggling to overcome the insufficient light. It was her misfortune to be bathed in the faint glow of the waning moon while the interior of the gazebo remained deeply shadowed by its roof and overhanging trees.
She saw a hand wrapped around one of the domed roof’s supporting poles and another set a short ways above it. A man’s hands, gripping for purchase. From their height on the beam, she knew he was standing.
“Lucius … For God’s sake, don’t stop now.”
Lady Trent was pinned between Caulfield and the wood. Which meant he was facing Jess.
Twin glimmers in the darkness betrayed a blink.
He saw her. Was in fact staring at her.
Jess wished the ground would open and swallow her whole. What was she to say? How was one supposed to act when caught in such a situation?
“Lucius! Damn you.” The weathered wood whined in response to its pressures. “The feel of your big cock in me is delicious, but far more so when it’s moving.”
Jess’s hand went to her throat. Despite the cold, perspiration misted her forehead. The horror she should have felt at finding a man engaged in sexual congress was markedly absent. Because it was Caulfield, and he fascinated her. It was a terrible sort of captivation with which she viewed him—a mixture of envy for his freedom and horror at the ease with which he disregarded public opinion.
She had to get away before she was forced to acknowledge her presence to Lady Trent. She took a careful step forward …
“Wait.” Caulfield’s voice was gruffer than before.
She froze.
“I cannot!” Lady Trent protested breathlessly.
But it was not the countess Caulfield spoke to.
One of his hands was outstretched, extended toward Jess. The request stunned her into immobility.
A long moment passed in which her gaze remained fixed on the twin sparkles of his eyes. His breathing became harsh and audible.
Then, he gripped the pole again and began to move.
His thrusts began slowly at first, then became more fervent with a building tempo. The rhythmic protests of the wood battered Jess from all sides. She could see no detail beyond those two hands and glistening gaze that smoldered with a tangible heat, but the sounds she heard filled her mind with images. Caulfield never took his eyes from her, even as he rutted so furiously she wondered how the countess could take pleasure in such violence of movement. Lady Trent was nearly incoherent, coarse words of praise spilling from her lips between high-pitched squeals.
Jess was riveted by this exposure to a side of sexual congress she’d been mostly ignorant of. She knew the mechanics; her stepmother had been most thorough. Do not cringe or cry when he enters you. Try to relax; it will decrease the discomfort. Make no sound of any kind. Never voice a complaint. And yet Jess had seen the knowing looks of other women and heard whispers behind fans that hinted at more. Now she had the proof. Every pleasured sound Lady Trent made echoed through her, tripping over her senses like a stone skipping over water. Her body responded instinctively—her skin became sensitive and her breathing came in quick pants.