Page 21 of How to Seduce a Viscount (Wed Within a Year #3)

F or every action there was an equal and opposite reaction.

It was an absolute law of science and of sex.

Making love to Wren Audley was no exception.

Luce closed his eyes, attuning his body to the nuances of hers.

He listened to the soft inhalations of her breathing, felt the rise and fall of those inhalations against his chest. She slept as someone who was complete, at peace. Content and sure.

Those were no small things when one lived as they did, knowing that at any time the game could change.

That players could switch sides. That people were seldom who they said they were and the only constant was danger.

A person learned to sleep on edge in that world, learned to awake at the smallest invasion of space or sound.

One did not go too deeply into Morpheus’ realm.

That she had done so tonight, lying in his arms, filled Luce with a sense of pride.

A woman and her pleasure were safe with him, even when it was for business.

This had most definitely not been business tonight.

This had all been for personal pleasure.

His attraction to her had been instant from the moment she’d literally landed on his doorstep, bleeding, and it had only intensified with the constancy of her presence.

The facets of her on daily display tantalised him with her intelligence, tempted him with her boldness.

In hindsight, tonight had been inevitable. But what came next?

Curiosity slaked was not the same as curiosity sated, of being satisfied to the fullest degree.

The former was a temporary condition, the latter permanent.

His body was already rousing again, wanting her again.

Wanting what it was they had created between them again.

Proof that once with her had slaked a temporary need but it had not sated it.

There was a fear too, that lay beneath that proof—that twice or thrice, a week or a month, might not sate him either.

If it could not sate, it would have to suffice.

There was no question of permanence here.

It simply wasn’t possible. Grandfather would forgive him for sleeping with an agent.

Grandfather would not forgive him for disrupting that agent’s retirement plans—which had, no doubt, been achieved at great effort and expense on Grandfather’s part.

It was no small thing to disappear alive and never be found.

Not even by him. Should he try to find her, he could very well end up endangering her. She would not thank him for that.

Luce gently pushed her hair back, exposing the delicate bones of her face.

Ethereal. That was absolutely the right word for her.

She slept like an angel. In retirement, she could sleep like this every night, with no worries.

Perhaps she would sleep like this beside another man, a man who would know nothing of her.

Who would never know how deadly she was with a stiletto.

How she’d camped in the hills with guerillas outside of Athens or how she’d pickpocketed great statesmen at his grandfather’s dinner table when she was twelve or that she’d survived the streets of London.

Everything that man would know about her would be a lie—a false history designed to hide the real one.

It seemed unfair that man would get to have her for the rest of their lives.

She deserved a man who understood her and with whom she could be herself, stiletto stories and all.

Was that man him? Was that where his thoughts were leading?

Did he think she deserved him ? That he deserved her?

It was quite narcissistic to think he deserved her enough to disrupt her chance at real retirement.

She might say she didn’t want it, but she would come to appreciate it and the things that came with it—peace, quiet, the ability to walk down a village street and not worry about who you met coming around a corner.

There would be no more upsets like the one today.

The stress of constant alertness would fade replaced by the ability to relax.

He had no right to steal that independence, that freedom, from her even if it meant letting happiness slip through his fingers. When he was with her, everything he hungered for was close enough to touch.

Was it really though? His conscience posited the sharp reminder. She’d withheld information from him. He’d been furious with her earlier today. Perhaps he should be alarmed at how quickly he’d ignored that, how easy it had been to shift his focus, to forget that they were a game within a game.

She stirred against him and woke, slowly and drowsily, a content smile lighting her face when her eyes met his, a reminder why he’d so easily forgotten. ‘It wasn’t a dream, then.’ Her hand was warm on his chest, her fingertip tracing circles and lines as if she were painting him.

‘Are you all right? We didn’t aggravate your injury?’ Luce adjusted his arm about her.

‘No, it’s fine, but perhaps I should be on top next time.’ She slanted him a teasing look. How he loved a woman who knew her own mind.

‘Should I carry you to bed before that happens?’ Luce arched a brow.

‘Do you have to? I want to stay right here, by the fire, in your arms. We have everything we need. A blanket, pillows from the sofa, each other and…brandy.’ Dear God, had any woman ever made him so hard so fast with a single word?

There was a significant amount of wicked promise in the way she said it.

Luce levered himself up on one arm, letting his gaze linger on her mouth as he took the lure. ‘Were you thinking of drinking the brandy…or perhaps something else?’

She flicked a tongue across her bottom lip. Mischief lit her quicksilver eyes, her voice seductively low and throaty. ‘I was thinking about lapping it up off your cock, or should I say your membrum virile since we do love our Latin. What do you think of that?’

‘Not phallus?’ Luce flipped onto his back, watching her pad across the room to retrieve the decanter. He would have liked her naked but the thin linen didn’t hide much, and the firelight was on his side, outlining the trim figure and the rounded derriere beneath the fabric.

‘Are you trying to trick me?’ She gave a look of mock scolding as she returned, decanter in hand. ‘Phallus originated in the Greek, with an os instead of us. Latin co-opted it and changed the spelling. It’s not truly Latin.’

She knelt beside him with a coy smile, appreciating that he’d tossed aside the blanket, while he thought he might burst from being so frankly appreciated.

‘At any rate, membrum virile is far more apt a term when a man has a cock like yours. Membrum virile indeed.’ Her hand closed around him. His body was ready to enjoy this singular treat but his mind had fixed on something she’d said.

He covered her hand with his and kept his tone light as if this were nothing more than pillow banter. ‘Have you seen many cocks, then?’ A concern had taken root and he would not put his own pleasure ahead of it.

She laughed and swung her hair to one side. ‘Enough to know that yours is magnificent, as is your skill in wielding it. You needn’t worry.’ It was what every man wanted to hear—that he’d been a lover nonpareil. And that was the concern.

‘That’s not why I asked.’ He disengaged her hand from him. A herculean effort to be sure, but the right effort. ‘You’re not required to do this.’ Did she think it was expected? He did not want to be a routine to her, did not want to be ‘every man’.

She met his eyes evenly, unabashed by the question or its potential implications.

Her voice was soft and sincere, her hand cradled his jaw, holding his gaze to her.

‘Believe me, Luce Parkhurst, when I tell you this: You are a man beyond compare in bed and out. I have taken men to bed in the course of my information gathering and sometimes in the course of loneliness. No doubt you have done so with women for reasons of the same. But before tonight, I had never taken a lover , a man I chose to be with for entirely personal reasons, simply because of my feelings for him. A man not for the game, but a man for me alone, where there is no ulterior purpose. I have never done so before and I think it unlikely I will ever do so again.’ She leaned close to him, whispering, her hair brushing his chest and her scent in his nostrils, ‘I’ve waited my whole life for you, Luce.

Not for a man like you—one who is noble and true—but for you . ’

Her words overwhelmed him. Waiting for him . Just him . In her words, he was not one of many, but a unique entity, an individual. The very thing he craved. He’d thought to seek that individuality in a place, at Tillingbourne. He’d not expected to find it with a person.

He opened his mouth to speak but she pressed a slender finger to it.

‘I don’t need you to say anything. I expect nothing.

No promises, no flattering words. You’re a Horseman.

I am well aware of your reputation and that you’re called the Four Horsemen for reasons beyond delivering apocalyptic revenge for England. ’

She gave an impish smile.

‘You and your brothers are rakes who deliver extraordinary rides of a more intimate nature. I’ve heard the talk in drawing rooms across Europe. We needn’t pretend with each other, Luce.’

Luce levered into a half-upright sitting position.

‘Not as many lovers as you think. In that regard, my reputation may be exaggerated.’ But not overestimated.

He might not be Caine, who’d been a thorough embodiment of the word ‘rake’ before his marriage to Mary, but he’d done his fair share.

He’d had a steady parade of women who served their purpose and moved on at his request. He’d never met a woman whom he had wanted to stay. Not until now.