“But I got what I deserve,” she whispered, her expression turning positively wicked. “And that is what matters the most.”
She took him into her mouth once more, sucking and sighing and bringing him to the back of her throat. Then down it. White-hot pleasure seared him, and he had to grab the post of his bed to keep from stumbling beneath the force.
Words were streaming from his mouth, but he did not know what they were. They could have been epithets or declarations of love. His ballocks tightened, and he was going to spend in her pretty mouth, and she was going to swallow his seed.
But that was not how he wanted to end this evening.
Mustering his control, he grasped her hair and tugged until she released him with a wet, lusty pop. Her eyes were glazed, her lips slack, her chest heaving, as she looked up at him. “What is it, Cam?”
“Not this way,” he managed to say, before taking her in a gentle grasp and hauling her to her feet before taking her in his arms.
Who would have thought that attending a country house party one Christmas would change his life forever? He most certainly had not. But he was grateful for the chance he had taken. Grateful for the woman in his arms.
And he was about to show her just how much.
How much did she love this man?
Eugie could not say. The way she felt for him eclipsed every other emotion she had ever known. She had wanted to show him with actions tonight in a way words could not convey, to worship him. To show him how beautiful he was to her: his body, his pleasure, his ceaseless championing of her. Just everything.
Every little thing about him.
The way he laughed. The way he smiled. The fringe of his lashes. The ruffled tufts of his hair in the morning. How he looked upon her as if she were the sun and the moon, all at once, in his sky.
Oh, how she loved him.
He was kissing her now, holding her as if she were necessary. Breathing her in with slow and steady inhalations, devouring her mouth which was slick with his essence.
Their tongues met.
Their hands were everywhere, traveling over each other’s bodies. Each time with him was familiar and yet new. They were still learning, still finding new ways to tempt and torment and please. Still whispering secrets in the dark of the night.
He had taught her so much, not just how to love but how to trust. How to believe, blindly, in the goodness and caring of another. To believe him when he said he loved her. To accept him when he said he wanted her for the woman she was rather than the coin she had ultimately brought into their union anyway.
When she had been laid low by betrayal, embittered and wary of everyone around her, he had come into her life and shown her the power of faith. Faith in him. Faith in herself. Faith in their love.
Her night rail was gone. And the robe he had worn parted for her ministrations had been long shrugged away as they tumbled to his bed together. Eugie was on her back, her legs open, body cradling his. Their mouths clung in a passionate kiss before he broke free to rain more kisses upon her feverish flesh. Her throat. Her ear. Her shoulder, where his teeth delivered a delicious little nip.
He lingered on her breasts, toying with her nipples with his knowing fingers before lowering his head to suck one pebbled bud into his mouth. Molten honey sang through her veins, pooling in her cunny where she wanted him most.
But how delicious, his mouth upon her, suckling. Her fingers found their way into his hair, which she loved to touch. How soft it was, how full and thick.
He swirled his tongue around her nipple, making her back arch. “Such a beautiful shade of red, your nipples. Light, like a raspberry, not quite as dark as your lips. I want roses in this shade at Lyndhurst House. Along with the red and the white.”
All she could do was agree when her husband’s greedy mouth was sucking her nipples as if he were ravenous for her. “Yes.”
He worked his way down her belly, kissing as he went, until at last his large hands settled upon her inner thighs, spreading her open for him. Once, she would have been horridly ashamed of such a display, but she had been married to him long enough to know the pleasure to be had from such intimacies. They were far more immense than he had introduced her to that first night.
He was staring at her now, his breath hot and humid upon her flesh. She was wet for him, her sex soaked, and she knew it. So did he. The intensity of his expression told her.
“And then I want some pink roses, darling.” He lowered his head and licked her slit. “Pink to match your perfect cunny.”
Just one swipe of his tongue over her, and she was desperate. She bowed from the bed, urging him on in a wordless plea.
A plea he accepted as he warmed to his cause, licking deeper, running his tongue through her folds. He found her pearl with unerring dedication, sucking her into his mouth in the same fashion he had her nipples. And then he moved back to her channel, his tongue sinking inside her, again and again. He hummed his appreciation as he stroked her, working her into a fine frenzy.
By the time he returned to the sensitive bud of her sex, she was mindless. He raked his teeth over her, and she reached her crescendo. Pleasure exploded, so ferocious and sudden, the spasms rocking her body bordered on painful. She came undone beneath him, and the clever lashings of his tongue prolonged it, making quakes roll through her long after the initial, violent burst had subsided.
He moved back up her body, burying his face in her neck. Reaching between them, he aligned his cock with her entrance, and in one swift thrust, he was inside her. He remained where he was, and then he withdrew, only to slide into her again. And again.
Somehow, her legs wound up against his chest, her knees hooked over his shoulders, and he was as deep as he had ever been. The rhythm he began had her crying out wildly, forgetting all about the possibility of anyone overhearing them.
“Do you like when I fuck you, Lady Hertford?” he asked.
The naughty words combined with the angle of his thrusts rendered her helpless. She reached her pinnacle again, shuddering as her sheath constricted on him so tightly she almost squeezed him from her body.
“You did not answer me, my lady,” he growled, pumping his hips faster as she came beneath him. “Do you like when I fuck you?”
“Yes,” she cried out, her nails raking down his broad back as yet another wave of pleasure slammed down upon her.
“Come again for me, my love,” he demanded, thrusting harder.
And she did. She came, spending with such violence, her ears roared and the world turned white until the pleasure showed her mercy and began to subside into delicious ebbs. He stiffened, crying out as he spent inside her, and she knew the warm, hot rush of his seed.
He collapsed against her, his breathing as harsh as hers. “I am not hurting you, am I, darling?” he managed to ask.
The weight of him was divine. “Never.” She clutched him to her tightly, relishing the feeling of him so near.
“One of these days, I hope to put my babe inside you, and then I shall have to take greater care,” he said, still breathless.
She had been caressing his shoulders, loving the hard, sinewy smoothness of them, but now she stopped. “There is something I wanted to discuss with you this evening, but then the ball and Cunningham happened, and I was distracted.”
He tensed, raising his head to look down at her. “What is it that you want to discuss?”
She took a deep, bracing breath. “I believe you have.”
“I have what, wife?” He frowned. “Cease speaking in riddles.”
“You have put your babe inside me,” she elaborated. “I have missed my courses.”
“You have? You are?” He scrambled to his side, but still held her to him. “When? How long?”
“I am a month late,” she told him softly, a new warmth blossoming inside her. A new sort of hope. A new sort of love. “I wanted to wait until I was certain.”
“Bloody hell, woman, why did you not say something sooner?” he thundered.
“I could have injured you just now. Or caused damage to the babe.”
“I am well,” she reassured him, smiling. “You cannot hurt me. Or the babe.”
“A babe,” he repeated, awe in his voice. “Our babe, Eugie.”
“Ours,” she agreed, feeling as if she wanted to laugh and weep all at once. “You are pleased?”
“Beyond pleased,” he hastened to say, kissing her swiftly. “There is nothing I want more.”
“Good,” she said, kissing him again as a new wickedness flared to life. “Because there is nothing I want more either. But for the moment, I shall settle for something else.”
She kissed his neck, then his chest.
“Eugie,” he protested weakly. “What do you think you are you doing?”
“You did tell me to act recklessly as often as possible,” she pointed out, not the slightest bit repentant as she kissed her way down the muscles of his abdomen.
He sighed, his hand settling back into her hair. “I did, didn’t I, my love?”
“You did,” she agreed. “And as the woman who loves you, I have no choice but to comply.”
When she made it back to the prize she had been seeking and kissed the tip of him, he was thickening once more.
“I suppose as the man who loves you, I have no choice but to allow you to have your wicked way with me, Countess.” His voice was velvet and whisky, laden with anticipation and weighed down with desire.
“No choice at all,” she agreed, before licking the underside of his shaft. “And you must know I am the Winter with the most wicked reputation of all.”
His fingers sifted through her hair. “You are, are you? Just how wicked?”
She swirled her tongue around the head of him. “This wicked.”
“That is very wicked indeed, my lady,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I find I quite like it.”
She hummed her approval. “As do I, my lord.”
Then, the Prince of Proper indulged in another blissful round with his princess, but there was nothing proper about it at all, and neither one of them minded a bit.
The End.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Wanton in Winter! I hope you enjoyed this third book in my The Wicked Winters series and that you loved reading Cam and Eugie’s story as much as I loved writing it. Their happily ever after is one of my favorite kinds, with love, laughter, and a whole lot of steam.
As always, please consider leaving an honest review of Wanton in Winter. Reviews are greatly appreciated! If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases and series news, sign up for my newsletter here or follow me on Amazon or BookBub. Join my reader’s group on Facebook for bonus content, early excerpts, giveaways, and more.
If you’d like a preview of Willful in Winter, Book Four in The Wicked Winters, featuring the rakish Viscount Aylesford and the headstrong Grace Winter, who’s about to bring him down a peg or two, do read on. And as a bonus, you can find Aylesford’s sister’s story in Wishes in Winter in the collection A Lady’s Christmas Rake.
Until next time,
Scarlett
Willful in Winter
By
Scarlett Scott
Rand, Viscount Aylesford, needs a fiancée, and he needs one now. His requirements are concise: she must not embarrass him, and she must understand he has no intention of ever marrying her.
Miss Grace Winter is the most stubborn of the notorious Wicked Winters. When her brother decrees she must marry well, she is every bit as determined to avoid becoming a nobleman’s wife. She would never marry a lord, especially not one as arrogant and insufferable as Aylesford.
But pretending is another matter entirely. She has to admit the viscount’s idea of a feigned betrothal between them would not be without its merits. Until Aylesford kisses her, and to her dismay, she likes it.
Soon, their mutually beneficial pretense blossoms into something far more dangerous to both their hearts…
Chapter One
Oxfordshire, 1813
“While your offer is tempting, I must regretfully decline, my lord.”
Surely Miss Grace Winter, undeniably the most stubborn chit Rand had ever met, had not just turned down his proposal. No female had ever turned down a proposal he had made.
Ever.
Granted, his proposals were ordinarily of a far seedier nature, and the females in question were demimondaines, but still.
He must have misheard her.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Winter,” he said, frowning at her from where he stood in the Abingdon House library, “but I do believe I mistook your acceptance for a rejection.”
She sighed, almost as if she found him tedious. “You did not mistake anything, Lord Aylesford. I told you no.”
He frowned at her. “Women do not tell me no.”
Miss Winter’s lips twitched. “On the contrary, I stand before you as evidence they do.”
Her lips were soft and full and the most maddening shade of pink. Every time he stared at them, he wondered if her nipples matched. But now, that mouth was laughing at him.
Laughing at his proposal.
Mocking him.
The daring of the chit was not to be borne. He ought to kiss her, he thought. Or turn her over his knee and spank her delectable rump. But he would do neither of those things. Because she was an innocent, virginal miss, decidedly not the sort of lady he preferred. And she was denying him.
“Why will you not agree to be my feigned betrothed?” he bit out.
“Because you are a rake,” she said. “And one with an insufferable sense of his own consequence. If I am to be your betrothed, even your feigned betrothed, I will be required to spend time in your presence. To dance with you, to pretend as if I find your sallies amusing, that sort of nonsense. I would rather read a book, to be perfectly honest.”
The devil.
She thought he was a rake.
Well, to be fair, he was. He had earned his reputation—that nothing in skirts was safe from him—the delicious way. He had bedded more women than he had bothered to count. The list of his conquests was longer than the Thames.
But she found him conceited? She did not want to dance with him?
“What is wrong with my sallies?” he demanded. “Why would you need to pretend to find them amusing?”
He was vastly amusing. All the ladies in his acquaintance told him so. They laughed at his every quip. Quite uproariously.
“I am making an assumption, of course,” she said, waving a dismissive hand through the air, rather in the fashion of one chasing a bothersome fly. “I have never heard you tell one. But you do not look like the sort of gentleman who would tell clever sallies. You look like the sort who expects everyone around him to be easily wooed by his face and form.”
Here, now. The baggage was not truly suggesting there was something amiss with his face? With his form? He engaged in sport whenever he could—riding, boxing, fencing, rowing. He was lean and tall. His muscles were well-honed from his exertions. And as for his face? Why, he was widely considered one of the most handsome men in London.
“I do not expect them to, Miss Winter,” he informed her, his voice frosty with indignation for the series of insults she had paid him. “They are wooed by my face and form. With good reason.”
She cast a dubious glance over him. “Your face and form are acceptable, I suppose. If one does not mind dark hair and blue eyes. I have always preferred blond hair and brown eyes, myself. There is something so delightful about the combination. And you are a bit thin, my lord. You might consider eating pie more often.”
His face and form were acceptable? She was bamming him. She had to be.
He scowled at the impertinent chit, and in all his ire, he could only seem to manage one word. “Pie.”
“Yes.” She smiled sweetly. “Any pie you like. Consuming sweets ought to help you appear more substantial and far less gaunt, over time.”
Rand had been careful to maintain a respectable
distance between them for propriety’s sake, even if the hour was late and there was nothing at all proper about arranging for a clandestine meeting with the unwed sister of his host. But he was not accustomed to doing anything the proper way. He was a scapegrace, it was true, and besides, everyone knew the rules of London eased at country house parties.
Did they not?
He decided they did. They had to. Especially when a man was as desperate as he was. And as irritated.
“Pie,” he repeated, stalking toward her. “You recommend I eat pie, Miss Winter?”
She stiffened as he neared her, but she did not retreat, and nor did her goading smile fade. “I do, Lord Aylesford.”
He stopped only when he was close enough for her gown to billow against his breeches. Her green eyes flared, and he noted the flecks of gray and gold in their vibrant depths. At this proximity, in the warm glow of the lone candle brace illuminating them, her auburn locks seemed as if they were aflame. And damn her, she was beautiful in an unconventional way. Tempting. Need roared to life inside him, sending an arrow of lust straight to his hardening cock.
“I am not hungry for pie,” he told her softly.
And now, he was forgetting all the reasons he must maintain his distance. Forgetting he could not afford to compromise her if he wanted to remain unshackled by the parson’s mousetrap. Forgetting he wanted her to agree to become his feigned betrothed, and that none of this—the way he had been courting her at the house party, the way he felt now—was real.
Think of Tyre Abbey, he reminded himself. The wealthy Scottish estate would be his upon his betrothal, thanks to his grandmother, the dowager duchess’ stipulation. He would convince Miss Winter to agree to his plan one way or another.
He had to.
“What are you hungry for then, my lord?” she returned, her gaze dipping to his lips.
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