It’s Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal: 3 Steamy Christmas Historical Romances

by Reid, Stacy

  “I am going to fuck you in the next few minutes.”

  She dropped the teacup from her hands, and it clattered to the carpet. She laughed, a sharp sound that ended as soon as it started. She surged to her feet and then slowly sank into the sofa, looking at him as if he were mad.

  “I will try to be as gentle as possible, and I will only seek to bring you pleasure.”

  Marcellus arched his brow as she continued shaking her head in denial. Her face flushed, and her eyes glittered with arousal and apprehension. Her gaze skittered to the door and then back to him as if judging if she could make her escape before he pounced.

  “Make no mistake, Emmeline. I will be in you, riding you long and hard for the night. It will be rough at times, but you will howl my name in agony of desire and ecstasy. I wish I could offer you seduction, but you have known how I feel about you for months now. I wish I could explain what precipitated my actions tonight. But I can only tell you, I need you.”

  Chapter 2

  January 21, 1917

  Dearest Emily,

  The only person I love as much as you is Marcellus. Do not let his cold, gruff exterior fool you, my darling. He needs your warmth and gentleness to rescue him as you did me. Marcellus craves your smiles, your generosity, that beautiful laugh of yours that steals into the cold corners of my heart and thaws it, filling it with sunshine. I beseech you more than ever, my love, to charm him away from the darkness that edges his soul, the darkness I can feel pressing in on him, choking the joy from his life.

  Your love, Maxwell Wynwood

  Emily’s breathe seized.

  I need you. The words sank into her, terrifying yet intriguing.

  “Surely you jest!” she burst out, mortified at the surge of arousal that burned in her veins.

  Marcellus watched her with knowing eyes, and heat climbed her neck. She tried not to stare helplessly at his sensual mouth. The guilt surfaced, and she jumped to her feet and scampered away from him to face the windows that overlooked the rolling lawns blanketed with snow. The rhythmic scraping of the frozen brambles against the windows were the only sounds in the room. Even the crackle of the fireplace had hushed. She pressed her hands low on her stomach, praying to still the flutter of desire his words incited.

  She gasped as his warmth seeped into her from behind. She made to move, and powerful hands gripped her hips, holding her still. Weakness invaded her limbs, and she burned in shame as she felt her drawers dampen. A harsh moan of denial ripped from her, and she could only shiver as wet heat scalded her neck from the open kiss he placed there.

  “No,” she whispered, knowing she lied.

  He gripped the fold of her day gown and drew it to her hips. She wore no shift, so she felt painfully exposed. She closed her eyes, imagining that it was Maxwell, and could not. As twins, they were identical in almost every manner—tall, muscular, and distinguished with that air of rakish danger about them. Both possessed midnight-black hair and eyes she could drown in. But it was their mannerisms and the color of their eyes that told them apart. Maxwell’s eyes were a bottomless shade of gray, the color of ash. Marcellus’s were pure silver, always glinting wickedly. Maxwell was easygoing, charming, intensely passionate, filling her with love. Marcellus was hard, his personality forceful and inciting some level of fear in her, and Emily felt that fear now.

  He snaked his hand around to her stomach and tugged her drawers down her thighs. He stooped behind her, lifting one foot, then the other, removing them. An overwhelming weakness quivered through her. She knew she should protest, but all she could do was tremble at the need that gripped her. “Marcellus, I…”

  “Shh…you have nothing to fear,” he soothed her.

  She knew that was nonsense; her reaction frightened her immensely.

  He stood behind her, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to the large oak desk. He eased her over the desk, pressing her stomach into the smooth surface. He slid her dress up farther, bunching the fabric on her lower back, letting the cold air wash across her bare legs and buttocks. She shuddered, confused. Maxwell had never taken her like this, half-naked, from behind.

  He kicked her legs open and then cupped her; his hand was firm and possessive. Vulnerability seeped in. He caressed her soft folds, and rational thoughts fled. She moaned, her body already slick with her arousal. He ran his fingers through her wetness, his touch edgy, and she cried out as he thrust two fingers into her. She made to rise, and his hand pressed into the deep of her back, holding her down on the desk.

  “Let me up!” she snapped, more afraid of her intense reaction than anything else. She was too desperate for his touch.

  He froze. “Do you want me to stop, Emmeline?”

  She inhaled, trying to control the chaotic hunger that had erupted in her body. His scent, a combination of sandalwood and pure maleness, wrapped around her, seducing her.

  “Tell me,” he said, the passionate intensity in his demand arousing her further. Thick, hot tension swirled around them, drawing her further into lust. The cravings of her body that she had suppressed for so long surged to life, burning away all resistance.

  “No…don’t stop.” The words slipped from her lips before she could contain them, but it was the truth. She needed this, but God, what was she doing?

  Soft kisses caressed her shoulders; then he removed his fingers from her wetness and smacked the upturned cheek of her buttocks in a shocking, sharp slap. She trembled as arousal swept through her, blistering and forceful. She whimpered, shivers danced down her spine, and all thoughts fled.

  “I am going to touch you in ways that Maxwell never did,” he promised, his voice low and rough. “I am going to spank your ass, eventually taking you there.” His wicked words washed over her.

  She flinched, her senses reeling. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” His response was one of sensual promise. “But first I am going to take your pussy.”

  Another stinging blow landed, and her arousal slicked from her, hot and sticky.

  “I bet you taste as good as you feel,” he whispered. He pressed wet kisses along her hips and around to her rear. The cool glide of his tongue on her heated buttocks had her mewling. She turned her face to the desk, her lips brushing the cool surface, her thoughts drowning under a hot wave of sexual hunger.

  He nudged her legs even wider, and she tensed in anticipation of his touch. It came from the swipe of his tongue, devastating as he lapped at her already wet channel. He licked her folds, parting them, and then he covered her nub with his lips, sucking it delicately. The soft lash of his tongue as it circled her bundle of pleasure was too much and not enough. The teasing, licking strokes were driving her crazy. Emily panted for air. She bucked against his mouth as sensations raced through her. He released that aching spot with a gentle scrape of his teeth, then drove his tongue hard into the very center of her body.

  A strangled moan escaped her as exquisite tension twisted in her belly. She parted her lips, yet no scream emerged. His tongue was like a flame searing her soaked channel—she burned. Two long fingers thrust hard inside her. She splintered, and wetness gushed from her.

  “Marcellus,” she groaned, needing him.

  He placed wet kisses on her inner thighs, then on her buttocks that still stung from his slaps. He gripped her hip, and she felt the blunt head of his erection at her entrance. She arched her hips in instinctive want.

  “Marcellus!” She wailed his name as he forged into her depth.

  The pleasure-pain was a fiery cascade of sensations that swamped her. She fought to accept his wide girth, sweat slicking her skin. He had the same thickness of Maxwell, bruising and hard as steel, but Marcellus did not take her with the same tenderness, crooning words, and lazy strokes. He pushed past her resistance despite her broken cries and the tautness of her muscles. He curved his tall, muscular frame over her, his touch scorching her back, burning through her clothes.

  She turned her head and met his gaze. He roll
ed his hips, plunging into her, his face tightening in savage lust. He pressed a hard, wet kiss to her lips, and she froze. This was the first time he’d ever kissed her. He devoured her mouth with wild urgency, his tongue sinking into her, soothing and stoking her desire hotter. His mouth was spicy and sultry, flavored with a hint of brandy. He bit her lower lip, and her eyes opened wide, held by the raw hunger in his gaze. His teeth sank deeper into her lip, stinging her with sweet erotic pain, and at the same time, he buried another inch of his hardness inside her.

  She tore her mouth from his, breathing raggedly. He lifted her, still impaled halfway on him, and moved to the sofa nearest the fire. He laid her gently on her stomach, then slid his left arm under her belly and drew her onto her knees, raising her hips and positioning her for him with strong hands. Emily lowered her head weakly onto a cushion, her arousal so strong she could feel her wetness seeping down her inner thighs.

  Marcellus nudged her legs wider and settled firmly behind her. He curved his hands over her upturned cheeks, caressing and smoothing her skin. He trailed his fingers and touched between her buttocks, exploring bundles of nerves she never knew existed.

  “Easy,” he murmured in soft reassurance when her body jolted in shock. “Grip the cushions over your head.” His rough command sent heated shivers straight to her nipples, beading them into tight, hard points. “My hunger for you is insatiable. I am going to take you hard.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “If you believe you cannot take me anymore, release the cushions and I will stop. Understand?”

  “Yes—” A soft cry exploded from her as he sank into her farther.

  He bent forward, his body covering hers, his weight supported on his right elbow. She trembled as she felt herself stretching. He pushed in inexorably despite her moaning, seating himself to the hilt. She couldn’t prevent her sharp intake of breath or her whimper of feminine distress. He was so thick. His hips recoiled, and he plunged in to the hilt, his heavy balls pressing against her knot of pleasure. Her entire body jerked under the lash of sensations. She dug her fingers into the cushions, and helpless cries broke from her throat as he repeated his motions.

  He kept his rhythm slow but hard and heavy, and her arousal grew so intense her thighs shook. The muscles of her vagina burned, tension throbbed in her loins, and delightful sensations began to spiral. She craved more and tried to thrust back on him but couldn’t. He tightened his hands on her hips, controlling her movements. He wrenched low moans from her with each excruciating inward plunge, and she clenched the cushions until her knuckles whitened. In frustration, she released one of her hands and reached it around to grasp his buttocks, her nails pressing into his flesh.

  “Marcellus.” She wailed in frustration when he stopped.

  “Remember, if you release the cushions, I will stop,” he growled in her ear, his voice rough with arousal.

  “I need more,” she panted but gripped the cushions with both hands.

  “You’re too tight for what you are demanding. You cannot take me roughly.”

  “Yes, I can,” she gasped, lust tearing at her.

  “Emmeline, you can—”

  “Yes, I can!” she bit out, pressing back into his hardness, trying to end the delicious torture. A helpless sound of desire hissed from her as his balls slapped against her knot of pleasure, shooting shards of delight through her bloodstream. “I want to feel alive, Marcellus. I want your touch to burn away the grief, the horror, and the loneliness I have felt these past months. It has been unbearable, and I need you so much—”

  Her cry ended on a wail of pleasure as he plunged into her. She groaned as lust, and slight discomfort clawed at her. Without waiting for her to adjust, he slammed his hips home again. Emily clasped the cushions as he started a hard ride. He powered into her clenched core with mindless fervor. The bite of pain that edged the maelstrom of sensations only drove her higher and had her crying for more.

  The doubts she’d had burned away under the tide of ecstasy that swept through her. The hurt and the loneliness fled, and all she felt was Marcellus’s thickness shuttling in and out of her with bruising force. Sharp fists of pleasure pounded at her, consuming her. Sensations gathered within, drawing her closer to rapture. She held on to the cushions. Her entire body trembled as heat exploded in her womb and moisture dripped from her.

  Emily screamed as white-hot hunger flared through her, and she splintered. Her keening cry echoed in the library as another wave slammed into her. She clamped down on him so tightly with her orgasm that he growled low in his throat, his movements restricted. He did not stop, riding her even harder through her release. Distantly she heard him groan and felt the hot splash of his seed inside her.

  They collapsed on the sofa with his hard weight pinning her. She whimpered as he gently withdrew from her, and then squeaked as he lifted and twisted with her so that she sat on him. She pressed her knees into the sofa bracketing his hips, and she twined her hands around his neck. The raw intensity of his stare shook her.

  He pressed a soft kiss against her lips. “You won’t be getting much sleep tonight, Emmeline.”

  “I don’t need sleep.” She nipped his lips, and her heart lurched at the sensuality of his smile.

  The silver in his eyes darkened as he took over the kiss, rekindling desire in her body. He moved her and slowly seated her on his length, which had risen once more. She had the fleeting thought to protest that it was too soon, they should at least rest, but the pleasure consumed her. Despite being wet from his seed, she still strained to take him. She moaned into the kiss, shivering as he pulled her all the way onto him. He snaked his hand between them and pinched her clitoris. Her stomach clenched in a tight coil of desire as he slowly milked her.

  She moaned harshly as arousal spiked in her blood.

  “Ride me, Emmeline,” he growled. “Fuck me with your tightness. Take me.”

  She gasped, getting impossibly wetter at his explicit command. The hours blurred together as he took her over and over, stroking and touching every inch of her. She reveled in the raw sexuality of how they came together, her guilt buried under the consuming lashes of pleasure.

  * * *

  Rain drummed insistently against the windowpane, and swollen clouds blotched the sun that valiantly tried to light inside Rosemead Park. Several hours had passed since Marcellus drove in the dreary weather from Oxfordshire to their estate in York. He felt as though the somberness of the day reflected his mood. The purr of the Daimler as it responded to his touch and smooth navigation had not soothed him. He felt edgy and restless. His body still hungered for Emmeline’s despite making love with her through the night.

  He sat slouched in the high wing-back chair in his brother’s chambers, warming himself in front of a roaring fire. He broodingly watched Max painfully shave, hands trembling with strain to hold on to the blade. Marcellus made no offer to assist, knowing the anger he would be met with. Fierce pride clutched at him as he observed Max. He was not broken. Marcellus knew it and only needed Max to discover it fully.

  “You were very hard on her last night,” Max said, sliding the blade across his throat, his voice soft, concerned. He angled the mirror in his left hand, and Marcellus met his eyes in it.

  “Did you not feel every sensation? Did it not draw you from the pain and loneliness for the night, from the nightmares?” Marcellus asked him.

  There was a tense pause before Max lowered the mirror breaking the connection.

  “You know it did. Do not pretend the only reason you took Emily was to give me relief. I can feel your desire for her just as how you feel mine,” Max growled softly.

  Marcellus grimaced at the truth. He knew he’d been hard on her, taking her six times, but she had matched him stroke for stroke. Every time he closed his eyes, or his mind was not occupied, he remembered how Emmeline looked throughout the night as he took her. Her mass of raven hair sweat dampened, her face flushed, eyes darkened with passion, the arch of her hips, the
thrust of her breasts, her thighs spread and quivering as his cock pushed through her tight cunt. God, she had been impossibly snug. If he had not witnessed Max taking her, Marcellus would have thought her a virgin. He loved how she had cried, shattered with lust, her voice husky, pleading, begging, and then demanding. She had then wilted, almost boneless, her breathing even as she slept in his arms. He had slipped from her quietly as the dawn crested, not wanting to see any recrimination in her eyes. For he knew she would regret their night of untamed loving.

  “There is no doubt Emmeline is berating herself as we speak for being with me. You need to reveal that you are alive. It has been three months, Max, and I cannot bear her grief anymore.” Marcellus cleared the hoarseness from his voice.

  “You know I do not deliberately stay from her or Mother and Father. Even now you risk your life to visit me.”

  He sighed. “The fever has been broken for more than a week and has not returned.”

  “The doctors cannot assure me the damned virus won’t return,” Maxwell snarled, surging to his feet unsteadily.

  Marcellus could feel his brother’s impatience, and Max was a man that rarely displayed such a disposition. Max wobbled, and Marcellus forced himself to remain seated and watch as his brother reached for the cane, then leaned heavily on it.

  Marcellus pushed his fingers through his hair, restraining the need to aid Max. Marcellus had used every resource available to him as the marquess and as a former spy in His Majesty’s Service to locate his brother. He’d found Maxwell in an infirmary with several fractured ribs, left thigh scarred from a bomb, and a collapsed lung, dying. He had moved Max to their estate in York with the best of doctors seeing to him. Marcellus had impressed upon the doctors and staff of Rosemead Park that Maxwell’s battle for life had to be kept secret. Marcellus had not wanted to give his family false hope.