It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal

Three days passed in a blur of activities as Emily planned the several days of festiveness for the villagers and a winter ball with the duchess. Several evergreen spruce trees had been cut, and the largest one had been placed in the parlor. She and the duchess had started decorating the trees with flower garlands. Emily thought daily of Marcellus, and her nights were filled with dreams of him. The ache for Maxwell slowly muted, and the craving for Marcellus flowered, which petrified her. There were times when her dreams interchanged the brothers, and she woke with either name trembling on her lips. Those were the nights that shame burned through her. Those were the nights she delved into her vagina with her fingers, and her mind-fevered fantasy was filled with them both.

Since their night of dancing, she had carefully avoided Marcellus. The level of hunger he had roused in her startled her. Guilt ate at her that she wanted Marcellus and still loved Maxwell. She needed time, and she prayed she could communicate that to Marcellus without succumbing to his lust.

She had shored her courage to dine with the family in the evenings. There had been nothing in his gaze to indicate the way he had loved her as they laughed and conversed, or when they retired to the parlor and played chess or simply read. He had been the same at the evening meals, cutting meats and placing what he thought she should eat on her plate. She had blushed profusely after realizing how inappropriate it seemed. Yet neither the duke nor duchess nor his uncle had seen anything wrong with his actions. She’d made a notable effort to put a significant portion on her plate that was pleasing to him each night since their dance. She’d been humbled at the depth of how he had taken care of her when she wanted to die from grief.

She dismissed her maid and waited in tense anticipation. Something about tonight’s meal had been different. She had felt that intensity that always made her frightened of him caressing her skin, and knew he would come to her tonight. The same intensity kissed her skin the night they’d danced, but he had not even kissed her. Tonight, she had mumbled excuses when he invited her to play whist in the library and fled to her bedchamber. Emily knew she had to turn him away. What she felt was too riotous. She wanted to stop thinking about Maxwell before she could even begin to be comfortable with what she felt for Marcellus.

She sat with false calm in the center of her bed, her legs folded beneath her. The door eased open gently, and he stepped in, still dressed in his dinner wear. The logical speech she had planned fled and words rushed from her lips. “It was a mistake. When we are married, we will be together. Until then the other night was a mistake. I need more time. We were both lonely, and we acted on it.”

She saw something hot and dangerous flash in the depth of his gaze, and his mouth tightened. He closed the door with a soft snick and thumbed the latch. She scrambled from the bed, clutching her night rail tight to her body. She steadfastly refused to look at his trousers. Not that it helped much; the memory of his hardness shuttling in and out of her brought a delicious pulse between her legs. The wet evidence of her desire seeped from her center. How could she ache for him so much without a touch? She fought to ignore the traitorous reaction of her body to his presence and could not.

“Emmeline.” His low drawl had her meeting his eyes, and she trembled beneath his sensual gaze.

His gaze gleamed with satisfaction as it roved over her shivering body, her swollen breasts, and her hard nipples, which yearned to be touched.

“Say the words and I will leave,” he ordered.

Emily opened her mouth, and the words would not come. Something shifted in the depth of his eyes, and her heart slammed in her throat. It was pain. Fleeting, but she had seen it. It shook her to realize he dreaded rejection from her. And the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Marcellus. “Stay.”

Relief and hunger flared in his eyes, and he walked farther into her chamber. She bit her lips hard as he removed his jacket, shirt, trousers, and assorted unmentionables until he stood naked before her. She remained rooted to the spot, held by the fiery chains of desire.

All her earlier affirmation melted as she looked at his body. She had hardly gotten a chance to observe him before. He had loved her until the fireplace died, and neither of them had moved to switch on the lamps. They had feasted by touch, taste, and scent. Now she stared. His body was hard but graceful and intensely masculine. His chest was broad and muscled. He was fully aroused, and his penis jutted out, thick and long.

He strode to her and without speaking drew her night rail over her head. He placed a hand underneath her buttocks and lifted her high, his mouth clamping down on her breast. She moaned, pleasure scorching her. He sucked her nipple hard while using his other hand to shift her foot around his waist. She instinctively wrapped both legs around his hips, and his strong arms held her on him. He released her nipple, gripped her buttocks, and positioned her over his erection. She cried out, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he breached her soft opening with his rigid thickness.

He twined her hair in his hand and tugged, lifting her face to meet his gaze. His gray eyes were dark and hungry. “Do not ever think to turn me away again, Emmeline. You want me as much as I crave you, and we know life is too precious to ignore the fire between us. This is a passion we do not deny.”

He placed a hard kiss on her lips, then plunged his hips in a short, powerful thrust that seated him halfway in her. “You are so hot and tight,” he growled against her lips. “So wet for me, Emmeline.”

She moaned, shuddering in his arms. He took her like that, holding her gaze, her hair fisted in his hand, the other underneath her buttocks. After a few hard jerks, he stumbled with her to the wall, his eyes narrowed in lust. He pressed her against the wall, hooking his arms underneath her thighs, opening her wider. He pushed into her, stretching her almost unbearably until he seated himself to the hilt.

Emily wailed, caught in the maelstrom of pleasure that engulfed her. Every thrust ground him against her clitoris. With each inward plunge lightning sizzled between her legs. Wildness overtook her, and she gripped his hair, pulling it from its clasp, then pushed her fingers through its silky thickness.

“I needed this,” she confessed brokenly.

She pulled his mouth to hers, frantic with hunger for him. He slanted his head to deepen the kiss, and she curled her tongue around his, sucking and loving his taste.

“What did you need?” he asked, nipping her lips.

“You…”

“Say it,” his words were punctuated with hard lunges of his hips that had her whimpering as he balanced her on the edge of pain and exquisite rapture.

“I needed you, Marcellus. I have been dreaming of you, every night. Riding me, pleasuring me, comforting me, loving me,” she gasped.

With a groan he took her lips in a raw kiss, his tongue fucking into her mouth in time with his cock shuttling into her wet core. The rich scent of his masculinity engulfed her, spicy and evocative. He rode her to the sultry beat of the rain that drummed outside. He pumped his hips over and over, and sensations gathered and coiled tight in her womb. It crashed into her, and ecstasy erupted in her core. She felt herself exploding, fragmenting into hundreds of pieces. He swallowed her cries, and a guttural sound burst from his throat as he spent inside of her.

He stu

mbled to the bed, twisting so he landed on his back with her on him. Emily shivered and tried to pull away from him.

“No.”

She stilled at his command. He said it softly, but she knew it for what it was. Her mind was still hazy from passion, and she tried to think around the drugging effects of being loved by him. She doubted she had ever felt such blinding desire before. Being in his arms was nothing like she had ever imagined. As soon as she had the thought, she froze. Pain thundered through her. Oh, God. She feared the memory of Maxwell loving her had been replaced by Marcellus’s. It had been so much easier when she only had Maxwell’s touch. She struggled to recapture those feelings, and tears of misery rolled from the corners of her eyes and onto Marcellus’s chest.

His muscles locked when he felt the splash of her tears. “Emmeline?”

He shifted, easing himself gently from her body. He loomed over her, his mien shuttered as he searched her face. She wanted to stop crying but could not. The loss of something that she treasured so much was unbearable. She and Maxwell had only had the one night together, and it had been everything to her. No…was everything to her. How could she easily forget after only being with Marcellus twice? How could she even think that he gave her more pleasure than Maxwell? Her beloved had taken her with love and tenderness. Marcellus only rode her hard and rough.