The Viscount's Rose (The Farthingale Series Book 5)

by Meara Platt

  The gown was loose and falling off her creamy shoulders. Her hair was wild and tumbling down her back in golden waves.

  The front of her gown slipped lower, exposing the tops of her breasts. Most women of fashion wore their gowns cut that low, but this was Rose. She had the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen, and he’d seen many in his wild younger days. Rose’s weren’t your average sort of beautiful breasts, but the Holy Grail of breasts. Men went on odysseys to search for such perfection, and here she stood before him.

  His for the taking.

  He took a deep breath. “Good night, Rose. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  That might have been the end of it if the tempest overhead hadn’t chosen that moment to unleash its fury. Lightning cracked and thunder boomed almost simultaneously, the strike coming so close it shook the rafters. Rose let out a startled cry and jumped into his open arms, which shouldn’t have been open, but somehow were. He’d reached for her the moment the roof had swayed, ready to protect her with his body.

  Now she was crushed up against him, the gown slipping even lower as she let go of it to throw her arms around him. They were now skin to skin, hearts pounding and entwined in each other’s arms.

  As the storm broke loose and wild, so did their passion.

  He wasn’t so far gone that a simple no would have stopped him. Instead, Rose was whispering yes and “don’t you dare stop,” so he didn’t. He slid the gown off her, leaving her clad only in her camisole, which was sheer and damp. He realized she was tugging at his shirt, so he tossed it off as well and in the same motion lifted her by the waist to balance her on the table while he positioned her legs around his hips and bent his head to sample the Holy Grail.

  He hadn’t stripped her of the camisole, intending for that flimsy fabric to act as a protective barrier between them, but it was too easily nudged aside by the tug of his finger so that the sleeves fell off her shoulders. A second tug brought the rest of the delicate bodice down with it around her waist. His knuckle grazed over one of her exposed nipples, causing it to pucker into a hard bud. His heartbeat came to a crushing halt. “Sweetheart, you’re so beautiful.”

  She seemed surprised. “Thank you.”

  He loved how unaffected she was about her striking good looks. “Polite, too,” he said with a grin, lowering his head to trail light kisses down the curve of her throat.

  Her skin felt satin soft and tasted lightly salty. He moved lower, taking one nipple between his teeth and gently scraping across it, then letting his tongue and lips take over, suckling and swirling over one and then the other until she was hot and writhing and her pink peaks were as hard and erect as he was. “Julian, oh my! Oh, ooh…”

  Overhead, thunder and lightning continued to shatter the evening quiet with pounding intensity, but he didn’t care and Rose didn’t seem to either. Her eyes were closed and mouth slightly parted as she took in each sensation with avid delight. He watched her, drank her in, worked his lips and fingers over her incredibly responsive body and wanted more because he couldn’t get enough of her and knew he’d never have his fill of this perfect beauty. She was his.

  She had to be his, for all the days of their lives.

  His.

  No other man’s Rose.

  His Rose.

  His fingers stroked between her thighs. She was already slick and aroused, near to slipping over the edge. So was he, but he wanted her to experience this womanly pleasure, to be guided by his touch, his and only his ever after.

  The forces of nature clashed and crashed in a roar, as though a fierce battle were being fought in the sky, but Julian felt oddly at peace. He was with Rose and nothing else mattered. He felt her begin to tremble and swell around his stroking finger and knew that she was about to reach her climax.

  “Julian,” she said in a throaty whisper, her eyes as wild and beautiful as her glorious mane of golden hair that tumbled over her naked shoulders. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, only that his hands and lips were roaming everywhere on her body, guiding her with purposeful abandon to unexplored heights. He loved that she trusted him so completely, that she willingly followed wherever he led, that she trusted him enough to hold nothing back.

  He watched in fascination as she responded to his touch with a passionate innocence that stole his breath away, that aroused him and left him as hard as a blacksmith’s anvil. He wanted to drive himself inside her willing body. He ached to feel her close around his throbbing member, but he wasn’t so far gone as to take that last, irrevocable step.

  Not this time. Not while he held back secrets from her.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders and tossed back her head. Soft, breathy moans escaped her lips. She arched her back, allowing him unhampered access to every inch of her body, and then she shattered into a thousand pieces of splendor, a thousand sensations of delight. His heart swelled as he gathered her in his arms and held her close against his chest for an endlessly long moment, his feelings for this innocent so powerful they shattered the walls surrounding his heart.

  Rose was now in his heart.

  Irrevocably and permanently.

  This was the Emory curse, to love once. To love forever. He’d chosen Rose.

  But he was still on assignment.

  How was he to keep Rose away from Valentina?

  How was he to keep himself away from Rose?