And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

She wanted to love the man who used a facade to disguise his pain. The need to soothe him, to see a hot spark of desire in his eyes, burned in her chest.

Gathering her courage, Scarlett captured his hand. “Then make love to me, Wycliff. Make love to the lost woman who doesn’t really know who she is.”

“I know who you are.” The gentle timbre of his voice stirred the longing within. “You’re the woman whose courage knows no bounds. You’re the woman with the kindest heart I’ve ever known. Without your mask, you’re stronger than the widow, more benevolent than the actress.”

With the tight coil of her nerves relaxing, she decided to tease him. “Then who kissed you at Vauxhall?”

“You did. The woman bursting with passion.” He arched a brow and cast a devilish grin. “The woman desperate to rip my clothes from my back and ravish me in the gardens.”

The memory brought heat to her cheeks, heat to her aching sex. The same overwhelming lust consumed her now. Indeed, she was in danger of stripping him naked in the street.

“Then take my hand, Wycliff, and don’t let go.” Without another word, she pulled him to the front door, up the stairs back to his bedchamber.

The time for talking was at an end.

After crossing the threshold, he slammed the door shut.

A mere second later she was in his arms, wrapped in a strong embrace.

His hot, greedy mouth came crashing down on hers as the binds of restraint snapped beneath the weight of their desire. She pushed her hands up over his hard chest, caressed the sculpted muscles before threading her arms around his neck.

Wycliff pressed his body into her, grasping her buttocks and squeezing as his tongue slipped past her lips to delve so deep inside her mouth her legs almost buckled.

The evidence of his arousal pushed against her abdomen—so long, so solid and thick, even through his clothing. Her sex pulsed in response, eager to mate with him, to feel him push inside her body and fill her full.

The sound of their breathless pants, of their moans and murmurs of pleasure, sent her lust for him spiralling. Drunk with these new sensations, she slipped her fingers into his hair, grasped and tugged the ends as her tongue stroked his in a wild and frenzied dance.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this.” The words escaped him on a gasp. He captured her chin between his fingers and tilted her head to drag his lips along the line of her throat, leaving a fiery trail.

She knew exactly how long she had waited, to the day, to the hour. “Three years spent longing. Three years spent yearning.” Her eyes fluttered closed as his tongue traced a circle on the sensitive place behind her ear. When he drew her earlobe into his mouth, her body melted to liquid fire.

“Then we must make up for lost time.”

A lifetime of loving him would be ample reward.

But for now, she had no intention of wasting a second. “Take off your clothes.”

Wycliff pulled his head back and met her gaze. “You want to see me naked?” Mischief danced in his eyes. From his arrogant grin, he had no issue flaunting his toned physique.

She stepped back, felt the loss of his hands on her buttocks but knew she would feel them again soon enough.

With his heated gaze fixed on her, he shrugged out of his coat, unfastened his waistcoat, untied his cravat. Every sleek movement, every slow tug to undo the buttons built the anticipation.

“Now your shirt.” Her mouth was dry. “Do it slowly.”

Wycliff moistened his lips. The mere sight of his tongue sent a shiver from her neck to her navel. “Expect that I shall ask the same of you.”

Grabbing the hem of the fine lawn, he crossed his muscular arms and pulled the garment over his head. He crumpled it into a ball and threw it to the floor to join the rest of his apparel. Then he stood, waiting for her appraisal.

Glorious was the only word to describe every muscled contour. Scarlett had gazed upon his bare chest numerous times, had spent hours watching him as he lay asleep in bed, imagining what it must be like to inhale the scent of his bronzed skin.

He ran his hand over the broad expanse of his chest. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“And something I hope to see many times again.”

“Damn right, you will.” As he tugged off his boots, she looked to the stitches on his arm, to the mottled purple bruising surrounding his wound. Were she of sound mind she would chastise him for not wearing his bandage, but her head was a muddled mess, her emotions a slave to her cravings.

The boots landed on the floor with a thud.