One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (The Rules of Scoundrels 2)

He met her gaze, grey eyes filled with amusement, his smile sending a thread of pleasure through her as pure and unbridled as any before. “Perhaps that would be best.”

Distracted by her task, she led the dog to the door, opening it just enough to shoo the beast through it. Closing the door, she turned back to him, taking in the long, muscled length of him on the bed, staring at her.

Waiting for her.

Perfection.

He was perfect, and she was bare before him, bathed in candlelight. She was instantly embarrassed—somehow more embarrassed than she had been that night in his office, when she’d touched herself under his careful guidance. At least then she’d been wearing a corset. Stockings.

Tonight, she wore nothing. She was all flaws, each one highlighted by his perfection. He watched her for a long moment before extending one muscled arm, palm up, an irresistible invitation.

She went to him without hesitation, and he rolled to his back, pulling her over his lovely, lean chest, staring up at her intently.

She covered her breasts in a wave of nerves and trepidation. “When you look at me like that . . . it’s too much.”

He did not look away. “How do I look at you?”

“I don’t know what it is . . . but I feel as though you can see into me. As though, if you could, you would consume me.”

“It’s want, love. Desire like nothing I’ve never experienced. I’m fairly shaking with it. Come here.” The demand was impossible to resist, carrying with it the promise of pleasure beyond her dreams. She went.

When she was close enough to touch, he lifted one hand, stroking his fingers along hers where they hid her breasts from view. “I tremble with need for you, Pippa. Please, love, let me see you.”

The request was raw and wretched, and she couldn’t deny him, slowly moving her hands to settle them on his chest, fingers splayed wide across the crisp auburn hair that dusted his skin. She was distracted by that hair, the play of it over muscle—the way it narrowed to a lovely dark line across his flat stomach.

He lay still as she touched him, his muscles firm and perfect. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, fingers stroking down his arms to his wrists.

His gaze narrowed on her. “I am happy you approve, my lady.”

She smiled. “Oh I do, my lord. You are a remarkable specimen.” White teeth flashed again as she gained her courage, retracing her touch, over his forearms, marveling in the feel of him, reciting from memory, “flexor digitorum superficialis, flexor capri radialis . . .” along his upper arms, “biceps brachii, tricipitis brachii . . .” over his shoulders, loving the way the muscles tensed and flexed beneath her touch, “deltoideus . . .” and down his chest, “subscapularis . . . pectoralis major . . .”

She stilled, brushing her fingers over the curve of that muscle, the landscape of him . . . the valleys of his body. He sucked in a breath as her fingers ran over the flat discs of his nipples, arching up to her touch, and she stilled, reveling in her power. He enjoyed her touch. He wanted it. She repeated the stroke, this time with her thumbs.

He hissed his pleasure, one wide hand falling to the inside of her knee, sending a river of heat through her. “Don’t stop now, love. This is the most effective seduction I’ve ever experienced.” He traced along the top of her knee. “Tell me . . . what is this?”

She took a deep breath. “The vastus medialis.”

“Mmm.” Fingers moved, higher. “And here?”

She shivered. “Rectus femoris.”

They slid to inside her thigh. “Clever girl . . . and here?”

“Adductor longus . . .”

And higher.

“Gracilis . . .”

She moved, breathless, spreading her legs to afford him better access, and he rewarded her, moving higher, barely stroking. “And here, love? What’s this?”

She shook her head, desperate for more. Struggled with words. “That’s not a muscle.”

He increased the touch, barely. Enough to drive her utterly mad. “No?”

“No.” She sighed.

The touch moved away, leaving an ache in its wake. “I see.”

She grabbed his hand in one hand. “Don’t stop.”

He laughed, the sound low and wicked, and levered himself up, taking her mouth in one of those long, maddening kisses, sucking and licking and claiming until she had lost herself in him . . . against him. And only then, when she was pressed against him once more, panting and nearly wild with heavy, tingling desire, did he give her the touch she craved.

He stroked against her pulsing flesh, soft, then firm, swirling and stroking and giving her precisely what she wanted. She gasped against his lips. “Jasper,” and he rewarded the soft cry, his thumb working a tight circle at the place where pleasure pooled.

It was coming again, that secret, sinful ecstasy that he’d showed her before . . . and she wanted it in his arms, against his warmth. With him.

With him.

“No.” She clasped his hand, staying his movements. “No . . . not without you.”

His gaze softened on her. “Lovely Pippa . . . I want you more than you can ever know . . . but I can’t take you. I can’t ruin you. I won’t.”

Frustration flared at the words. “I don’t care. I want it.”

He shook his head, his hand in that dark, devastating place. “You won’t want it. Not tomorrow. Not when you realize what you’ve done.”

She levered herself over him again, pressing a soft kiss to the high curve of his chest, adoring the feel of his groan beneath the caress. “I won’t regret it. I want it,” she whispered to the hair there. “If we cannot have . . .” each other. She did not say it. “I want tonight.” She lifted her head, aching with desire and need and the worst kind of love. “Please . . .” she begged him, her hands slipping down that trail of hair to the waist of his trousers. “Please, Jasper.”

He closed his eyes, the corded muscles in his neck stretching and tensing. “Pippa. I am trying to do right. To be honorable.”

The words came on a wave of understanding. He had once accused her of living in black and white, of thinking that everything was truth or lie. But in this moment, she understood grey. She saw that his right was so very wrong. That his honor would bring no comfort to either of them.

Tomorrow, he could have honor.

Tomorrow, everything could return to right and wrong. Up and down. Truth and lie.

But tonight, everything was different.

She leaned down, pressing her bare breasts to his bare chest, taking his lips in a long kiss—one she’d learned from him—refusing to let him pull away. Refusing to release him to the specter of his honor, she said, “This is right, Jasper. One night with you. My first night . . . my only night. Please.”

His hand came to her breast, and she sensed the conflict raging in him—loved him all the more for it. “You will regret it. You and your distaste for dishonesty.”

She wouldn’t. She knew it with unwavering certainty. “I will never regret this. I will never regret you.” It was only then that it occurred to her that it was true. That for the rest of her life, married to Castleton or ruined spinster, this night would be the greatest of her life. This moment would be one she savored forever.

And she would not let it go.

“It’s your first night, as well . . . your first night in six years.” His eyes darkened, and she saw the promise of pleasure in them. The way it tempted him. “Let it be me, Jasper. Let it be mine. Please.”

His thumb moved, stroking over the tip of her breast, sending a thread of pleasure through her, straight to the place where his hand lay—an unbearable temptation. She gasped, and he kissed her once, thoroughly, before pulling away. “I have tried to resist you from the beginning. I have failed each time.”

“Don’t succeed now.” She whispered the plea. ?

??I couldn’t bear it.”

“I never had a chance,” he replied, turning her in his arms, spreading her thighs wide and pulling her over him until she straddled his waist, her bare bottom pressed against the hard evidence of his arousal beneath his low-slung trousers. He reached up with one strong hand . . . one of those hands she’d loved for what seemed like an eternity . . . and pulled her down, ravishing her with his kiss—long and lush, making her ache everywhere—her breasts, her thighs, that soft place between them.

She rocked against him, and he tore his mouth from hers with a hiss, throwing his head back to reveal the long cords of his neck, straining with pleasure. When he returned his gaze to hers, it was heavy with pleasure. “I am going to ruin you, Pippa. I shall show you pleasure you’ve never known, the kind you’ve never dreamed. Over and over and over until you beg me never to stop.”

The words rioted through the dark, deep parts of her . . . the ones that ached for him. “I am already there,” she said. “Don’t stop.”

He smiled, his hands coming to her breasts, rolling their tips between his fingers until they were hard and aching. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He pulled her to his mouth, taking her with lips and tongue and teeth until she was beside herself with sensation.

The human body was a glorious thing indeed. “Jasper . . .” she whispered, fascination and pleasure and desire packed into his name, and he released her from his grasp with one long, lovely suck, replacing his mouth with one finger, circling the straining tip with torturous slowness.

“You get so hard here . . . aching for me. For my mouth.”

Two could play this game. She rocked against him. “You, too, get hard, my lord.”

He pressed up against her once, twice, until she sighed her pleasure. “You make me hard, my little scientist.”

She could not resist. “I should like to inspect that fascinating occurrence, if I might.”

He took her hands in his, moving them to the fall of his trousers. “Far be it from me to impede your research.”

Her fingers played over the hard ridge of him, and she found herself quite desperate to see him. To feel him. To be with him in every way she could. But the protocol of this particular situation escaped her. Tracing one button, she met his wild eyes. “May I . . . ?”

He exhaled on a laugh, “I wish you would.”

And she did, unbuttoning his trousers as quickly as she could—ever too slowly—revealing him, hard and long and— “Oh, my,” she whispered, unable to stop herself from spreading the fabric and reaching for him, stroking the long, firm length of him until he groaned softly and she paused, uncertain, looking up at him. “Is it . . .”

“It’s incredible,” he whispered, his hands joining hers, showing her how to touch him. She watched the play of fingers on flesh, loving the soft steel of him. “The first time I met you . . . in my office . . .” he panted the words as she fisted the length of him. “I wanted your fingers on me. I couldn’t stop looking at them. I was obsessed with them.”

She met his gaze, reading the desire in his eyes. “They’re crooked.”

He kissed her, wild and wicked. “They’re perfect. I’ve never felt anything so close to heaven.” One of his hands moved, settling at the core of her, fingers sliding deep with shocking ease. “Except this.” His thumb moved, finding that wonderful spot. “This is closer to Heaven.” Circling over and over, again and again. “This might be Heaven.”

She lifted to afford him greater access, to allow his fingers to stroke deep, and she agreed, her breath coming faster, pleasure rocketing through her on wave after wave of sensation until she lost her strength, and her hands fell away from him, bracing against his chest as she gave herself up to it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, “so soft and slick and utterly perfect.”

She couldn’t stop the cries he pulled from her, the movements of her hips, the way she pressed against him, begging him for the pleasure he’d shown her before . . . the pleasure he’d taught her to find and claim. He slid a second finger into the core of her, and she arched back, adoring the sensation.

“So tight. So wet,” he said, the wicked words making her more wanton, more desperate. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

And when she heard the words, the wicked, strange vocabulary she’d never before heard, she realized she wanted it, too. Looking down at him, she said, “Please . . .”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Please, what, love?”

She should have been embarrassed, but she wanted him too much. “Please . . . take me.”

He swore, harsh and soft. “I cannot wait another moment.”

She thought he would roll her beneath him and made to move off him, to accommodate the change in position, but he stayed the movement, lifting her above him. Confused, she met his eyes. “Shouldn’t we be—”

“No.”

She might be inexperienced, but she knew the mechanics of the act. She placed her hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat rioting beneath the touch. “Are you sure? I’ve never read anything about—that is, as I understand it, I should be beneath—”

“Which one of us has done this before?” Fingers stroked deep, underscoring his skill, and she sighed, bones turning to jelly at the long, lush movement.

When it ceased, leaving her empty and wanting, logic returned. “Well, it’s been a bit of time for you,” she pointed out.

He huffed a little laugh, the sound soft and strained and wonderful. “Trust me, my brilliant lady.” He rocked his hips—the tip of him easing into her, sending a thread of nearly unbearable pleasure through her. “I recall the basics.”

And then he slid into her with slow, thorough control, and she thought she might die from the hard heat of him, from the feel of him stretching and filling her, the sensation part pain, part strangeness, and, somehow, all pleasure. Her eyes went wide as he allowed her to sink to the hilt of him, and he froze, staring up at her, worry in his gaze. His hands flew to her hips. “Pippa? Does it hurt, love? Shall we stop?”

She would kill him if he stopped. This was the most astounding thing she’d ever experienced. All the fear and questions and concerns she’d had about this act, this moment . . . they were unfounded. She understood it now, the sighs and blushes and knowing smiles she’d seen in her sisters, in women across London. And she wanted it all . . . every bit of it. “Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered. “It is remarkable.”

She lifted, testing the feel of him inside her, and he let out a harsh, broken curse. “It is, isn’t it?” he agreed, adding, “You’re remarkable.” His hands guided her, lifting her, letting her slide up and back along his hard, hot length. “God, Pippa . . . it feels . . . you feel . . .” He lifted her again, and they both groaned as she slid back to the hilt, the pain gone now, chased away by untenable pleasure. “Is this all right, love?”

She loved him all over again for checking on her comfort, on her pleasure. She lifted herself, experimenting, repeating the movement on her own, her hands settling to his chest as she rode him. “Yes . . . it’s perfect,” she said with reverence. “It’s glorious.” She rocked against him, meeting his eyes before his attention slid down her body, his hands and eyes following the movements she couldn’t help but make.

He guided her, whispering as she found her stride, “That’s it, love . . . do nothing that doesn’t feel right. That doesn’t make you ache and want and need. Take your pleasure, gorgeous girl . . .” The whispered encouragement was punctuated by the hot stroke of his hands over her body—exploring the curves of her breasts and belly, the soft secrets of her thighs and that place between them where he was changing everything. Where she was changing everything. Where he had relinquished power and control and given her the chance to find her own pleasure.

He was devastatingly seductive in the way he talked to her, in the way he watched her, eyes narrow, hands

stroking in time to her rhythm—a rhythm that quickly brought them both to the edge. She couldn’t stop the words from coming again, even as she knew she shouldn’t speak them. “I love you,” she whispered, looking down at him, feeling euphoric and royal and like she’d never felt before.

Feeling like she was finally, finally correct.

Even as she did the least correct thing she’d ever done in her life.

He was moving beneath her then, plunging up as she came down around him, loving the feel of him against her, beneath her, inside her . . . rocking hard and fast against him as he returned his fingers to that place between her thighs, where he seemed to know just how to touch her, how to claim her, how to destroy her. His thumb moved in quick, firm circles as she chased her pleasure—and his. “That’s it, love . . . take it for yourself . . . take it for me.”

“I want it,” she said, the honest desire hot and unbridled. “I want it for you.”

“I know.” He leaned up, sucked the peak of one breast into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, and the sensation was all she could take—surprise and passion crashed over her, and she fell apart in his arms, her body trembling with the intensity of the moment. She put her hands to his shoulders, her eyes locked with his, blue against grey.

“I love you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her again.

The confession seemed to unlock the last vestige of his control—he clasped her hips to his, thrusting and arcing against her, taking her mind and body once more in a storm of passion. “Pippa,” he cried out, and the sound of her name hot and ragged on his lips was enough to send her over the edge once more, instantly, headfirst into an ocean of pleasure. He was there with her this time, strong and sure.

Perfection.

She fell to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Pippa,” he whispered at her temple, his heart beating rapidly beneath her ear. “Philippa.”

The reverence in his tone made her ache, and she felt him pull away from her even as he remained inside her, closer than anyone had ever been. More important than anyone had ever been.