The Perfect Scandal (16 page)

“Are you thinking of me as I do this?” he asked hoarsely, rubbing faster. “Are you thinking of me as you moan?”

“Yes,” she breathed out, riding his hand harder.

“There will never be another, will there?”

“Nie. Nigdy.”

“English, dearest,” he drawled, his finger bringing her to a heart-pounding peak. “I'm not as intelligent as you.”

“Never,” she gasped. “You are all I will ever want and need.”

“Say it again.”

“You are all I want and…need,” she choked out, almost unable to say the words against the movement of his finger.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I will never let you go.”

“Never let me go.”

“You are mine now. Accept that you are mine and will always be mine.”

“I do. Willingly.”

His fingers stilled. He grabbed his erection and positioned it against her wet opening. “Take me into you. Do it.
Now
.”

On his command, she pushed down hard, sliding his thickness deep into her. The pinch and the unexpected stretch snatched her breath. She tightened her hold on his shoulders and steadied herself against the blinding pain that jarred her back into reality.

The dream she'd harbored since she was seventeen was no more. She no longer belonged to a dashing, nameless man. She was a woman of three and twenty and belonged to this dashing man who had a name.
Moreland. Her Moreland. He was everything she could ever want in a man and she knew that with him at her side, she would never yearn for anything more. Not ever again.

T
RISTAN THREW BACK HIS HEAD
, an anguished groan bursting from his lips as Zosia's tight, wet heat surrounded him so perfectly. He slid even deeper, until the crown of his cock was being pushed back by her womb. In that moment, he knew he had an escape no blade or whip could ever bestow upon him. His finger still throbbed, its pulsing heat matching the pulse of his heart, edging him to thrust his length into her.

He reveled in knowing that she had never shared herself with anyone but him. Whatever restraint he thought himself capable of fleeted.

His fingers and palms dug into the smooth waist of her soft nightdress. He inched out and then savagely jerked himself deep up into her tightness as far as he could go.

She gasped, tightening her hold on him, and stiffened.

It wasn't a gasp swelling with pleasure. But pain.

He froze, tightening his own hold on her waist as he raggedly breathed in her melting scent of cinnamon and powder. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered up at her, keeping perfectly still.

“Yes,” she choked out.

He swallowed, his chest tightening from an agonizing guilt growing within him. He was hurting her. He was hurting her due to his own stupid, selfish and beastly need to possess her. And worse yet, he was ravaging her in a carriage like a lecher taking a whore in between destinations. She was a lady and a virgin who deserved far better than this. She deserved far better than him.

“We need to stop,” he whispered, shifting against the seat, trying to lift her off his aching erection, which was still buried deep within her.

“No.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, pressing herself against him. Her arms tightened around his neck, the sleeve of her nightdress brushing his chin. “No, 'tis a…pleasurable pain. Though I do not wish to confess such a thing to you. I do not ever want to encourage what you do to your body.”

How could he not love her?

He smoothed his hands up the length of her slim back, wishing he could take away whatever pain he
had caused her by swallowing it himself. His fingers slipped into the silken strands of her braided hair and brought her warmth and softness even closer, as he slid his tongue down her exposed throat toward her full, uncorseted breasts. Tiny granules of ground, earthy cinnamon flavored his tongue, causing him to pause and let out a gruff laugh against her skin. “Hell, you really do taste like cinnamon. I suggest a little less cinnamon in those cosmetic creams.”

She smacked his shoulder, laughing softly against him.

He kissed her breasts through the fabric of her nightdress, enjoying the softness pushing back against his lips. He fought the raging urge to thrust himself against the tight heat that still held his thick, throbbing cock.

He was such a selfish bastard for letting it get to this. They would be arriving quite soon. “We really shouldn't be doing this,” he rasped, drawing his lips away from her. “You deserve better than this. You deserve better than me.”

“Shhhh.”
She brought her hands up to his face and raked her nails gently down to his throat, hidden beneath his cravat, causing his jaw to tighten from the zinging pleasure. “Honor yourself, Moreland. Always honor yourself. You need not convince me of your worth. I know of it. What we do now is not a sin but
a contract between our souls as we make our way to the altar.”

He swallowed. Her words were so sweet and promising, but would it change when she realized that— “Will you always be mine?”

She kissed his forehead. “Always. Now, make me yours. For I am yours.” She pressed her entire body against his and forced her tight heat down harder onto him.

Gritting his teeth, he slowly pushed into her, lifting his hips to enable him to penetrate deeper. Heat-laced sensations rippled through him as he slid back out and in. He tried to keep his movements steady and slow, but his need to reach that peak of pleasure was overtaking the last of his tense body and mind. He bit back a loud groan, his throat tightening. “Damn, but you are your own whip.”

She moaned against him, in turn, clutching his shoulders. “Moreland, I—”

He yanked her down hard onto his length again and again, pounding into her as deep and as fast as her body would allow, giving in to her need and his. Moisture beaded his brow from the pressure and bursting energy of unfulfilled years being driven into this one incredible moment. He blew out short, sharp puffs of breath, trying to withhold the urge to spill seed into that tight wetness.

She suddenly released a well-pleasured moan,
her entire body quivering against him.
“Boz?e,”
she choked out, rocking against him.

He knew she had reached her pinnacle, for she was fading into her own native language. And he, for one, was glad for it. Thrusting one last time, the world around him expanded into a bliss he had never thought possible.

He threw back his head and fiercely held on to her as he pulsed out thick seed deep into her. His body coiled against the blinding perfection of that moment until everything faded, leaving nothing but the frantic pounding of his heart and his desperate need to be held.

Tristan wrapped his arms tightly around her for a long moment, cradling her slim frame against himself. His right hand slowly slipped down the short length of her left thigh and rubbed the uneven but smooth, soft edges of her stump. It was like touching a part of her soul.

This
was what loving a woman was truly like. So extraordinary and intoxicating. She was perfection to behold, after banishing himself into believing no one could ever truly understand him or find him attractive or value his worth after what he had done to himself throughout the years.

He had been wrong. Though his newfound happiness was coming at a price. He was violating her trust. And if she ever found out—

Tears stung his eyes, unexpectedly overwhelming him as he struggled to push away his emotions. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in the curve of her soft throat, gently rocking her. He hadn't meant to claim her this soon. He hadn't. Not before she was his in name and honor. And though he knew she had yet to love him, at least one thing was certain: her body was now his. All his. And he hoped that one day her heart would be his, too.

 

Z
OSIA FELT SO DELECTABLY
dazed she couldn't move. Moreland slowly lifted her, sliding his ebbing erection from deep within her. He kissed her forehead and then lifted her off his lap, turning her just enough so he could set her gently beside him on the seat of the carriage.

He buttoned the flap of his trousers and cleared his throat. “It appears you are a virgin no more.”

She let out an awkward laugh and paused, realizing her lower half, including her stump, was still exposed. She cringed and frantically yanked her nightdress down to cover herself. She could feel his moist, warm seed beginning to run down her inner thighs and wondered if she would be blessed with a babe after only one try.

Moreland's hand jumped out toward her and stilled her hands as she covered the last of herself. “Wait.”

She glanced toward him, hoping he didn't expect her to remain uncovered throughout the rest of their ride.

Lowering his gaze, he reached into his right coat pocket and yanked out his razor case. Sitting back against the seat, he flicked open the brass hinged lid. The metallic lid fell away with a
tink,
hanging off the rectangular case as it revealed a folded ivory-handled blade sitting atop a piece of creased, frayed yellowing parchment. A snowy white handkerchief lay neatly tucked beside the blade.

She froze, her breath hitching. He didn't plan on actually— “What are you doing?”

He plucked out the handkerchief and shook it once, unfurling it as he snapped the case shut. “It's clean.”

Shoving the case back into his coat pocket, he leaned toward her and tucked it into her hand. “Whenever I used a handkerchief to wipe the blade clean, I always immediately burned it and replaced it with a new one.” He tapped at her hand. “This is a new one. Which, mind you, has remained untouched for quite some time.”

She blinked down at it, her grip tightening on the soft, white handkerchief that had only moments earlier been nestled against his blade. It was eerie to touch his world in so intimate a manner. It was a
world she had yet to fully understand. “Why are you giving this to me?”

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her tightly against himself, and whispered, “Do you want me to do it for you?”

“Do what?”
She tried not to panic as she leaned away.

“Shh.” He yanked her back forcibly against himself. “Here. We will do it together.”

She watched as his large hand drifted toward her knee. Gathering her nightdress, he lifted it, edging the fabric back up above her stump until it was well above her waist. She stiffened as his other hand cupped her hand that held the handkerchief. Gently, he guided her hand toward the inside of her thighs hidden beneath and nudged them apart. Ever so softly, he moved her hand and his handkerchief toward the moisture on her inner thighs and wiped everything that clung to her. He dabbed at the sore flesh surrounding the folds of her sex and the dark curls around it.

She bit her lip, heat spreading into her cheeks. Her heart pounded in response to the unbelievably bold, but most endearing gesture. Despite feeling awkward, she didn't stop him. Instead, she silently allowed him to finish, the knuckles of his large, guiding hand grazing her skin with each sway of the carriage, making her feel cherished in so intimate a manner.

“There.” He paused, releasing her hand and tugging the handkerchief away. He smiled. Crumpling it, he leaned into her as he shoved it into his coat pocket.

Zosia yanked down her nightdress back over her stub and leg, shifting against him to ensure everything was covered. “Thank you.”

“But of course.” Still keeping his arm tightly wrapped around her, he reached across the seat before them and grabbed his greatcoat. He draped her with it, tucking it around the contours of her body so that it covered her from neck to toe.

She leaned into his solid warmth, feeling so loved and cherished. How was it he could offer so much tenderness and affection to her yet not to himself? Something must have started him on the path of cutting. But what? “Moreland?” she whispered.

“Hmm?” He sounded so content and at peace.

She glanced up at him and rubbed his chest, her fingers grazing the silver buttons on his waistcoat. She didn't want to break the reverie of that peace, but how else was she ever going to understand him and truly connect with him? “When did you first… cut yourself? And why? I want to know more about it. I want to know more about you.”

He hesitated, his brows coming together. He stared off somewhere before him, but eventually nodded and replied in a soft, distant voice, “It wasn't something I
had ever knowingly given in to. It simply…happened. I was fifteen. I was young, stupid, bitter and angry. I wanted to rip everything around me apart and one day I childishly gave in to the way I felt by yanking a mirror off the wall and shattering it in a single sweep. The moment that mirror shattered, it was as if the person I knew drifted from my own body and never returned. I sat on the floor, picked up one of the countless shards of glass from the mirror lying all around me and, without even thinking, sliced my forearm for the first time. It was oddly comforting to see and feel my own torment being pulled out from within me.”

He sighed. “Only after I did it did I panic. I knew what I had done to myself was demented. So I bandaged it and tried to hide it from my grandmother. But one of the servants had informed her about finding blood on one of my shirts. She confronted me and I confessed. I'd never seen her so livid. She threatened me with bedlam if I ever did it again. I promised I never would, and I meant it. But after I healed, I wanted to do it again. And again. And again. She and I were forever at ends about it.”

He tightened his hold on her shoulder. “I didn't start using a razor until I was seventeen. That was when I sought to control what I was doing to myself by limiting my urges to only one object and only doing it if I desperately needed to. Prior to that, I
submitted to doing it whenever I felt like it. In fact, most of the scarring on my arms and chest are from those first two years. And I regret it. For it isn't something that can be undone.”

Zosia swallowed hard, her throat aching and tight. She nestled herself closer against him, wishing she had the means to erase everything he had done. “What made you so angry?” she whispered. “What happened?”

“I…” He lowered his gaze. “Please. Not now.”

She pinched her lips together and nodded, pressing her head against his chest. Trying to offer him whatever comfort she could give, she whispered back, “I will always be here for you, Moreland. I will always be here to listen. Know that.”

He tightened his hold, but said nothing.

They sat in silence and said nothing more as they moved side to side against each other with the constant pitching of the carriage. Despite resisting the need to close her eyes, which were growing heavier with each passing moment, Zosia eventually drifted off and escaped to nothingness.

 

“Z
OSIA.” A LOW MALE VOICE
edged into the darkness she had somehow floated into. “Dearest. Wake up.”

Her eyes fluttered open. Soft candlelight flooded her vision to reveal a beautifully ornate blue-and-gold sitting room angled on its side, which had magically
replaced the carriage she had just been in. A silver-haired woman bearing aged but refined porcelain features, which whispered of great beauty in youth, sat elegantly poised in a gilded chair barely an arm's length away. She was exquisitely dressed in an emerald lace-and-satin evening gown, its full, bouffant sleeves stitched with floral patterns. Her black eyes were soft and compelling as she quietly observed her with notable curiosity.