Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3)

by Ava Archer Payne

  Brianna was not inexperienced. For the briefest moment, Arthur skidded across her thoughts. Theirs had not been a love match. But she’d been fond of the man, and on rare occasions had done her wifely duty. But the emotions that act had engendered were nothing like the fire that blazed within her now. As she contemplated Jonathon’s shaft, heady anticipation—equal parts apprehension and excitement—stirred within her. Her mouth went dry. He would never fit inside her, would he?

  Curiosity nearly overwhelmed her. She reached out, then stopped. Hesitated. Caught her lower lip in her teeth. Her gaze sought permission. “I can touch you anywhere?”

  He gave a tight, strained nod. “Anywhere.”

  Moving with a brazen confidence that was entirely new to her, she reached down and lightly grasped his erection, holding him gently. She drew her fingers under his sac, feeling it bunch and tighten beneath her touch. Her thumb traced the bulbous tip of his penis, toyed with the pulsing vein that ran the length of his member.

  Jonathon let out a sharp breath. His cock jerked in her hand, performing a tiny series of involuntary spasms.

  Blast and bloody blue hell. How utterly fascinating. The skin there was silkier than any other place on his body but every bit as firm and rigid, and throbbing with life. Remembering the way he had caressed her breasts, she lightly teased the tip of his penis with her fingers as he had teased her nipples with his tongue.

  He gave a low growl of pleasure and caught her hand.

  She drew back, puzzled. "Don't you like that?"

  He gave a hoarse, muffled laugh. "I like it too much, that's the problem."

  Brianna didn't have time to ponder the meaning of that remark. He pulled her back into his embrace, once again lavishing her body with his kisses. She echoed his movements, wantonly indulging her every whim and urge. She kissed his shoulder, his chest, his neck, matching his passion with her own. She locked her arms around his neck and slanted her mouth over his, unleashing all the fervent, wanton longing that was pent up inside her.

  More. She needed more. She needed him. His body, his scent, his taste, his touch.

  His rigid erection rubbed against the soft nest of curls that covered her sex, revealing an emptiness between her legs she’d never before been aware of. His hand drifted to her thighs. He pet the silky hair at the apex of her legs, cupping her with his palm. She arched her hips, eagerly pressing herself into his hand. He traced the curve of her most private place, enticing another shocked gasp of pleasure from her. Then he slipped two fingers inside of her.

  Alarm rocketed through her. Although he had kissed her most intimate places just the night before, this morning he hadn’t even touched her there. And yet, “I’m...wet.”

  “Thank God.” His breath came out in a rush against her cheek. “That’s just how I want you. Hot and wet and ready for me.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and her pulse doubled. She lifted her hips to receive his hand, biting her lip as he separated the slick pink folds of her sex and massaged her clit in tight, teasing circles.

  Pleasure sparked within her. She gave a small whimper, arcing her back in unspoken delight at his erotic stroking. She parted her knees to allow him greater access. Heat built in her belly and drifted lower, pulsing between her thighs. Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he withdrew his fingers. They were slick, glistening, shimmering with her liquid desire. The scent of her arousal filled the air.

  He brought his fingers to her breast and rubbed the perfumed fluid of her sex over her nipple, until it, too, glistened with her desire. He used his tongue to lick it clean, then repeated the process on her opposite breast. Brianna writhed beneath him, moaning her pleasure.

  Reacting purely on instinct, she ground her hips against his groin. The length of his stiff, hard penis brushed against her swollen clitoris with every sway of her hips. Hot sparks of desire pulsed through her veins. Heat coiled tightly within her belly and spread. Hunger rose within her, laced with stunning urgency and sweet, possessive fire. She clutched his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin in a desperate plea to bring her satisfaction.

  “Jonathon, please.” It was all Brianna could manage.

  His gaze raked over her, wild with hunger and raw need. He stilled with the tip of his penis poised above her vagina, his cock slick and hot and throbbing, the head of his shaft lightly teasing the dark curls covering her sex. He gave an exploratory thrust, a half-push, then stopped himself with a sharp intake of breath. “God, you’re tight. You’re so tight.”

  Panic suddenly seized her. Clearly this was a problem. He couldn’t possibly fit. He was too large, too thick, too long. But before she voice her fears, his eyes locked on hers as he slowly inched his way inside her. Brianna's eyes grew wide with wonder as she felt her body stretch to accommodate him. Gripping him within her hot, wet channel.

  She was awed by their union, amazed at the feel of him inside her. So this was what lovemaking, real lovemaking, was all about. This glorious, intimate union between two people. But just as she adjusted to the feel of Jonathon inside her, he slowly withdrew. Brianna stared at him in confusion, feeling a stab of dismay and abandonment as he lifted himself off her.

  Their eyes met, and Brianna recognized within Jonathon’s gaze the same awe and wonderment that she was experiencing. The raw joy and unabashed satisfaction at the perfection of the gift they’d been given.

  Jonathon stared into her eyes, then gave a wicked grin. "Brianna," he murmured, capturing her mouth with his own. He rewarded her with a kiss of such heat and passion that Brianna felt she could glimpse into his very soul.

  Then he began to move. Slowly at first, almost teasingly. Wonder and desire exploded within her as she lifted her hips to meet his. With each slow, gentle thrust, her nails bit deeper into the bunched muscles of his shoulders.

  She wrapped her legs around him, pressing the dainty curve of her heels into his tight, male ass. He let out a throaty laugh brimming with dark pleasure, withdrew from her sheath, then drove back in, impaling her on his long, thick cock. Brianna moaned her satisfaction. It was exactly what she needed, exactly what she craved. She looked down, astounded by the sight of his hot, rigid shaft disappearing inside her. The image was at once shocking and undeniably arousing. He moved in and out, filling her tight, wet sheath with long, loving strokes.

  Her body strained against his, aching for release. Jonathon began to move faster, driving himself more deeply within her. She’d had no idea that coupling could arouse such primitive need. Such frantic passion. She arched her hips, meeting his thrusts, gasping when his penis stroked sensitive spots within her she hadn’t been aware she had. With each deep, masterful stroke, a shiver of raw delight spiraled through her body. She dragged her nails down his back, clutched his firm, male ass.

  Somehow sensing what she wanted, he drove harder, faster, plunging more deeply into her body. Each stroke carried her a step closer to what she needed. She felt senseless, weightless, hovering on the edge of some great, blissful reward.

  Her muscles tensed, then shuddering spasms of pleasure burst low in her belly and rocketed up her spine. She gave a cry of startled release as ecstasy exploded within her. A flood of sensation tore along her heightened nerves. Every nerve in her body seemed to take flight, her very limbs melted with pleasure.

  Just as she found her release, Jonathon tightened his arms around her. He drove deeply inside her, a shudder running through his frame. A low groan escaped his lips. The cords on his neck tightened and his shoulders went stiff. His orgasm came fast and hard. Then, both of them spent but unwilling to break contact, he gathered her into his arms.

  Brianna slowly surfaced from the hot, sweet oblivion that had possessed her. She lay splayed across Jonathon’s chest, breathing slowly and deeply. His heart pounded beneath her ear, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She buried her mouth against his shoulder, his skin slick and salty against her tongue, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking. The dampness of their ta
ngled bodies, the wetness of the sheets, the scent of their arousal wafting through the air. A sigh of total bliss escaped her lips. She felt drowsy, safe, secure. Utterly drained.

  Jonathon gave a rueful laugh. “My conceit is staggering.”

  She leveraged herself up on one elbow and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  He gave a rueful grin. “All those years, I thought I knew what I was doing in bed.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Michaelmas celebrations were well under way by the time Jonathon and Brianna arrived at the Earl of Warwick’s estate. Jonathon took in the grounds with a sweeping glance. Naturally he’d visited Roger’s country home before, but those visits had been staid, dry affairs. Formal dinners and summer house parties thrown to entertain the hopelessly jaded and self-important London set (of which he ruefully acknowledged he had been a key player).

  But this was different. What he witnessed unfolding before him now was a festival. Frivolity. Fun.

  There were archery demonstrations, jugglers, storytellers, dancers. Strolling musicians and games of chance. Pigs raced in the meadow and miniature boats sailed in the pond. He counted rows of booths selling everything from exotic fruit to lacy bonnets, books and buttons, gentlemen’s cravats and children’s toys. Even a booth where one could pose for a paper silhouette of one’s profile. Food vendors offered tankards of ale, ripe green apples, flaky hunks of cheese, roasted goose, baked breads, tarts, and pies.

  Brianna clutched his arm. “Oh, Jonathon. Isn’t this absolutely wonderful? And look—” she pointed to the Warwick estate, which was picturesquely situated atop a nearby hill, “a castle.” She gave a dreamy sigh and clasped her palm above her heart. “Just like Prince Harold’s.”

  He smiled at her naked delight and reached for her. For a few pennies they’d hitched a ride on the back of a farm cart—a mode of transportation he’d come to look upon with surprising approval. Fresh autumn air, plenty of crisp sunshine, a bed of hay to cushion their backsides, and just enough slack in the conveyance’s springs to give Brianna’s pert breasts a delightful bounce whenever the wagon hit a rut in the road. What more could a man want?

  An expression of giddy excitement transformed her face as she gazed about them. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes glowed. Her lips parted slightly as she drew one delicate hand up to shield her eyes. She was the very picture of exotic beauty and fetching innocence. For a moment he could only stare, drinking her in. Then a familiar heat stirred his loins. His cock stiffened, bulging rudely against the press of his trousers.

  He sighed. Exhausting to want and want and want. Yet he did. In fact, want wasn’t nearly an adequate description of his emotions.

  He yearned. A ridiculous word, and an even more ridiculous state of affairs. He was no poet, no flaccid Romeo. He was a wealthy, titled rake who enticed, charmed, lured, and seduced. He, Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, took.

  What he’d always enjoyed best about women was their infinite variety. No longer. Neither his mind nor his cock could get enough of this particular woman. God help him, it seemed even his heart had gotten tangled up in the sordid mess of longing. He felt…what? Love? Ridiculous. He was simply too mature, too experienced, too goddamned intelligent, to fall victim to the idiotic trap of romantic love.

  Besides, Brianna Donnelly wasn’t the right woman for him. It was all perfectly rational. Obvious, even.

  Her laugh, for example. Jonathon knew how a woman should laugh: high and tinkling, like sleigh bells ringing across a field on a star-filled, snowy night. Brianna's laugh was rich and full, like biting into a ripe summer peach. A woman should flirt graciously, flutter her eyelashes and glance away. Brianna looked a man straight in the eye. A woman should defer from voicing an opinion. Brianna was bright and outspoken. A woman should take tiny steps, subtly swaying her hips beneath her skirts. Brianna's hips swayed, all right, but her stride was long and determined, sexy but completely unselfconscious.

  But dear Lord, if she wasn’t absolutely…perfect.

  He wrapped his hands around her waist and lowered her to the ground—brushing the length of her body along his as he did. Then he planted a bold kiss atop her soft, inviting lips.

  Bloody hell, that kiss. That taste of her mouth… that scent of her skin…

  Her touch was softly yielding, warm, yet gently demanding. Increasing the pressure of his jaw against hers, he coaxed her lips apart and swept his tongue inside her mouth, probing and exploring.

  She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck as though holding on for dear life. She returned his kiss with a fiery ardor, battling his tongue with her own, stroking his broad shoulders, pressing her belly into his groin.

  He groaned and lowered his hands, tracing the swell of her hips, lifting and caressing her buttocks. No longer the gentle lover she’d known, but a man whose needs had soared until they eclipsed all attempts at control. He finally tore his mouth away from hers, leaving her gasping, breathless.

  The proper thing to do—after a thoroughly improper kiss—would be to release her. Instead he found himself reluctant to break contact. No matter how much he stroked her and touched her and petted her, he still wanted more. They stood together with her back pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist, locking her against him. His chin rested lightly atop her head. They swayed against each other, happily taking in the scene before them.

  After a moment, Brianna looked up at him, her lips deliciously swollen and cherry-red from their kiss. “Where should we begin?”

  “Begin?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Good. Neither am I.” She turned her attention to the celebration surrounding them, caught his hand and gave it a soft tug. “Oh, look. They’re starting the barrel races.”

  They moved to a crowded field, surveyed the group of contestants, and risked their scarce coin to make penny wagers. Jonathon chose to champion a young buck with the bulging muscles of a blacksmith. Brianna favored a strapping farmhand. Having extracted all the coins they could from the crowd, a crier called for the contestants to mount their barrels. A pistol rang out and they were off, madly careening toward the finish line. Victory was had by a nimble lad of no more than thirteen. He blushed furiously at the crowd’s cheers (which grew particularly raucous when he received a peck on the cheek from a farmer’s pretty daughter) and claimed his prize-money.

  An archery contest followed, then ax-throwing, and then a rowdy race in which the contestants were encased in burlap sacks up to their chins and sent tumbling downhill toward the finish line. He and Brianna chased one another through a corn maze, ambled past livestock pens, and cast their vote for the best quilt. As the late afternoon sun began to set, they ate roasted pork from wooden skewers, nibbled flaky apple tarts, and sipped tankards of foamy ale.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she asked as they strolled the grounds.

  “Very much, actually.”

  She arched a single dark brow. “Note the surprise in your voice. Didn’t I promise you’d enjoy it? There’s something to be said for plebian delights.”

  “Plebian?”

  She gave a slight shrug. “Common, ordinary, everyday.”

  He caught her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know the meaning of the word plebian. I simply don’t think it applies to this afternoon.”

  The Earl of Warwick had often invited him, along with other members of the London peerage, to partake of the Michaelmas celebrations. Jonathon had routinely issued his regrets. Now he couldn’t help but wonder why. He had been what—too jaded? Too sophisticated? As much as he privately enjoyed scoffing at Lila Featherstone’s haughty parents, Lord and Lady Every, hadn’t he been every bit as cynical and superior?

  Then there was the matter of not pressing the issue of his status as a peer. Technically, his conscious was clean. He’d told Brianna who he was. But he knew she hadn’t quite believed him, nor did she fully understand the ramifications in
herent in that fact. He could, should, talk to her. But that was a Pandora’s box he simply did not want to open. Not yet, anyway. Not until they’d reached London. He needed more time to grapple with his emotions. To sort things out. And so he selfishly put the matter aside.

  Aloud he said, “Do you know what I’m enjoying best?”

  “What?”

  “Showing you off.”

  She gave a light laugh. “Hardly. I’m not the sort of person who garners much notice.”

  “That, angel mine, is simply not true.”

  He was attired in the same beleaguered garments he’d worn every day since leaving Liverpool, a circumstance which gave him an anonymity he rather enjoyed. He’d been highly amused when two acquaintances from London had strode right past him without giving him so much as a second glance.

  Brianna, however, had dressed for the occasion in a gown of deep emerald wool, a color that enhanced the soft honey hue of her skin and brought out the shimmering auburn highlights in her hair. She couldn’t have looked lovelier. An exotic bloom in a staid English garden. Leaning down, he whispered into her ear, “Do you see those two gentlemen over there, the ones dressed like tradesmen rather than farmers, standing by the fence rail?”

  She turned slightly. “Yes.”

  “They’ve been trying not to stare at you, but I’ve caught them at it. Now they’re over there hesitating. Waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “Waiting until they figure out what our relationship is. They’re intrigued, but uncertain. They don’t want to overstep their bounds.”

  She eyed him, torn between skepticism and amusement. “I suppose you can tell that just by looking at them.”

  “Absolutely,” he averred. “It’s primal. Male instinct. I can sense them lurking about, their desire for you wafting in the air around them, their collective scent as bold and offensive as a skunk’s spray.”

  Her gaze locked on his. For a long second she was silent. Then she said, “And how do you feel about that?”