Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “You flatter me,” she said, breathless.

  He shook his head slowly, his smile fading. “I told you before. I do not flatter. I speak truth.”

  She stared at him, absorbing the haunting beauty of his features, committing them to memory. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the handful of wicked nights she had spent with Duncan Kirkwood. He had changed her forever.

  She caressed his cheek tentatively, for she had never before touched a man thus. “Thank you, Duncan.”

  “For ruining you?” A self-deprecating smile quirked his lips. “Do not thank me for that, Frederica, for I am doing you no favors. Indeed, I am not a gentleman. I am a man who seizes what he wants, when he wants it, regardless of how long it takes.”

  There was something in his words, a harshness, a hardness, that had been previously absent. She could not be certain of the cause of it. “Not for ruining me, but for the time you have granted me. I will never forget you.”

  “Nor I you.” His countenance, like his tone, was rigid and unyielding.

  “What is this chamber?” she asked him then, for the question had been prodding at her. She could not help but wonder. It looked as if it was his, but she could not be certain. “Why did you not take me to one of your pleasure rooms?”

  His gaze grew shuttered. “This chamber is mine. I use it occasionally, on evenings when I am too weary to return home at the conclusion of business.”

  She thought of Tabitha and all the other beautiful ladies working at The Duke’s Bastard. Did he bring them here as well? Was this where he kept his women? Was she just another woman wooed by his charm and his handsome face, going to the same bed so many others had occupied before her?

  Her feelings must have shown on her face, for his thumbs stilled on her skin, his expression changing, tightening. “I have never brought another woman to this chamber, Frederica. You are the first.”

  The knot of trepidation inside her eased, and in its place was longing and warmth and a desperate need. Her instincts took over, and she rose on her toes to seal her mouth with his, kissing him. He kissed her back with a fiery fervor, open-mouthed and deep. There was promise in that kiss, mystery and heat and untold passion.

  She wanted more.

  The time for talking and worrying was over. Her body was singing with life and pleasure. Her tongue moved against his, sliding inside his mouth as he had done to her. She wanted more than she understood. She wanted everything. To make her mark upon him. To make him hers, in the same way she would become his.

  Their kisses were a battle. A delicious, seductive battle.

  But she was ready for the war, and so, it seemed, was he. Without removing his lips from hers, he swept her into his arms. She was weightless as he carried her across the chamber, and the sensation was at once decadent and intoxicating. Her arms went around his neck as an unladylike squeak emerged from her, straight into his mouth. He swallowed down the sound of her surprise. Strode across the chamber while kissing her with such slow care she could not squelch the embarrassing mewl of need that rose from her throat. He was so powerful, so strong. And yet capable of such sweet gentleness. An enigma. A conundrum she longed to unlock.

  He was the only man she had ever wanted, and he was the one man she could not have. Not beyond tonight. The knowledge made her kiss him deeper, made her sink her fingers into his thick, soft hair. Made her inhale his scent and trap it in her lungs like her own private spoils. Made her lose her inhibitions when he set her on her feet by the bed.

  He was dressed in his black evening finery, staring down at her as if she was a revelation. And she did the only thing she could think of. She spun around, giving him her back so he could open the fastening of her gown. He kissed her nape, his fingers working with ease. His mouth trailed to the side of her neck, opening, sucking. She gasped at the raw pleasure of it.

  And then her gown was slipping from her body. Large hands found her waist, clamping down, spinning her back to face him. He was so beautiful, the lamp illuminating the stark lines, angles, and planes of his face, the hard musculature of his body.

  “You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” His words were low, almost guttural. His gaze swept over her, as tangible as a touch. “Take your petticoats and chemise off for me.”

  He wanted her to disrobe before him. To strip away every last scrap of fabric shielding her from him until nothing remained between them. She swallowed, hesitating, a sudden shyness hitting her. Thanks to the wicked tome she had read, she knew, at least in a broad sense, what her ruination would entail. Imagining it had been one thing, but finding the boldness to be completely nude before him was another matter.

  “Now,” he prodded firmly, sensing her hesitation. “I want to see you, darling. All of you. Won’t you show me?”

  He asked so nicely, with such sweet pleading. He made her feel powerful and desired. Brave and strong. A mortal becoming a goddess in her god’s eyes. She swallowed, finding her courage, and did as he asked, whisking away petticoats and chemise. She stood before him in nothing more than stockings and shoes, her body on display in the chill of the night air.

  But she was not cold. His eyes devoured her. A flush stole over her skin, and she became aware of new sensations. Her nipples tightened. Her breasts ached. Between her thighs, the flesh he had pleasured before throbbed.

  “Holy God,” he swore. “You are even more beautiful than I imagined, Frederica.”

  She shivered. It was strange, how she did not feel embarrassed or ashamed. Instead, she stood proud. How natural it felt to reveal herself to him. How strange to feel as if he was a part of her now, as if she were his in truth and not just for the night.

  “I am not beautiful,” she could not help but deny once more, though his appreciative gaze made her feel as if she was.

  “Yes,” he said starkly, “you are.” His hands gripped her waist again, and this time it was skin on skin as he guided her backward until the edge of his bed prodded her thighs. “Sit, darling.”

  She obeyed because he was Duncan and she trusted him implicitly, seating herself primly on the edge of his bed. She stared up at him, acutely aware he was fully clothed while she was almost entirely nude. She felt wicked, wild, and free. It was wrong, forbidden, and the knowledge only made her want him more.

  He dropped to his knees before her, his hands on her ankles, kneading softly. He kissed one, then the other. His hands swept up her calves, warm brands. Claiming.

  She could not suppress the soft moan of appreciation that emerged from her. She was recalling his mouth on her flesh, his tongue. His teeth. She remembered all too well the pleasure he had brought her, and even now, her core throbbed. Perhaps something was wrong with her. She was lacking in morals, it was certain, for she could not dredge up a speck of remorse or shame.

  He took off her shoes. His fingers found the arches of her feet, massaging as he kissed his way to her knees. Even though her fine stockings provided a barrier between his lips and her bare skin, she felt those kisses in the center of her body.

  His hands swept higher, leaving her feet to glide over her ankles, up her calves, all the way to her thighs. He caressed her. Raked his nails gently over her skin. She jerked at the sensation, meeting his gaze.

  “Open for me, darling,” he ordered gently.

  She did as he asked, her legs falling apart. He was between them in an instant, fully clothed and gorgeous in his black coat and trousers. His golden head dipped low like a supplicant. He pressed a kiss to her right knee, then her left. Then higher still, up her inner thigh. His hands and his mouth worked in concert, skimming her everywhere, licking, sucking, gently nibbling, all whilst he avoided the part of her he had so thoroughly pleasured before. And now that she knew the pleasure to be had from such an action, she wanted it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  But she would settle for once more just now. One more touch of Duncan Kirkwood’s wicked mouth upon her sensitive flesh. One more flick
of his tongue, suck of his mouth.

  He kissed higher still, and she jerked, arching against him.

  “Do you like this?” he asked as his tongue flitted over her flesh.

  Near enough to where she wanted him but not the same. “Please, Duncan,” she whispered.

  His hands, so large, so knowing, ran up her outer thighs. “Please what, darling? Please lick you? Please make you spend? Say it. Tell me everything. Every wicked little thing you would have me do. I want it all, your complete surrender. Tonight, you are mine alone, Frederica. Tonight, you belong to me.”

  Of course she was his. Always his. Only his, and she would do whatever he asked of her. Anything if it meant more of his touch upon her skin, more of his mouth on her, more of the torturous pleasure only he could deliver.

  Up and down his hands traveled, over her thighs in slow and steady strokes, touching her so softly, so sweetly, as if he feared she was as delicate as the finest porcelain teacup. He kissed a path back to her knees. He had made her greedy, and she wanted more. But the words would not leave her tongue.

  “I want words, darling.” He kissed his way back to the juncture of her thighs, pursing his lips and blowing a tantalizing burst of humid air over her pulsing sex. “Give them to me.”

  “Ah,” was all she could manage at first. “Your mouth. I want your mouth.”

  “Here?” He moved higher, teasing her, pressing a kiss to the jut of her hip.

  “No.” She moved, restless. “You know where.”

  “Ah, I believe I do.” He smiled up at her, both dimples on show, and he was wicked and beautiful all at once. He kissed her other hip bone. “Here? I want to worship you, Frederica. Tell me where.”

  His words, delivered into her bare flesh with the tantalizing brush of his warm lips, made a slow, steady ache pulse in her core. She could not speak. Her hands were starving for him. She sifted her fingers through his thick, golden hair, absorbed the strength of his broad shoulders, flexed and beautiful beneath his coat.

  “If you will not tell me,” he growled, kissing a path up her side as he caressed her waist, “I shall have to kiss you everywhere.” He bracketed the fullness of her breasts. “Here.” His mouth closed over the peak, sucking. He released the nipple. “Here.” He moved to her other breast and kissed it as well. “Here, where you are the same pretty pink as your cunny.” He sucked and lightly bit with his teeth.

  She gasped. Her need for him was built like a fire stacked with dry kindling and then doused with oil. She wanted to be nearer to him. Pressed against him. Wrapped around him. She arched helplessly, undulating against him in an effort to assuage the ache.

  Her hands were desperate for him now, traveling over his back, her face dipping into his glorious hair to inhale. Lemons and musk and ambergris and warm, delicious man. Duncan.

  She could love him.

  She could so easily give him her heart.

  The realization hit her as he ran his tongue over her nipple, holding her gaze as he sucked it with such strength she cried out, shooting forward on the bed. Her thighs splayed open, her aching sex pressed against his waistcoat. It was not enough. She wanted his flesh. She wanted to be as wicked as she could be with him.

  But she must not allow herself to feel more. All they had was tonight. Now. These stolen moments together. Pleasure, passion, and sin. She did not dare fall in love. He was a wild stallion, meant to be admired from afar. Untamable. Unbreakable. Hers, fleetingly.

  He continued his game, dragging his lips up her neck, finding the mad fluttering of her pulse. His mouth opened, and he sucked as if he wished to consume her, and she wished he would. She wanted him everywhere. Wanted his arms, his embrace. Wanted to become one with him, their bodies and skins and beating hearts indistinguishable.

  “You even taste sweet here,” he murmured, his tongue flitting over her tender skin. “Sweeter than any confection. Violets and sugar.” He worked his way to her ear, licking the hollow behind it until wetness slid between her thighs, and she jerked once more against his solid body, seeking relief and finding none, only more aching stimulation. “Better than chocolate. You are delicious, Frederica.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his, eyes closed, drowning in decadent sensation, awash in him, on fire for him. How she wished she could stay here forever, in this chamber, at his side. With him. His kisses skimmed over her throat, along her jaw. And then his mouth was on her again, and she was lost.

  *

  Insatiable. That was what he was. Lost in her. Ravenous. He inhaled her delicate, floral scent, willed himself to slow down, to savor her the way she deserved. He took her mouth as he would take her body, with reverence and gratitude. Her tongue played against his, her fingers dragging over the wool of his jacket. There was desperation in her hands, need in her touch, in the soft sounds of surrender in her throat.

  Those sweet hums of pleasure urged him on. He forgot about his teasing game to make her demand what she wanted from him and gave in to his own rising need. One hand cupped the ripe fullness of her breast, thumb strumming over her hard nipple, while the other parted her folds. Slick dew coated his fingers as he found the plump bud of her sex and stroked.

  She jerked against him, and he swallowed her cries with his kisses, taking everything he could. But it was not enough. He wanted more. Wanted her on his tongue, to drink her, to lick her, to make her scream. His hunger for her was a potent, raging beast inside him that demanded to be fed.

  He tore his mouth from hers, raining kisses back down her body to the curve of her breast. Then lower, until he was between her spread limbs, caressing the silken skin of her inner thighs.

  “If you won’t tell me where you want my mouth, darling, I’ll have to choose myself,” he warned.

  She was open to him, and he took a moment to admire her before he lowered his head, his tongue parting her folds, licking up every trace of her he could get. She tasted so good. He could eat her and eat her and never have his fill.

  He hummed his approval, his lips closing over her pearl. She thrust her cunny into his face shamelessly, her cries ringing through the chamber. He slid his hands around her arse cheeks, parting them, opening her even further. Slowly, he worked his way to her entrance, running his tongue gently over her in slow, steady swipes.

  The urge to possess her, to stand, open the fall of his breeches, and sink home, was strong and relentless. He had never bedded a virgin before. The notion of being her first, of introducing Frederica’s body to pleasure, being the only man who had ever been inside her, made his cock hard as marble. He kissed her there, gently, tenderly.

  And then he was feasting on her again, sucking her into his mouth, using his tongue and lips until he sensed how near she was to exploding. Her fingers were in his hair, gripping fistfuls and tugging, and he did not give a damn, for the surprising sting of it pleased him.

  He continued plying his torture, working her needy flesh as she grew wetter. She was on the precipice now. Her breaths emerged in ragged pants, her low moans the headiest sounds he had ever heard. One more swipe of his tongue and she cried out, her body tremoring beneath his hands and mouth as she sobbed her release.

  But he was a sinner, and when it came to Lady Frederica Isling’s pleasure, gluttony was his vice. This time, he did not stop, even after her shudders subsided. He continued sucking, exerting greater pressure, and then used his lower teeth to gently graze the sweet spot where he had noted she was most sensitive. When she moaned and writhed beneath him, he bit that plump, delicious bud, and he was almost instantly rewarded by the rush of her spend. He caught it with his tongue, swallowed it down, a part of her that was now part of him.

  And then his body was moving of its own volition, standing. Shedding his jacket, tearing off his waistcoat, hauling his shirt over his head. She watched, eyes glazed, mouth slack, her breasts rising like offerings, those luscious nipples hard and eager for his mouth. Her legs were still spread, the swollen, wet lips of her cunny glistening like a beacon. She looke
d like an angel who had been ravished by the devil, and in a sense, that was precisely what she was.

  He toed off his shoes, and in a rush, he stripped away his breeches and stockings until he stood before her in nothing but his smalls. In one swift tug, they were gone as well, and he was nude, her wide eyes going to his prick. He was large and thick, and he knew it. Her tongue swept over her lower lip as she stared. Duncan gripped himself, groaning at how ready he was, that the touch of his own hand could elicit such startling sensation, his ballocks drawing up and heat shooting straight to his spine.

  “That is your member?” she asked in a hushed tone, her vivid eyes never straying.

  Beneath her curious gaze, he grew larger still, straining against his hand, which could not resist another pass over his turgid flesh. The way she watched him—wide-eyed and riveted—made him want her even more.

  “Aye,” he said, running his thumb over the head. He stepped into the vee of her thighs then, positioning himself at her channel, her cream making the tip wet. It took every bit of his restraint to hold himself still, to keep from pressing forward as his body demanded. “This is the part of me that will go inside you. Here.” For one brief, breath-claiming moment, he canted his hips, his cock sliding against her.

  “Oh,” she said, eyes still wide, gaze burning into his at last. “I know.”

  She knew? This gave him pause. He raised a brow, studying her, his wayward little innocent who had somehow found herself in the clutches of London’s darkest beast, and who, instead of running, had begged him to take her innocence. She possessed so much depth. Just when he thought he had peeled back her last layer, he found yet another.

  “How do you know, my wicked angel?” he could not resist asking. Perhaps her mother had warned her, in anticipation of her impending nuptials.