Page 16 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

S ybil was not entirely sure that she was not imagining Keir’s beautifully filthy words—at least until she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. He barely shifted, catching her easily. His glass-green eyes were swallowed by dark pupils, watching her with a kind of stunned and vicious joy. She was so desperate for him, swollen and throbbing, that she might find her release just by shifting her position slightly against his hardness. She could lose herself, right here and right now.

Instead, she eased back slightly but did not let go.

Eyes open.

“What about Lady Violetta?” Sybil asked quietly. She didn’t want to ask. She wanted to pretend that his answer did not matter. That nothing mattered but this moment. Nothing but the thread between them tightening, tightening. But that was not the way the world worked. She already knew it was not the way he worked, despite evidence to the contrary.

“What of her?”

“You’re courting her,” she reminded him even as she wished she could just keep her mouth shut for once in her blessed life. “I am sure she would not care for this, even if you are not officially betrothed.” She had always known they would end.

“We are not betrothed,” he said. She nodded. She did not know what else to do. She wanted that to be enough. “And I am not courting her.”

“I underst—” Sybil broke off. “I’m sorry, did you…?”

She must have heard him wrong. She was not prone to hallucinations, but she supposed anyone might succumb when wrapped around a burly Scotsman who looked as if it was taking every ounce of his strength not to devour her.

“I spoke to Lady Violetta after the horse race.”

“You… did?”

“Yes. It seemed the only decent thing to do.”

And so it was. For him. Her very dutiful and honorable marquess to the core. That was why his sudden cut direct by the front door of his house and the ensuing silence at the garden fence had hurt so much all of those years ago. Because he always strove to do what was right. And she was wrong for him, for what he wanted from his life. But tonight, she refused to let any of that matter.

“I cannot possibly court another woman when I cannot keep my hands off you. I was a fool to think I could.”

“Was she very upset?”

“No,” he replied drily. “She was not the least bit fazed. Her mother, however, howled.”

“I am sure she did.”

“Loudly. It startled the cat.”

She would have this night.

And then she would carry on.

Sybil knew how to carry on.

“Let me love you, Sybil,” he said roughly. “There’s no one to stop us now.”

There was all of Society and all of his very beloved rules to stop them.

But again, not tonight.

Not tonight.

When she kissed him, it was slow and deep. Heat swelled, as it always did, but they struggled to stretch the moment. Not to hurry because someone might find them, but because they might start thinking clearly again. He cradled her bottom, pulling her legs wider around him, dragging her center over his hardness, again and again. Teasing her, tormenting her, whetting her appetite for him until she made soft, mewling noises in her throat. He chased them with his mouth and his teeth, dragging sucking kisses along her neck. She shivered in his arms, digging her fingers into his hair.

He crossed the room in two great strides, and the muscles of his shoulders worked under her fingertips. She wanted to see them, wanted to run her tongue along his skin. Wanted to bite them. She plucked at his cravat as he set her down on the edge of the bed, chuckling even as he continued to kiss her. He sounded happy. Not tortured.

She threw the cravat on the floor and watched as he made quick work of his waistcoat and tugged his lawn shirt over his head. The firelight played over the soft pelt of hair, the thickness of his torso, all ridges and strength and padding of warm flesh over muscle. His dark hair was tousled from her hands; his green eyes gleamed like sea glass.

She didn’t know where to look because she wanted to see everything all at once. She had never really had the opportunity before. They had not allowed it of themselves. Of each other.

He raised an eyebrow. He knew her too well.

She narrowed her eyes in response.

And then he dropped to his knees in front of her and she nearly lost the ability to speak. Everything that was not Keir faded into the background: the crackling fire, the cold draft at the window, the messy counterpane behind her because she had forgotten to make her bed again. There was only Keir, his mouth, the expanse of his burly chest, his hands fisting in the hem of her skirts. “Eyes on me,” he demanded.

He didn’t shove her skirts up abruptly, not this time. He was methodical, precise, as he pushed them up to her knees, dragging his fingers back down along the inside of her calves. He pulled at the laces of her shoes and put them aside. Next, he reached for her stockings, catching and keeping her gaze as he rolled one down and then the other. She wished she was wearing a prettier gown, silkier stockings.

His palm brushed her ankle and she winced.

He froze. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. No need to get all missish and silly over a few scars. He must have noticed them before, even if he had not said anything. Then again, everything they did was usually furtive and tucked into the shadows. She had not removed her stockings the night of the fireworks. There was no time. “I… have some scars,” she said. “You needn’t look.”

His fingers tightened around her, as if she had threatened to bolt. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, of course.” She forced a smile, feeling foolish. “It’s nothing.”

He waited a moment, another. His jaw clenched. “I know about Eastbourne.”

She stared at him. “You do? How?”

“I just do. May he rot.”

“Oh.” He rubbed her ankles, up her legs, and it was nice. More than nice. Some of the tension released from her, and she could concentrate on the much more pleasurable warmth tingling through her from his touch. “You look angry.”

“I am angry.”

“Someone burned down his cellar,” she said. She was glad for it. It helped a little, even if it shouldn’t.

“I know,” Keir said. “It was me.”

Sybil blinked at him. He had never taken her quite as much by surprise as he did with that statement. And that was including that day by the front door. The time he had climbed a tree to rescue her cat. “But that was before…”

“Before?”

“Before.” She made a helpless motion with her hand meant to encompass everything that was between them. Everything that wasn’t. “This.”

“Was it?” He sounded so calm. So unlike a man who had burned down a cellar. “Sybil, I’ve known you for a long time, and there has only ever been this. No before, and certainly no after .”

“So you burned down his cellar?”

“I would have burned down his house too, but there were servants inside.”

She giggled—she couldn’t help it. It was so… unexpected. Lovely in its own way. And mad. Definitely mad. “That does not sound like the actions of the Marquess of Most Righteous Order and Decorum.”

“It was justice, plain and simple. And I know Parliament—they might have taken too long to act, if at all.” He nudged closer, widening her knees. “How many lordly titles do you plan on giving me?”

“As many as I can think up.”

“You only make them up when you think I am being pompous and stodgy.”

She grinned. “Yes.”

“Then I hope you have a good imagination,” he added drily.

Her grin widened. “Are you saying I’m right?”

“Is that what you want to hear?”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Yes, please.”

“Then yes, you are, on occasion, right. Now, do you mind very much?” he added sternly. “I am in the middle of something, if you please.”

“By all means, your lordship.”

He pressed closer still, and the heat in her center liquefied. He tugged up her outer skirts, pushing them around her waist. Then her petticoats, tucking them carefully. His sides, warm and bare, tickled her inner thighs. It was nice to not have to rush.

But he was taking too long.

“Keir,” she said, reaching for her gown to help him. All of her dresses were constructed so she did not require a lady’s maid, and even her stays laced in front. She could be naked in minutes.

He grabbed her wrist. “Ah, ah.”

She scowled at him. “What?”

“That’s for me to do.”

“Then do it. You are taking too long.”

“I’m going to take my time,” he scolded her, smiling a truly dangerous smile she had never seen before. It did not improve her patience. In fact, it made her feel quite wild. “And I’m going to unwrap you like a present.”

“You always took an insufferably long time unwrapping presents,” she complained.

“And you tore through paper like a badger. I once saw you bite through a ribbon,” he said fondly.

“I want to bite you .” Everywhere. Immediately.

“I have every intention of letting you.”

“I’m not convinced,” she sniffed, just to needle him into action. Into touching her, kissing her. Anything. “In fact, I think you’ve changed your mind.”

“Brat,” he said fondly.

She reached for the placket of his breeches. If he wouldn’t touch her, the least he could do was let her touch him . He closed his fingers around her wrist and clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“ Keir. ”

“You come first, Sybil. Always. If you don’t come, I don’t come.”

And then he kissed her deeply, thoroughly, even as his thumbs grazed her quim, slipping through her wetness, parting her until she was gasping into his mouth. He was still teasing her. A brush of his fingers, pressing just inside, slipping up and over her bud until she squirmed against him.

And then he released her to finish loosening her dress. She was wet and swollen and panting for breath as the dress was pulled off, then her stays. Her chemise was thin, reaching the tops of her thighs. Her nipples strained against the sheer material, puckering at just the brush of his gaze. “Sybil, do you like this chemise very much?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.” His big hands fisted into the chemise and he tore it in half. The sound went straight to her head. She gasped. “It was in my way.”

“I’ve decided I hate all chemises.”

He ran his palm up her torso, as if mesmerized. “Your breasts are absolutely”—he dipped his head reverently toward them—“perfect,” he continued, around her nipple, sucking it slowly, then with more fervor. Heat shot into her quim with every lick and suckle. Her toes were curling into the coverlet by the time he dragged his lips down her stomach. She wanted to touch him, but he was just out of reach, gleaming and golden.

He pushed her back onto the mattress, pinning her there with one big hand.

And only when he was satisfied that she was going to stay still did he use his thumbs to part her slick folds, licking into her, rolling the tip of his tongue over her bud. Back and forth, licking, sucking, drawing her into his mouth until she bucked and writhed against the mattress and he made a sound of approval against her flesh. She was lightheaded and sweaty and quite desperate.

She was coming apart.

There was no warning—one moment she was desperate and then the trembling heat washed over her in cresting waves that stole her breath. It stole every worry, every thought. Everything that was not Keir and his hands and his mouth and the filthy sounds of his enjoyment.

When she finally collapsed back, utterly spent, he looked up at her from between her thighs, green eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You look very proud of yourself,” she murmured.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, desire feeding desire, even when her muscles felt so soft that she was not sure she could stand.

Luckily, what she had in mind did not require standing.

“My turn.”

She pulled at him until he prowled onto the mattress, naked and delicious. His erection speared up, hard and flushed with arousal, just from bringing her pleasure. This man.

She closed her lips around his cock and sucked. He cursed, groaning. She liked him like this, at her mercy, without the trappings and pressures of his title. She always had. She swirled her tongue on the underside of his length, over the tip, and then sucked again, and again, harder and harder. His breaths grew harsh and guttural. “Your mouth .”

He tasted salty and clean, and he was trying so hard not to lose control.

“Sybil?”

“Yes?”

“You are making me feel quite uncivilized.”

“About time.”

“Wicked, wicked thing. Come here. Now ,” he demanded, pulling her up next to him and then pushing her onto her back when she took too long to comply. He lifted her knee, surging into the space between her thighs, pressing down over her. He blocked out the firelight, the cold draft at the window, everything.

It was overwhelming.

Too much.

Perfect.

She lifted up against him, opening the cradle of her thighs further until he looked quite feral, watching her as though he could eat her up. The tendons of his neck worked and his shoulders tensed as he held himself up over her. He bent his head to kiss her again, deeply, stroking his tongue along hers as he slid inside her. Her intimate muscles clenched around him. She took a deep breath and relaxed around him, and he slid deeper still, making them both moan. He was everywhere. He was everything.

They clung to each other, meeting thrust for thrust. Chasing every sensation.

“Not yet,” he muttered when she closed her teeth around the spot where his shoulder met his neck. He cursed. “Vixen. Not yet.”

“Now,” she argued, sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat.

“Not until you come again.”

“I can’t,” she babbled, lost to the friction and the stretch of her body around him. It felt so good. He kept his pace, brutal and deep and unhurried.

“You can,” he promised, gently domineering. Demanding everything from her. Giving everything to her in return. He reached down between their bodies and stroked her nub, slippery and sure. She moaned. It was too much. Just enough. She was past thoughts. She was nothing but her body, nothing but the heat pooling inside and sparking down her limbs.

When she bucked against him, the rhythm of his thrusts changed, stuttered. “Now,” she urged him, just as demanding. “Now, Keir.”

He groaned, pulled out as though it cost him several years off his life, and spent into the sheets. There was only the sound of their panting, the pop of the fire. She had never experienced such a violent release, and the world remained quiet, a cold winter’s night.

Keir got to his feet, pushing his tangled hair off his face.

She waited for him to reach for his clothes, to walk away. She wrestled with the disappointment welling inside of her.

And he did walk away.

But this time he returned. He didn’t drag on his breeches, didn’t tuck her back into her dress, gentle but swift. This time he returned with the washbasin and a cloth to help her clean up. Part of her teared up, and she refused to give in. Instead, she wrinkled her nose, intending to save them both from the awkwardness of the aftermath. It was uncharted territory for them. “I can do it.”

“Sybil,” he said, very seriously, “this is my privilege.”

She let him tend to her and tried not to lean into the gentleness of the moment, the possibilities it promised. Because reality lingered, unsaid.

So, naturally, Sybil proceeded to say it.

“Keir?”

“Yes, plum?”

“I will not marry you.”

She might want to marry him. Quite desperately, actually, if she thought about it, which she refused to do because it was not sensible. She might feel different, but she wasn’t. Not really. Her circumstances certainly had not changed. Although his had, as he was no longer courting Lady Violetta.

“Keir, are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You are going to wake up in the morning full of honorable intentions and untarnished reputations and honor and all that rot you love so much.” More than her. She could feel it. After all of those stolen moments in dark rooms, carriages, against the garden wall. This time was different. Something was changing. Had changed.

But not Society.

Never that.

“Rot?” he said, amused. “You reduce hundreds of years of Society to ‘rot’?”

“Easily. All of those rules and protocols are not made to help me at all, despite the claims to the contrary. Women are not gentle sparrows who need tending. I’d much rather have access to my own money than a sonnet about my golden hair.” She shook her head. “I am getting distracted.”

“Excellent.”

“I mean it, Keir. I won’t marry you.”

“Let’s see, shall we?”