Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

“Francesca,” he whispered, and now his breath was on her hair, his lips caressing her temple. She felt her blood beating and her skin tingling, and knew this was desire. The breathless, soaring sort of desire she had only read about in books. She turned her face, but toward him rather than away, and felt his mouth on hers once more.

His kiss was tremendously and excitingly dangerous. Irresistible.

Again heat flashed through her, turning her bones to liquid, and she knew she couldn’t fight him even if she’d wanted to. His mouth was on her throat, hot, tasting her, making her squirm. She gave another little moan, tilting her head back to give him better access.

He was kneeling before her, unwrapping her like a present. Her dress, still sodden beneath the coverlet, was clinging to her. She gave a violent shiver.

“Poor sweet,” he murmured, and began to strip the garment from her, peeling it away from her cold flesh. She might almost have believed he was doing her a favor, if it wasn’t for the hungry expression on his face and the glitter in his black eyes.

Underneath the dress were her chemise and stays and petticoats—the impossible world of Victorian undergarments. He groaned when he saw her. Francesca giggled. “Are you beaten already?” she teased, and wondered at herself. He was seducing her, and she had never felt more at ease. Or perhaps she was seducing him.

“Not me,” he said, and promptly swung her up into his arms, before lowering them both onto the chair. He arranged her onto his lap, and Francesca rested her head on his shoulder. He murmured soothingly, without words, but there was nothing soothing in the way his hands were caressing her shoulders. He explored the plump swell of her breasts with his fingertip, where her stays had pushed them up.

She trembled, but it was no longer with the cold.

He cupped her breast, slipping his hand down the front of her undergarment, her flesh filling his palm to overflowing. An ache formed between her legs. As if he could read her mind, he reached down and laid his hand there, against her petticoats.

“You’re not a child, Francesca,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You know what will happen if you do not tell me nay. I am giving you one last chance to say it.”

She supposed she’d been hoping he would just go on, seduce her, and she’d never have to make a conscious decision. But he was forcing her to choose. He was giving her the responsibility of continuing with her adventure, or bringing it to an abrupt end.

She closed her eyes and felt the heat of him, the heavy rise and fall of his chest. He was here, right now. The man she had dreamed about all her life—her handsome villain—and if she stopped she knew she would always regret it. This might be her only chance to experience something she had dreamed about for years. And where was the danger? He would be gone tomorrow, back to whatever world he inhabited in London, and their paths would never cross again. There was no fear she would lose her heart to him, grow attached, except perhaps as a fond memory. There was no comparison between this and Aphrodite’s many lovers.

She turned to look at him, so there would be no mistake.

“Yes,” she said.

The bedsheets were chill, but he didn’t feel cold. Usually when he came to a woman’s bed she was already naked and prepared for him, but this time it was different. Francesca expected him to undress her.

He’d never seen so many buttons and hooks and ribbons. She was like a gift, waiting to be unwrapped, and his fingers trembled as he removed layer after layer. And then, after each garment was tossed aside, he had to stop and explore. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her thigh, her rounded hip. But then finally there she was, Francesca Greentree, the woman of his dreams. He groaned as he reached for her, tumbling her over, her hair heavy and damp about her face and shoulders.

There would be regrets; he knew it. And repercussions, when the truth about his reasons for being here came out. But right now he didn’t care.

He groaned again, pressing his body to hers, feeling her respond with passion. With his hands stroking her back, he found the curve of her waist and the soft globes of her bottom. She was nuzzling against him, her breath warm as she explored his throat and the hollow there. Then she licked him, tasted him, and lifted her face so that he could kiss her, deeply this time. A lover’s kiss.

Her lips clung; she felt hot and eager. He cupped her breast, feeling the hard nub of her nipple, and bent to take it in his mouth. She arched against him, her legs tangling with his, and he felt the sensitive length of his cock brush against her thigh. He nearly lost control, but he held on, knowing the more she wanted him, the better it would be for them both.

A moment to remember forever.

But she’d discovered his weakness, and her eager hand was upon him, tentatively at first, exploring his hard length, and then as he pressed against her soft core, impatiently. She was hot and moist, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He slid inside her.

She went still. Perhaps he’d overestimated her state of arousal? But no, it was simply that it was new to her. He looked down into her face and saw the surprise in her eyes. She was a virgin, of course she was! He’d never taken a virgin before. For a moment he felt disoriented, confused as to his real reasons for doing this, and then she smiled up at him, and all doubt left him.

“It feels strange,” she murmured, “but nice. I think…yes, I think I am going to like it very much…”

The blood rushed to his head. He began to move against her, no longer trying to hold back. She was obviously enjoying this as much as he, and he let her actions rule him. They clung together, riding the storm, and at the end she gasped and shuddered, and he lost himself in his own pleasure, and hers.

“So that’s what it’s like,” she said dreamily.

And, as they lay in each other’s arms, he felt as if he’d given her something very precious, and it was perfect, but then in a heartbeat it all changed.

It grew awkward.

Sebastian wished he could fall asleep. He deserved it, by God, but Francesca wouldn’t let him. She wriggled out from his grip, and when he tried to hold on to her, murmuring soothing words, she wriggled the harder. It was over, and no amount of hoping would bring it back again.

Giving up, he threw back the covers and rose, and striding naked to the fire, he stretched the tired, aching muscles of his body.

Behind him in the bed she went still, staring. Of course, she hadn’t seen a man in all his glory before, he thought wryly. Let her have her fill! He turned to face her with only a smile.