And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  “You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted inside me.”

  A growl resonated in the back of his throat. “Then raise your arms.”

  “But my scars?” How might he love her while looking at the hideous marks?

  “Our scars make us who we are. Raise your arms, Scarlett.”

  She did as he asked, relished the feel of the material gliding up over her ribcage and skirting the outer curve of her heavy breasts. Then he dropped to his knees behind her, bit down gently on one buttock while caressing the other. Beginning at her ankle, he ran his hands up over her stockings, stopping at the top of her thigh.

  Her sex throbbed for him to touch her there.

  “I know what you want.” No doubt he wore the cocksure grin she loved. He untied the laces and yanked off her boot, smoothed his hands over the stocking again from ankle to thigh. The pads of his fingers grazed lightly over her sex, tearing a moan from her lips. “You’re so wet for me, love.”

  Scarlett’s body tingled from her head to her toes. “Only for you.”

  The scoundrel set to work on the other boot, traced a scorching path up her thigh to massage her sex again. He stood, gripped her hips and pressed his erection against her buttocks.

  “What about my stockings?” She wasn’t sure how long she could stand these teasing touches.

  “Leave them on.”

  His solid manhood pushed through the gap between her legs, slid the length of her pulsing sex. He continued to tease her from behind, to caress her breasts, to roll her sensitive nipples between his fingers until he’d dragged a whimper from her throat.

  The sudden thought that he might take her like this—bent over the bed, exposed, her scars on display—forced her to pull away and turn around.

  Desire swam hot in his eyes. “There are so many things I want to do to you. My wicked tongue won’t rest until I’ve tasted every inch of your body.”

  Lust emboldened her to say, “And I intend to ride you like I’m racing for the finishing line at the Derby.”

  Things turned wild as their rampant emotions took charge.

  But she was the one who kissed him as though she might die without his taste, without the feel of his tongue exploring the far reaches of her mouth. The need to protect her heart, the need to control him, found her pushing him onto the bed. She climbed on top of him, devoured every inch of bare skin, though she could not take his erection into her mouth—not after her degrading experiences at the hands of her husband. Instead, she straddled him, eager to feel full. Complete.

  The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room.

  “Now,” he panted. “Take me into your body before the agony of waiting kills me.”

  “What do you do to prevent a child?” she asked as her fingers settled around his manhood ready to position him at her entrance.

  Wycliff blinked, looked so consumed with passion he could not rouse a coherent thought. “French letter—but don’t stop now. Let’s worry about that in a moment.” He glanced at the milky tear weeping from the head of his erection. “I’m crying with need for you, love.”

  Scarlett rubbed the head over her sex, teased him by taking him half an inch into her body. “Do you need me to take you deeper, Damian?”

  “Yes.”

  She slid down another inch as he stretched her wide. “Deeper?”

  He jerked his hips impatiently. “Hell, yes.”

  Without warning, she sank onto his hot shaft. Took the man who made her heart sing into her needy body, right up to the hilt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Fuck.” The obscenity burst from Damian’s mouth as he jerked his hips and pushed deeper into the silky channel of Scarlett’s body.

  God, it felt heavenly.

  Divine.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been desperate to slake his lust, but the first time with Scarlett satisfied more than his aching cock. What proved most shocking was that he’d been unable to wait, unable to address his meticulous need to wear protection. Delving into a drawer to unwrap the French letter, blowing into it to ensure there were no holes, seemed less important than the need to claim this woman as his own.

  Of course, nothing would make him spill his seed inside her.

  Nothing, except for exchanging marriage vows and scribbling proof in the parish register.

  The minx straddling his thighs was about to come up on her knees, and so he gripped her waist and held her in place. Impaled. His.

  “Wait for a moment.” His words were a husky whisper.

  “Wait? Why?” Panic flashed in her eyes, and she put her hand over the scar above her breast. “Is something wrong?”

  “Far from it. I want to feel you, feel your heat surround me.” No matter how many times he’d envisioned this moment, nothing prepared him for the stimulating sensation of her muscles hugging him tightly.

  “Does this have something to do with your fear of fathering a child out of wedlock? We don’t have to continue.” Her actions betrayed her words when she splayed her hands on his chest, came up on her knees and sank slowly down to swallow his cock.

  “God damn.” The need to pound hard, to hear the audible slap that would feed his arousal, came upon him suddenly. Hell, he was always the one in control. He said how. He said when. He took what he wanted, gave little, just enough to maintain his rakish reputation.

  “You feel so good, Damian,” his bewitching temptress said as she rode him at an achingly slow pace that had nothing to do with nerves. Each delicious slide drew him deeper into the majesty of the moment.

  While still riding him, she reached up into her hair, pulled out the pins and shook the ebony tendrils loose. The silken locks danced over the alabaster skin on her shoulders. He wondered if she’d done it to hide the scar. Then she leant forward, thrust her luscious breasts towards his mouth and rode him like she was a few furlongs behind in the race.

  “Bloody hell.” Never in his life had he been claimed so fiercely. Yet for the first time, he no longer felt the same sense of isolation.

  The bed creaked. The headboard smacked against the wall.

  The guttural moan from his mouth would awaken the dead, let alone alert the servants. He would explode inside her if he didn’t do something quick.

  Wrapping his arm around her waist, he rolled her onto her back. Before she could protest, he settled between her thighs and lavished her sex with deserved attention. A man as depraved as Lord Steele did not care about his wife’s pleasure.

  He lapped the evidence of her arousal as his tongue flicked back and forth. Two fingers mimicking the thrust of his cock brought her to a blinding climax.

  “Damian!” The sweet cry of ecstasy was like music to his ears. The muscles in her core clamped around his damp fingers.

  He did not give her time to climb down from the dizzying heights but positioned himself at her entrance and pushed home. A wave of ecstasy rippled through him. How was it possible to feel sated when he was yet to reach his climax?

  Every instinct cried for him to rush, to ram hard, ram deep.

  His angel lay there, her hair splayed across the coverlet, her lips swollen, the hazy look of desire swimming in her eyes, and he could not think of a time when he’d seen something so beautiful.

  Suddenly, this wasn’t about his wants, his need to make love to the only woman he’d ever truly desired. It had nothing to do with a rake claiming the only woman to elude him.

  It was about her.

  Every remarkable aspect.

  Damian leant forward, squashing her breasts against his chest, and kissed her with a passion that went beyond lust. Then he withdrew from her body slowly, almost entirely, before pushing deep inside her again. His pleasure came from watching her lips part on a gasp, from watching her eyes flash hot with excitement.

  He continued this slow, teasing torture even when her dainty hands clasped the muscles on his back and urged him to quicken the pace. Even when she arched and writhed beneath him.

  “You
’re mine.” The words tumbled out of his mouth as he angled his hips so he could rub against her sex with each thrust.

  “I’m yours,” she cried, her pants accompanied by pretty moans.

  “Never forget it.”

  A wealth of emotion flooded his chest when she came apart for the second time, when her body hugged him and refused to let go. It took great effort to withdraw, but fear and habit made him finish with his own hand and pump his hot seed over her stomach.

  Exhausted, he collapsed on the bed beside her, captured her hand and twined their fingers.

  This was a first for him on many levels.

  Usually, he would be washing, dressing. Within five minutes he would be at the door, promising another liaison soon, the vow forgotten before he’d reached his carriage. And yet he was ready to gather this woman into his arms and sleep for an eternity.

  He stared at her as she lay with her eyes closed, a light sheen of perspiration coating her skin, watched her until her ragged breathing turned light and even.

  “Tell me you’re not asleep.”

  A smile brightened her face, but she did not open her eyes. “No, I’m not asleep. I’m floating on a heavenly plane.”

  Masculine pride made him grin. He drank in the sight of her magnificent body until his gaze fell to the scar marring her breast. Guilt’s sharp talons pierced his chest, ready to rip out his heart. It wasn’t his fault, he knew, but he would give anything to go back in time and erase her pain.

  He contemplated jumping out of bed, locating Joshua Steele and beating a confession from his quivering lips. Instead, he went to the washstand, wrung out a cloth and came back to the bed.

  The first wipe over her stomach reminded him of the many times she had attended to his ablutions. “It makes a change for me to wash your body with a cold cloth.”

  Still wearing her satisfied smile, she looked at him and said, “It’s about time you repaid your debt. By rights, I must be entitled to hours of pampering.”

  He laughed—he never laughed with any of the women he’d bedded. “What do I owe? An hour a day for three days?”

  Her eyes grew round. “An hour? I spent the best part of three hours wiping your brow. And it’s six days, not three.”

  “Eighteen hours, then.”

  “Agreed.”

  “When shall I begin?”

  “You may wash me now, as I should retire to my bed. We must rise early in the morning and focus our attention on examining the notebook.”

  “You are in bed.”

  “I meant the bed next door.”

  The sudden thought that he did not want her to leave stole his breath. He was a man who craved privacy. “Stay here, in bed with me.”

  I don’t want to be without you tonight.

  She arched a brow. “I doubt either of us would get much sleep.”

  His cock jerked to life at the prospect of plunging into her wet body again. “Let’s not make any plans. We’ll settle beneath the sheets and see where the mood takes us.”

  She stared at him for a moment, as if the decision had more serious implications. “I have never slept in bed with a man, other than that one time with you.”

  “And I have never slept in bed with a woman, except for that one time with you.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip, just like she did on that night three years ago. “Will you hold me in your arms to banish the cold?”

  “Will you lay your hands on my chest while you sleep?”

  Neither answered the other’s question. They did not need to.

  They settled into bed, lay huddled together on their sides despite the excessive space.

  For an hour, Damian watched her sleeping—just as enchanted as he was that magical night in the lodging-house. Then he drifted off into a peaceful slumber. The first he’d known in years.

  * * *

  Scarlett lay in Wycliff’s bed propped up on one elbow, the rumpled sheets wrapped around her legs as she watched her lovable rogue sleeping. She’d lost count of the times she had gazed upon him intently while he was oblivious to her lustful scrutiny.

  But lust was not the only emotion she felt when in Damian Wycliff’s company.

  Since the first time they parted, she had loved him a little.

  Since reuniting, that beautiful seed of hope had sprouted roots.

  Every day the sapling stretched towards the sun, optimistic yet still so fragile.

  She placed her hand lightly on his chest. Touching him always brought comfort. Having him deep inside her body was akin to experiencing heaven on earth. Not once had her nightmares returned to haunt her. Not once had visions of Steele’s cruelty interrupted the beauty of the moment.

  Where would it all end?

  She had no notion.

  But her experiences had taught her that life was just as delicate as the first buds of spring.

  Wycliff stirred beside her. He stretched his body, his hand edging beneath the sheets to reposition his manhood. Her own sex pulsed at the thought of climbing on top of him and riding him as she had done last night. A frisson of doubt over his feelings for her prevented her from acting.

  Oh, her body begged her to reconsider.

  Still naked, she turned on her side to face the window. If Wycliff wanted to make love to her again, he would have to make his intentions clear. Excitement tickled her stomach when he stretched, sighed and exhaled a pleasurable hum.

  Silence filled the room though she grew intensely aware of his breathing.

  Remaining in the same position, she shuffled a little so he would know she was not deep in slumber. Her ploy worked, for he rolled onto his side behind her, pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, pressed his erection against her buttocks.

  She resisted the temptation to arch her back. She would have Wycliff work a little harder to seduce her. When he placed his warm hand on her hip, she released a small sigh. After all, he needed to know she was not opposed to joining with him again.

  “Scarlett?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “Hmm,” came her drowsy reply.

  The wicked hand on her hip ventured slowly north to cup her breast. The first brush of his finger over her nipple almost sent her shooting off the bed. Instead, she wiggled her hips against his erection, inviting him to slip between the gap in her thighs.

  “You minx.” The huskiness of his voice conveyed the depth of his need. “You want me to make love to you, is that it?”

  She arched her back in response, and he pushed into her body to fill her full.

  Heaven.

  The brief thought that he had not sought a French letter, that the scars on her back were so glaringly visible, left her mind the moment he withdrew to thrust inside her again. She could spend every morning like this—close to him, loving him.

  This slow, sensual mating didn’t feel like the joining of bodies. It felt more like the joining of souls. She might have laughed at her own naivety—for women often confused lust with something more sentimental—but then Wycliff pressed his lips to the scars on her back, told her she was beautiful, and she fought the urge to cry.

  Damian Wycliff did, indeed, have fingers that worked the devil’s magic. It took naught but his expert strokes to break her into a million sparkling pieces. A whimper escaped her when he withdrew suddenly, and she felt the hot, wet evidence of his climax on her buttocks.

  He climbed out of bed almost immediately, yet she would have liked him to remain inside her even when soft and unable to perform.

  “Don’t think that washing me now reduces your debt,” she teased when he returned with a cloth and spent far too long wiping her buttocks. “It doesn’t count when it is to our mutual advantage.”

  “Then I suspect it will take me years to work off what I owe.”

  If only she could believe that were true. “Years? You rarely remain in one place for longer than a few months. You must repay the debt before your next trip to France.”

  He returned the cloth to the washbowl and turne
d to face her in all his glorious nakedness. “I have no intention of leaving London.”

  The questions she longed to ask danced on her tongue. Instead, she chose a subject guaranteed not to cause her any pain. “Is there a reason you own property and yet prefer to lease a house in town?”

  He turned back to the washstand and swirled the cloth in the water. “I like to give my father the impression I refuse to settle.” Water trickled from the linen square as he wiped his chest, wiped the extraordinary length of his flaccid manhood. “It annoys him that I won’t take a wife, won’t accept the ridiculously large country estate gifted to me last year for my twenty-fifth birthday.”

  “And you live to annoy him.”

  “It is undoubtedly the only thing that keeps me sane.”

  She wanted to probe him further, but he threw on a robe and tugged the bell-pull. “I’ll have breakfast sent up. What with the loud moans and groans and the violent rocking of the bed, there is little point hiding our relationship from the staff.”

  Scarlett climbed out of bed, too, aware of Wycliff’s heated gaze blazing a trail over her naked body. She rummaged through the pile of clothing, slipped into her chemise, straightened the sheets and returned to the comfort of her lover’s bed. By the time she had finished, she looked like a virgin on her wedding night.

  “What did you do with the notebook?”

  Wycliff looked for his coat amid the mound of discarded garments. “It’s here somewhere.” He recovered the leather pocketbook and threw it onto the bed.

  Scarlett flicked to the first page while Wycliff beckoned his servant to enter and gave instructions concerning the morning meal.

  The small book contained a detailed account of Joshua Steele’s daily appointments. The notes began not long after Dermot had broached the subject of her numerous accidents, tales he had heard from members of the club. Having occurred in broad daylight, many had witnessed her horse bolt and throw her to the ground. Many women had screamed upon seeing the savage dog bounding out from the blanket of trees.

  “Found anything of interest?” Wycliff asked as he climbed back into bed.