Sin. Sharon Page

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      Hazel eyes wide, she licked her full lips.

      “He would introduce you to the darkest pleasures but first he would make you compliant by stripping you naked before his guests and spanking your nude derriere with a riding crop to teach you obedience. He would be the one to plunder your virginity, likely in public—”

      He wanted to frighten her—to protect her—but she stood with a straight spine and a fiercely determined expression.

      “I would pretend to be a jade,” she said, “I would go masked. And if you will not escort me, I can hire a bodyguard to do so.”

      “Chartrand’s orgy is a weeklong event. A week of men fucking any woman they can get their hands on.”

      Her nostrils flared. “A week…they have…they rut for a week? How many encounters do they have?”

      “Many.”

      “Don’t they…tire?”

      “The men, certainly. Women can enjoy, or endure, many partners. At the last one I went to, Chartrand wagered that a woman could not service one hundred men, and he paid a jade to do it.”

      “One hundred men are there?”

      “He rounded up fifty—she had each man twice. One of his favorite games is to assign six men to pleasure a woman at once—especially if the woman is a novice.”

      Her startled look encouraged him to press. He lifted her hand to his lips. Kissed her middle finger. “One man’s cock in your cunny.”

      He kept his tone casual, as though he was speaking of the latest Drury Lane play, not sex. If he lectured, she’d close her ears. Presenting sin so calmly would shock her all the more.

      A light flared in her vivid eyes. Lust, desire, interest. A bewitching fire. Her breasts heaved in the most endearing and enticing way. He pressed his lips to her index finger. “One for you to pleasure with your mouth.” Kissed her thumb and baby finger. “One prick each for your hands to explore and one to explode and shower your breasts with come. And the last, of course, to be buried deeply in your ass.”

      “I must be completely wicked…because I’m aroused.” To Marcus’ surprise, she turned the tables on him, sensually stroking his lips.

      “The words excited you…the reality would be very different. Would you wish to lick the cock of a man you don’t know? Would you be willing to kiss his rump? Would you like to be tied up by a woman like Lydia Harcourt and have her kiss your quim?”

      Her moan rippled down his spine. “I…I don’t know. You’ve enjoyed such adventures. You attend orgies.” Her soft voice teased his cock into painful hardness.

      He fought to stay distant. “I used to find it diverting to attend orgies where men and women are indiscriminate with their pleasure. I don’t go anymore.”

      “Have you made love to six women at once?” she asked.

      The innocence of the question seared him. “No love, only three at once.” But even as the memory of it made his cock pulse, it was her curious face that made him hunger the most. He leaned back against his desk, shifting his hips.

      She stepped toward him. “And you think it is perfectly acceptable for you to do it, while you condemn a woman for wanting to be adventurous? If a woman doesn’t expect marriage, if she is completely independent, why shouldn’t she enjoy erotic games?”

      “And you think you would?” He’d never expected a woman to argue women should be as promiscuous as men. Usually women argued that men should learn to be faithful.

      “Men will demand things of you. What would you do if a man did this to you?” He tipped up her chin and forced a kiss upon her. He quickly changed to the kiss to a sensuous melding of their lips, and slid his tongue within. Demanding. Filling her mouth.

      She kissed him back until he broke it, breathing hard.

      “I am not afraid of a kiss,” she said.

      He grabbed her left breast. “Then I shall have a squeeze of your lovely tits, my dear.” God, he hated behaving like this—but at orgies, he’d seen it all the time amongst those drunk or fired by aphrodisiacs. Her breast was a lovely weight in his hand, ripe, soft, warm.

      Her nipple hardened and poked into his palm. Her hand snaked out, grabbed his ballocks in his breeches and squeezed hard. “Christ Jesus!” he yelled, and he let her go.

      “Try that at an orgy and you’ll only enrage a man,” he warned. “They think a woman is there to play.”

      “Then I would tell the man I was ready to play, arrange a meeting and then slip away.”

      “And what if he doesn’t want to wait.” His blood thundered in his head. “What if he tosses up your skirts where you stand?”

      He felt her heat steaming through her dress. His head swam. Enough blood had surged down to his cock so he could barely think straight. “You are a beautiful woman. You tempt a man to madness.”

      “I want you to toss up my skirts.” Desire—innocent, tentative, but fiery—burned in the hazel depths of her eyes.

      “I won’t deflower you, angel, but there are many ways to pleasure you.”

      “I know. Pleasures with mouths and hands.” Her voice was soft, throaty. “I’ve drawn many pictures of that—of women swallowing a man’s privy member, of men licking a woman’s quim.”

      Her words played havoc with his soul. He didn’t debauch virgins. He would not do it.

      But her hands slid down, between their bodies. Marcus heard her gasp as they slid over her breasts. She began drawing up her skirts. “Pleasure me, please.”

      He glanced down. Her skirts were at her waist, lacy petticoats spilling over her arms. The erotic scent of her arousal flooded his senses. She possessed an abundant bush of sherry-red curls between her smooth creamy thighs. Demure white stockings and ivory garters graced her shapely legs. Her juices shone on her nether lips.

      He cupped her naked bottom. Her skin was satin-smooth, her cheeks full, firm, enticing. Sweat beaded his brow, prickled along his collar.

      He began to sink to his knees, then stopped. No, he wanted her on her back, legs spread, with her cunny displayed to him.

      Scooping her up, Marcus carried her to the daybed.

      Venetia tumbled gently back against the silky fabric. She felt as though she were floating, even though she was firmly anchored to earth by the earl’s strong, powerful body. Her dress was a jumble at her waist, her legs spread wide.

      The earl kissed her lips, nibbled her ears, brushed his mouth down her neck, and licked the sensitive spot in the hollow of her throat. She arched with each touch of his tongue. Sensation swamped her senses. Her sensitive skin, his wetness, warmth. She wanted to see, smell, taste his naked skin—

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