The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  His hand came to rest just beneath her jaw and—with the slightest of prompting—he tilted back her head. “You want to best me.”

  She did, damn it. She wanted him to yearn for her, to beg, to be at her mercy. She wanted to be in control because she hadn’t been before. After pulling his neck cloth free, she tossed it aside. “You don’t love me.” She unbuttoned his shirt. “You will never love me.” She removed the black-onyx-studded cufflinks, cradling them in her palm, not certain what to do with something so obviously expensive and well crafted.

  He scooped them up, carried them to the bedside table, set them down. He dragged his shirt over his head, tossed it to the floor before facing her. She’d seen his magnificent form when she’d awoken that morning, and yet still it took her breath. The sinew and muscle, the way his skin was stretched taut over a form molded to perfection.

  His eyes never leaving her, he dropped into a nearby chair and began removing his boots.

  “You don’t like me,” she continued, hating that she sounded so breathless, that her voice had gone so raspy and deep at the mere thought of flicking her tongue over his nipple, along his ribs, going lower until she tasted his very essence.

  “I mentioned liking you earlier.”

  “Comparing me to pudding, which is so very flattering. Then you told your father that you don’t have to like me to bed me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “Yet I did. But I’m not bothered by it.” Much. “I don’t fancy you either.” A small lie. It was difficult not to fancy a man who exuded such sensual awareness, who moved about like some predatory animal. “However, I at least want to ensure you desire me.”

  His task completed, he stood and ambled over to her, his gaze roaming over every inch visible to him, and she wished she’d thought to take off her stockings and slippers while he removed his boots. She felt rather silly with them still in place.

  Stopping, he cradled one of her breasts, flicked his thumb over her pearled nipple. “I’ve never desired anyone more.”

  His mouth came down on hers, hard, demanding. His arms closed around her, flattening her breasts to his chest, as his hands bracketed either side of her spine and journeyed up. Torrid heat swamped her, her legs went weak, and she scraped her fingers over his broad back so she had something solid to hold on to.

  He dragged his lips down her throat, along her collarbone, nipping and licking as he went, leaving behind the promise of devouring her when all was said and done. She had little doubt that she would awaken in the morning to discover herself covered in tiny love bruises. Love. She very nearly scoffed. There would never be any love between them. Even what was passing between them now resembled love not in the least. It was all about possession, claiming what he had gained through marriage, taking ownership of what was now rightfully his.

  She should have resented it, how easily he made her want to surrender, how simply he flamed the fires of her own desires. She’d never clamored for a man to take full possession of her the way she did for him to join his body with hers. Not even Montie. Regardless of her love for him, she’d never felt this intense need, this fear that if he suddenly released her and walked away, she might very well die.

  He moved his mouth lower, and she arched back, her breasts an offering as though to a god. His mouth latched onto her nipple, and he suckled with purpose. Crying out with unguarded pleasure ripping through her, she lifted her leg to his hip, pressing her feminine core against the firm rigid length of him. Even through the cloth she could feel the scalding heat.

  Groaning low, one hand—fingers splayed—supporting her back, he moved to her other breast and took while his free hand cupped the round backside of her raised leg and journeyed along it to her knee, back down, back up, as he undulated against her, causing her to grow wet, to crave a deeper intimacy. Where had her breath gone? Why could her heart not slow?

  Quite suddenly, she found herself in his arms once again and before she could fully appreciate her position, he tossed her onto the bed, followed her down with a feral growl, once more taking her mouth, his tongue delving deeply as though he feared leaving bits of it unexplored, and yet how could he when he gave it such a thorough mapping? She’d never been so affected by a kiss, but then he’d stirred sparks within her to life the first time that he’d plastered his mouth to hers. She hated admitting that she could spend a lifetime kissing him and never have enough.

  He was reluctant to admit that he might never have enough of simply kissing her. The way her luscious mouth moved beneath his, welcomed him, had him anticipating her notch welcoming and closing around his cock. Because he wanted her so desperately, he fought to curb his body’s aching needs, refusing to give in too quickly to the temptation of her. But before the night was done, he planned to know her in every way possible.

  She was remarkably beautiful, every inch of her flawless. She could bring any man she wanted to his knees. He vowed then and there to never go to his knees for her.

  Breathing harshly, he tore his mouth from hers, plowed his fingers into the thick silken strands of her hair, and began removing pins.

  Gasping for breath, she said, “It would have been easier if you’d done that whilst standing.”

  “I didn’t want anything to obstruct my view.” He combed her hair out over the pillows, the glorious red in stark contrast to the pristine white. All the while her hands glided over his chest, his shoulders, his back as though she couldn’t get enough of touching him. The satisfaction in knowing that she wanted him as much as he did her was unlike anything he’d ever known.

  Leaning up, she stroked her tongue around his nipple. Placing his hand beneath the back of her head, he braced her and relished the torment of her scraping her teeth over the sensitive skin before taking a quick bite that caused his bollocks to tighten. He’d never been with a woman he considered his equal when it came to pleasuring. Her boldness inflamed him. If he hadn’t kept his trousers on, he’d already be buried deeply inside her—which was the very reason he had yet to remove them. He didn’t know why but when it came to her he wanted more than slaking his lust. If this was all they’d ever have, he wanted it worth the price of his freedom that he’d paid for it.

  He might not love her, might not be particularly fond of her, might not trust her completely, but he would honor the vows he’d given her. He would remain faithful, he would respect her, he would honor her as a wife was to be honored. But behind a closed door, he wanted her untamed and wild, brazen and bold, a vixen of the first order.

  She nipped at him, dug her fingernails into his buttocks. Pulling back on her hair—gentle but forceful—he scraped his teeth along the lengthy column of her throat. Her eyes shuttered closed, her lips parted slightly. At least she didn’t try to feign an immunity to his charms. He’d worried that she’d take the tack of being cold and brittle, of striving to hold back what he wanted most from her.

  But here at least there were no games between them. There was only raw need that threatened to destroy his sanity.

  Abruptly he released her, his mouth left her, and Portia flopped back on the mound of soft pillows. She was accustomed to being taken swiftly, to having very little play beforehand. She thought she might die if he didn’t unfasten his trousers and get down to business. He was between her thighs, sitting back on his heels. It would be easy enough for him to loosen the buttons and set himself free to plunder. She was wet enough. He’d slide right in.

  His gaze grazed over her and she felt it almost as clearly as she’d felt his teeth a moment earlier. He began slowly trailing his fingers along the inside of her thighs, from the top of her stockings to her auburn curls. Up. Down. Up.

  She grabbed his wrists. “Stop torturing me.”

  His eyes darkened, his grin was sensual. “I’ve only just begun.”

  He moved nearer to her feet.

  “I thought you wanted me.” She hated the petulant tone, and yet she seemed unable to keep herself f
rom revealing her disappointment that he wasn’t already going at her like a man possessed.

  “Oh, I do. I’m just not convinced you want me.”

  How could she not want him? He was all firm muscle and corded sinew. Broad chest and flat stomach. She watched those muscles bunch and stretch as he peeled off her slipper, tossed it aside, then did the same with the other. He folded his large, powerful hands around her left foot. He began kneading the ball of her foot, her arch, her heel, all the while studying her foot as though it were the most interesting aspect to her.

  She’d never had her feet treated to such wondrous care. It felt so lovely that she wanted to close her eyes and sink into the sensations, but she couldn’t seem to take her gaze off him, didn’t want to miss out on seeing his movements, of the way his lips parted as he lifted her foot to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her toes, her instep, her ankle, before shifting his gaze to her, a dare in the green depths as he placed her stocking-covered foot against the fall of his trousers, against the hard ridge.

  Accepting the challenge, she began rubbing her foot along the marvelous, somewhat startling, length of him. She wanted to see him, all of him, as bared as she was.

  Leaning forward slightly, he began untying the ribbon that held her stocking in place above her knee. When it was loose, he gathered the stocking up, revealing an inch of skin, before rolling it back up to cover half an inch. Down an inch, up a half, the tips of his fingers playing along her skin, creating delicious little tremors that bubbled through her. She very nearly went insane before the stocking was completely removed, leaving her bare foot against his trousers. She pressed harder, taking great satisfaction in the tautening of his jaw.

  Without waiting for him to give attention to her other foot, she placed it on his chest, gave her toes freedom to circle his nipple. This stocking came off with such speed that she wouldn’t be surprised to discover it torn when she gathered it from the floor later.

  With a feral growl, he spread her legs wide, settled onto his stomach, and blew a cool breath, stirring the curls between her thighs. Then his mouth was on her, his fingers parting the folds, his tongue slowly stroking. She cried out at the unexpectedness of the pleasure that rippled through her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see him gloating at her reaction, but how could he gloat when his mouth continued to work its magic, suckling and nipping, stroking and flicking the swollen bud? When she finally opened her eyes, she saw no reveling, simply a man intent on creating wave upon wave of sensation.

  Sliding his arms beneath her thighs, lifting them slightly, he cupped her breasts, his fingers toying with her nipples. Her hips rocked up, giving him easier access and he took. The build was slow, yet intense. She plowed her fingers through his hair, scraped her fingers over his sturdy shoulders. He’d promised her pleasure. She’d certainly not expected him to deliver it like this. She hadn’t even known this was possible.

  She felt more treasured at that moment than she’d ever felt with a man she loved. Tears pricked her eyes. Tears because she’d been a fool. Tears because she was probably a fool now to give her body free rein to experience all the sensations that Locksley was bringing to life within her.

  With his tongue, his lips, his fingers, his murmurs he urged her to let go, to fly. Long, slow strokes of his tongue, rough velvet to silk, two of his fingers slipping inside of her, spreading her before his tongue licked at her quim. He explored so thoroughly, so intensely. She wanted to resist the lure of complete and total release—and at the same time she wanted to accept this absolute, unselfish gift.

  Her body stretched, reached . . . surrendered.

  Pleasure ripped through her, through every nerve ending, every muscle, every inch of skin, from the tips of her toes through her scalp, tingling, expanding, contracting.

  Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she cried out—a benediction, a curse—as her body convulsed and her limbs thrashed about. His hands cradling her ribs were the only things keeping her anchored to the bed. She fought for breath, for equilibrium, even as her lips spread into a smile of satisfaction. He released his hold on her, moved away.

  The bed shifted with his movements, but she was too lethargic to care. When she could finally gather up the strength to open her eyes, he was raised above her, his trousers gone, his thick cock jutting out proudly, the sight of it taking what little breath remained to her. He was magnificent, powerful.

  “You seemed to enjoy that,” he said.

  “Don’t be so smug,” she ordered.

  He laughed darkly as he bent his elbows, leaned down, and nibbled on her lips. “I knew things between us would be good in bed.”

  Only they hadn’t been good for him, not yet. And she needed that, needed him to spill his seed inside her. Pushing herself up, she pressed her mouth to his throat, lifting her hips, aware of him hovering so near. “Take me. Make me yours.”

  With a growl, he thrust his hips forward, his shaft sliding sure and deep, stretching her, filling the valley between her thighs.

  “Oh, Christ,” she murmured. She thought it should have hurt, because he was much larger than what she was accustomed to, and yet he’d ensured that she was glistening with dew, more than ready to receive him. She didn’t want him being that considerate. Didn’t want to like him. It would all be so much easier if she felt nothing at all for him.

  But as he rocked against her, she feared she might have misjudged the power of the intimacy they would share. Even now he wasn’t mindlessly rutting, striving to acquire his own release. He fondled her breast, closed his mouth around the tip, suckled. He skimmed his hand along her back, over her hip, adjusted the position so he could delve more deeply. It was marvelous, each thrust delivered with purpose, with a goal. She could feel him tensing beneath her fingertips, knew he was hovering at the cusp, that the next thrust might be his last, might fill her with his seed. The thought of him climaxing inflamed her. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Even his black hair was involved, flapping against his brow with his efforts. Her own pleasure began mounting again, the pressure building.

  She didn’t want these sensations, didn’t want the way they made her body curl around him, cling to him as though he were her only hope for salvation. Yet he refused to be denied. He continued to torment her with his mouth, hands, and cock—all working in tandem to ensure she became lost in the whirlwind of pleasure.

  Bucking beneath him, she was once again crying out as an orgasm tore through her and stars exploded within her. He gave one last mighty thrust that nearly lifted her off the bed, his own throaty groan echoing around her as his muscles spasmed beneath her fingers. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, his mouth coating her neck in dew as he fought to regain his breath. He kept his weight off her, but as reason began to return to her, she realized his arms were trembling with the strain. She folded her hands around them.

  “Relax,” she urged.

  “I’ll crush you.”

  “I’m stronger than I look.”

  He laughed, and for the first time, she thought the sound might have been laced with a bit of joy. He rose up on his elbows, placed his hands on either side of her face, and skimmed his knuckles along her cheeks. “I’m thinking now that perhaps you could move that chair across the parlor.”

  “Not now; I can barely lift a finger at the moment. In the morning perhaps.”

  He grinned as though they were sharing a private joke, and she realized that grin could be devastating to her heart. She liked it far too much, liked how approachable it made him.

  He rolled off her, rolled off the bed, and began striding away from her.

  Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side.

  “Wait there,” he said as he reached the washstand and dipped a cloth into the water. “I’ll clean you.”

  She stilled, not because of his words, but because Montie had never extended such a courtesy to her. She was the one who saw to matters when they were finished. “You don’t have to.”
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br />   He glanced over his shoulder. “I want to.” With a wicked gleam in his eye, he started back. “If I’m lucky and do it properly, it’ll lead to another round.”

  Chapter 11

  He did it properly. It led to another round. One that went a little quicker than the first, but was no less intense. She was so blasted tight that at first he’d thought she was a virgin. But there had been no blood to clean up. And she was far too comfortable with a man’s body not to have been around one before. Still if he didn’t know better, he’d think the pleasure she’d experienced had taken her by surprise.

  They’d finally gotten around to moving the bedding aside. She was lying on her back, one arm raised, her hand toying with strands of his hair, while he rested up on an elbow and trailed his fingers over her sternum, along her ribs. He’d tried going down her side to her hips only to discover she was a bit ticklish. Who’d have thought?

  “I’ve never done this,” she said quietly.

  He stilled, his hand a quarter of an inch away from cupping her breast. “You were a virgin? But you were married. There was no blood.”

  She laughed lightly, running her fingers up over his scalp. “No, just lay here afterward, just . . . I don’t know. It’s as though the pleasure hasn’t quite dissipated completely, and we’re keeping it alive by still touching.”

  “Your husband didn’t touch you afterward?” He wanted to bite his tongue for asking the question, hated even more the spark of jealousy that ignited within him because another man had known her as he had.

  She shook her head. “He always fell asleep right after.”

  He cupped her breast. “And you?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Would watch him. Feel lonely.” She emitted a sound that was part scoff, part laugh. “I’m being silly. I don’t want to talk about before.”

  He didn’t want to know that she’d found her love less than satisfactory, that she might have learned it wasn’t worth the pain it could bring. He bracketed her ribs, felt her stiffen—no doubt in anticipation of his going along her side to torment her with tickles. Another night he might. Not tonight. Tonight was about building trust so every night would be as good as or better than this one.