Sin by Sharon Page Page B

over—she especially disliked being teased—and lifted the card from the top of the box. It bore two words, in a woman’s beautiful handwriting. A Gift.
    Cautiously, she flipped open the lid. The most curious items lay within. Two gold balls attached to a fine gold chain. She reached in and touched a long ivory wand, tapered and rounded at the end, but attached to leather straps. There were two other such wands, carved to look like cocks—perfect replicas, right down to the veins. They were attached at the hilts, hinged. Small rubies encircled their bases.
    “What is it?” he asked, behind her.
    He must think her embarrassed. She knew that people used devices for pleasure—the art of Rodesson and Belzique included many pictures of women sliding such things inside them.
    “Sex toys, I assume?”
    “Yes.” A giggle bubbled up. She held one member around its thick shaft, let the other dangle. “What is this supposed to do?” With her other hand she held up the two balls. “And these? Tell me, oh rakish guide.”
    He prowled to her with his shirt open. “The balls are for your pleasure. Shall I show you?”
    Yes. Yes, she wanted this. Wanted to learn. He was the master and she was the student and he had an illicit game he wanted to teach her.
    She held the balls in her hand, heating them. Soft and fine, her shift teased her thighs as he drew her skirts up.
    “Now I make you moist, vixen.” His thick fingers parted the lips of her quim. She moaned as her wetness flowed onto his fingers. She couldn’t help but squeal as he eased the first ball between her nether lips. Oh, how she wanted it but she tensed at the pressure.
    “The balls move inside you, pleasuring you. You leave the chain out, to withdraw them. If you move with them inside—walk, dance—you bring yourself to orgasm. And if you are quiet, it can be your own naughty secret.”
    “Will the other women have these…inside?”
    “Yes. But you cannot use them, sweetheart. Not without breaking your barrier.”
    “I don’t mind doing that.”
    “You might regret that choice later. You might want to marry.” He slipped the first ball just inside her cunny.
    “I don’t want to marry—” She gasped at being filled. What did she care about marriage? All she wanted was to breath in his male scent, gaze at his lust-heated eyes, hear his deep, seductive baritone, and rub her clit against the toy he held in his powerful hand.
    “Do you pleasure yourself?”
    Mute with passion, she nodded, grabbed his hand, and held it tight to her cunny.
    “How?” he whispered.
    “I touch my bud. Stroke it. It brings my release swiftly—” Venetia understood what he was making her reveal—even though she’d decided never to marry, she had preserved her barrier. Why? “The first time,” she admitted, “The first time I touched my fingers to it, the release came almost immediately and I thought I might die. I was young…” Why did she feel she could tell him such things. Because he had shared such things with her? I was eight when he gave me my first volume. “Fourteen. I’d been painting a picture of the village smithy’s muscular son.”
    Marcus groaned, dropped the ball, and thrust his fingers between her curls. The rough tips stroked, teased, and then he caught her abraded clit between two fingers. “It arouses me to think of you bringing yourself to climax. It doesn’t surprise me that you took control of your own pleasure.”
    Yes, but she couldn’t take control of her own life. But stroking her pearl was more fun when shared, she realized, and then he rubbed with his big fingers, and she couldn’t think at all.
    “Yes, yes, yes!” She rocked violently against his hand as the orgasm streaked through her. Still climaxing, she grabbed naughtily for his cock—she wanted him coming too!—but to her surprise, he drew her hand away. “But you’re hard,” she managed between pants, “Huge! Don’t you want release?”
    “God yes, sweeting, I do.