The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

“And I’ll feel pleasure?”

He allowed his fingers to linger over the curves of her rear as he leaned close to plant a soft kiss between her shoulder blades. “I’ll burn you alive with it,” he promised hoarsely. “I also want to fuck your mouth, feel these lips sucking and pleasuring me with tight, hot pulls.”

“Yes.”

Oliver sank to his knees and pressed a kiss to the top of her bare mound, inhaling the sweet muskiness of her arousal. He’d never had a lover be so willing to burn in illicit passion with him before. Of course, the women of the brothels he’d visited had been willing to do anything for a coin…but none of his mistresses or lovers had granted him such trust.

He would not betray that confidence and vowed she would enjoy every moment of their tryst. He slowly stood and lowered her nightgown. Then he intertwined their fingers and brought their clasped hands to his lips, where he brushed a fleeting kiss across her knuckles.

Then he tugged her along the corridor, toward the promise of bliss. And she followed without asking any questions, the soft padding of her feet implying she was also barefoot. The level of her faith humbled him, beguiled him, and left him wondering how it was possible to feel such depth of emotion for a woman he had never seen.

Chapter Nine

Her lover’s voice was dark, edgy, and it had wicked lust uncurling in the pit of her stomach. Need whipped like lightning through her bloodstream, heating her body so that every one of Lily’s nerve endings pulsed with fire at his words. What he threatened to do to her was hedonistic—but she wanted it, him, in every way. The thrill of being so improper and free had her arousal spiking higher, and her breath came in short pants. It didn’t feel unsavory…instead it felt right and perfect.

She was grateful she wasn’t quaking with nerves. Except, with each step, her knees weakened. Where was he taking her? He paused, and then she heard several clicks before, with a whoosh, another portal opened into what appeared to be a bedchamber. Lily hovered on the threshold, staring into a room covered in shadows and slashes of silvery moonbeams. Lemon wax was redolent in the air, an indication the space had been recently cleaned. There was a large canopied bed, the white curtains over the bed a beacon. “You anticipated my presence.”

“I believe it was more of a prayer. I had this room prepared after the first time I encountered you. We are on one of the upper floors of the west wing. No other chambers are occupied on this floor, so there will be no chance of anyone overhearing us.”

“You must have been charmingly persuasive for the marquess’s housekeeper to prepare this room. Mrs. Wright is frightfully proper and would certainly deduce your intentions.”

A low grunt was his only reply, and Lily smiled. Inexplicably, she hesitated in moving into the room. He did not prod her forward but simply waited, and she recalled he had shown a similar restraint at their first encounter. He clearly didn’t believe in using force. “You are different from the men I’ve known.”

The confession lay between them, and she closed her eyes, cursing silently.

“Do you speak of your husband?”

One of them. Lily swallowed. “Yes.”

She

jerked slightly as he rested his hand on her lower back. His soft touch was reassuring instead of intimidating. Acting on an unknown instinct, she leaned back into him, the top of her forehead gently butting his chin. “You’re patient and kind.”

She felt him assessing her words.

“And he wasn’t?”

The memories of the few times the vicar had rushed into her body without preparing her rose inside her. “No, he wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “He was a buffoon.”

She smiled. “The memory barely stings. My husband only made it to my bed a handful of times.”

It was the way he had screamed at her afterward and shamed her for making him lose control that still burned her soul. Vicar Layton had thought it a sin to feel lust for his young wife, and he had blamed her for her sensuality, so much so she had tried her best to dress modestly so as not to tempt him. The hours of prayers afterward on their knees in the rectory had been exhausting. Though she had earnestly prayed for her desires to vanish, the sense of being unfulfilled had only grown stronger. Harlot…Jezebel. She bit into the soft of her lip, hating that those hurtful words would echo in her heart at this moment.

“Are you married?” she whispered.

He stiffened. “I would never dishonor my wife by being here with you.”

“Is that a no or a deflection?”

Rough amusement coated the voice that replied, “That is a definite no.”

“A mistress?”

“No.”

“Are you disfigured in some manner?”