Sinful

Yes. He knew that. No one would believe it, no one would understand.

“Open your eyes,” the voice demanded.

He was loath to do it, to confront the wickedness and shame that played out between his spread thighs. But he was at the mercy of that mouth, and the hands that strayed to his buttocks, pulling them apart in time to the ravaging mouth on his cock. A finger slipped inside at the same time his cock was pulled deep, and the first spurt of come shot from his cock.

His eyelids flew up, and their gazes met. He was shocked by what he saw looking up at him. Despite all the times they had been together, the image still stunned him. Indignity flooded him, mixing with the pleasure he felt at seeing his cock being so greedily sucked as he continued to fist his hand up and down his swollen shaft, milking himself.

Dirty and unnatural. A slave to desire. A prisoner in a prison of his own making.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

He wanted to, yet he despised admitting it.

“You hate me for what I do to you, but you can’t resist, can you? You can’t bring yourself to put a stop to our illicit meetings because you like what I do to you. You like these lessons I’m teaching you.”

He was panting, anger and desire curling within him. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, he chanted in his mind while a hot tongue glided over the swollen head of his member.

He hated this, lying here at his prick’s mercy, but he could not move away, knowing how degraded he would feel after. He could not think about that now. All he could think of was coming and spewing it all over, making his sinful, secret lover feel a measure of degradation at his hand.

He came, pulsing in long powerful spurts. The low moan at once inflamed, yet angered him. His lover should have been dishonored by what he had done, but instead the act had aroused.

“My turn.”

He found his body handled, moved to how his lover desired him. His lips were against a straining sex that pressed against his open mouth. He licked and sucked as he had been taught, listening to the growing sounds of pleasure. His cock was hard again, and his lover worked it, tugging and pulling hard.

He felt eyes on him, watching him. Felt that greedy gaze devouring his body. A hand smacked his buttock, stinging him before a finger traced his opening, and plunged in.

“You are such a dirty, sinful boy,” his lover moaned.

He bit down, angry and mortified. He felt his lover fall apart and he came once more, empting into a hand that refused to release his cock.

Dirty. Sinful. He could never erase the taint. The smothering feel of his body being consumed with his unnatural lust, with his sick perversions.

He had a secret. A secret he must hide. A secret he wished he could hide from himself.

“Water,” the angel’s voice whispered, chasing away the old memories. He felt his head being lifted and cradled in a supple arm as something pressed softly against his lips, which felt swollen and cracked, and he winced. Immediately his head began to throb in a relentless pulsation.

Disoriented, unable to see, he shook off the hold and clamped his mouth shut. Where was he? He struggled to get out the words, but they came out in a growl that was incomprehensible.

“You’re safe. It’s only water.”

The voice was soft, lyrical, with a hint of sensuality to it. It was a woman’s voice, throaty and beckoning, yet it held a measure of authority that forced him to sip at the tepid water.

She tried to get him to drink more, but he refused, and finally she released him back against the pillow. The scent of her rushed over him as she bent down, fluffing the pillow and pulling up the sheet high on his chest. Soap. He inhaled again, discovering the essence, tasting it. She smelled clean—pure. Not overpowering as so many women did, with their flowery oils and perfumes.

He liked the way this woman smelled. Simple, yet enticing.

When she was about to pull away, he clasped her wrist, holding her still against him. He heard her gasp, felt her pulse quicken beneath his thumb.

For a moment he welcomed the feel of her, the heat of her body so close to his, the scent of her. What a novelty, for he hated the feeling of being smothered by another.

“Sir, you will reinjure yourself.”

The voice, still soft and beckoning, was laced with a huskiness that belied her words.

“Where am I?” he asked while he licked his dry lips.

“London College Hospital,” she replied as she tried to extract herself from his hold.

“Who are you?” He gripped her tighter, pulling her down lower until he could smell the starch in her clothes and the delicate scent of feminine sweat beneath the scent of her bathing soap.

“Jane.”

The word exploded in his brain. Such a simple word. Such a plain name. Yet for all its simplicity and its single syllable, Matthew could not help but repeat it in his thoughts and marvel at how exotic and sensual her name could sound on his tongue.

“Jane…” He murmured the name, liking the resonance when murmured in his deep voice. He liked the sensuality of it said in a dark whisper of longing. Jaaaane… He drew out the syllable, allowing it to echo within the confines of his aching brain.

“Your name?”

He fought through the fog, trying to replay the events of the night, and instead he got lost in her voice once again, tripping along in his blindness and mental fog, waiting to hear her speak to him.

“What is your name, sir? Can you not remember it?”

Licking his lips once more, he savored the way her voice washed over his body like honey dripping from a spoon—slowly, in golden, hypnotizing rivulets, unraveling in soothing waves.

Christ, what the devil had they given him to make him think such queer thoughts?

“Sir?” she asked, concern taking away a measure of the sensuality he had heard.

“Matthew,” he finally admitted. He heard her breath stop for the tiniest second. She knew. He was not simply a man, but an aristocrat. No aristocrat gave his Christian name—not when their identity revolved around a title. He didn’t know why he didn’t give her his title. The fog, he thought, that was the reason he was not thinking clearly. Perhaps, though, he wanted to be someone else—anyone else—here with this woman whose name alone aroused him.

“Matthew, will you release me? My back is hurting.”

It was the shock that freed her. He had not heard his Christian name in years. He’d been ten the last time anyone had uttered it. He had always only been Wallingford, or my lord. Never Matthew. The intimacy of it rocked him, aroused him until he felt his cock stir, filling with need. He had released her as though she were fire and he was singed.

“You’ve taken a very bad blow to the head. Do you remember anything at all about your attack?”

“I recall your voice,” he murmured. Intimacy swelled up once more between them, and he searched for her hand that lay in the wrinkles of the sheet. “You spoke to me.”

“Yes, when the doctor was helping you.”

“Come closer.” Desire made his voice thick. “You are much too far away.”

He felt the mattress dip slightly, heard the crinkle of fabric and petticoats as she arranged her skirts. He felt the weight of all that fabric as it pressed against his thigh.

“There now, is that better?”

“No.” He reached for her, pulling her by her wrist until he felt the edge of her bodice graze his chest. The warmth of her skin met his, and she gasped, steadying herself with her hand against his shoulder.