He knew her so well.
She suppressed a smile. “Only the top of his sweet little head.”
“I have not yet forgotten your suggestion I am his namesake,” he told her with mock sternness. “That was a wretched thing to say. I am nothing like Shakespeare’s character, you know.”
It had taken the both of them attending the theater and watching Twelfth Night for her husband to finally comprehend her little joke. “You know I was only teasing you about that. And do forgive me the delay in preparing for slumber. I was detained a bit by chatting with your sister and the rest of the ladies.”
She had not been exaggerating earlier at dinner when she had thanked their friends for joining them here in Scotland. She and Monty were so blessed in so many ways. She never could have imagined the joy they would find together, or the wonderful, true friends they would find. In the drawing room, the Duchess of Whitley had revealed she was expecting another babe, and Lady Frederica had made a happy announcement as well.
So much joy. So much love.
“Gossiping,” her husband said, “when you could have already been on your back beneath me.”
“Or perhaps you would have been on yours,” she countered boldly. “You do like it when I ride your big, hard—”
“God’s fichu,” he muttered, interrupting before he silenced her with a deep kiss. “I love it when you say that word. But if you do, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. It turns me into a wild man every—”
“Cock,” she said, cutting him off with her own wicked grin.
Then she took his hands in hers, turning them so his palms faced upward.
“Sweet minx.”
He attempted to kiss her then, but she moved her head, not about to allow him to control this night. His lips grazed her cheek instead. Her husband gave her a frustrated glower, making a sound of protest.
“Have you ever heard of palmistry, my love?” she asked him, intentionally parodying the day he had asked her the same question when he had been courting her.
His sensual lips quirked. “Do not pretend you are an authority on it, pet. I was not born yesterday.”
How he recalled her words from over a year ago, she could not say. But it was one of his quirks—he remembered everything. She was not finished with him yet. She released his left hand, then used her right to stroke some of the ridges running through his broad palm.
“This line here.” She stroked again. “It says you have married a woman you already know. Your friend’s sister. She will give you everything you want, kiss you senseless as often as possible, and make you weak with desire by talking about your—”
“Not again,” he interrupted on a groan. “Show a man some mercy, I beg you.”
“—beautiful hands,” she finished triumphantly.
“Hattie.” His tone was steeped in warning.
“Ewan?” She blinked at him in feigned innocence.
“We both know you intended to say something else,” he gritted.
Her smile deepened. “What else?”
That quickly, he flipped her hand around and he was the one in control, bringing her hand to his rigid cock. Even through the fine fabric of his banyan, his heat seared her. Between her legs, a new pulse pounded to life.
“This,” he said.
“Oh.” Her fingers shaped him, stroked him. The hunger within her intensified.
But she was not finished torturing him yet. She sank to her knees, making short work of the loose belt, which had been holding the twain ends of his banyan in place. The garment gaped, revealing a mouthwatering expanse of hard, male chest, muscled torso, and his staff, protruding thickly from a base of dark curls and the heavy weight of his ballocks.
“Cock,” she said, and then she wasted no time in taking him in her mouth.
How she loved him, the musky, rich scent of him, the salty-sweet taste of him, the leashed power of his body, all at her command. She knew by now how to please him. Exhaling, she took him deep into her throat, worshiping him, this man she loved. He groaned above her, his hands sinking into her hair as his hips thrust. She cupped his sac, worked him, licked and sucked and pleasured him in every way she knew how.
But just when he was on the edge of release, he pulled away, bringing her to her feet. The ruddy flush in his cheeks pleased her. As did his breathlessness when he spoke.
“Enough, darling. I want to be inside you when I spend.”
She could not argue with that. As one, they removed all her layers: gown, petticoats, chemise, stays, stockings. When she began to unfasten her earbobs, he stopped her.
“Leave the diamonds.”
She did as he wanted, leaving them, and instead devoted herself to pushing his banyan off his broad shoulders. They fell into bed together, naked, with Hattie on her back and Ewan atop her. Her legs parted for the bold invasion of his body. She was ready for him, and he had scarcely even touched her.
“I wanted you on your back,” she protested, pouting.
He kissed her, slow and deep, his tongue sinking inside to foray with hers. He tasted like lemonade, only more delicious, because he also tasted like himself. He dragged his mouth away for a breath. “In this, I win.”
His fingers found her pearl, working over her.
“Your cunny is soaked, darling,” he said.
More forbidden words. She undulated beneath him, seeking more. He sucked her nipple, then gently bit. She moaned, stiffening beneath him, already on the verge of spending when he sank two fingers inside her. His thumb played with the sensitive bundle of flesh while his fingers fucked her swiftly, reaching that secret place inside her only he knew existed. She splintered, her release taking her by surprise in its sudden swiftness.
He kissed his way to her throat, to her ear. “I am going to fuck you now.”
Dear God.
“Yes,” she gasped. A desperate plea.
He withdrew his fingers, and she mourned the loss until he slammed back inside her with one deep thrust. He felt so good, filling her, stoking the passion inside her back into a roaring fire.
Their mouths met.
The rhythm he began was smooth, fast, hard. She lost herself far sooner than she had intended, tightening on him as splendor roared through her. Within moments, he was throwing back his head, releasing on a deep cry as his seed flooded her.
He collapsed atop her, his big, warm, beloved body pinning hers to the bed. Beloved weight. She wrapped herself around him, holding him tight. Their hearts thundered as one. United, just as they were.
Forever.
About the Author
Bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency historical romances with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, their adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.
A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. When she’s not reading, writing, wrangling toddlers, or camping, you can catch up with her on her website. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.
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Duke of Debauchery Page 26
