Page 40 of Season of the Scoundrel
Ross bent and scooped her up behind the knees, holding her in his arms as he carried her to his four-post bed. Then he joined her, his body over hers, all of his heat warming her.
Ivy wrapped her arms around him, lifted her head from the pillows to kiss him. He kissed her deep and slow, then lifted his head. She wanted to pull him back, but he lifted off of her, then moved his body down hers.
“Where are you going?” she whispered, even as the slide of his skin and the hair on his chest tickled her stomach. He never stopped touching her, trailing his hands over her body like he needed to feel every inch of her.
“I need to taste you, love.”
Then he was touching her, right where all the need in her body centered. One finger through her curls, then slipping along the slickness, making her shudder.
Ivy sank her fingers into his hair, bit her lip, closed her eyes. She trusted him. Wanted him. Loved the way he touched her, the way he looked at her. Her made her feel safe. Desired.
She loved him. The thought of letting herself fall had terrified her days ago, but now her chest felt warm at the admission, as if her heart radiated with the truth of it.
He bent his head and his tongue traced his finger’s path. With masterful strokes, he brought her body to a precipice, every muscle tightening, the breath tangling in her chest. Then she pitched over the edge, her body shaking and then melting as if warm syrup ran through her veins.
“Ross,” she gasped his name. “Please.”
Ivy reached down, needing him closer. Needing to feel his skin against hers.
He kissed her, and she felt the heat of his length against her core.
“Ivy,” he said, lifting his head, staring down at her, his eyes shining. “Stay with me.”
“Always.” She slid her fingers through his hair, and he rocked into her slowly, filling her a bit more with each stroke.
At her gasp, he stilled.
“Don’t stop.” She curled her hand around the taut heated skin of his neck. “Please don’t stop.”
He bent his head and kissed her. Slow, delicious kisses and then he tasted her, stroking his tongue against hers as he built a rhythm between them.
Ivy arched to meet him. To be closer to him was all she wanted.
Then her muscles began to tense again. She felt herself being drawn to that point of blissful surrender again, and Ross seemed to sense it too. He lifted his head, his gaze locked on hers.
“My love,” he whispered, then bent his head again to nip at the skin of her neck.
The nip, the single word, the claiming spoken like a vow sent her over that edge and she shuddered beneath him as he took her mouth and groaned through his own release.
Afterwards, they lay together, breathless, Ivy wrapped in Ross’s arms. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t feel odd or different, she felt wanted, treasured. It felt right to be in his arms, as if it was where she belonged.
CHAPTER 11
When Ivy woke late the next morning, she reached for Ross, then remembered she’d insisted on returning home the previous evening. For a long while, she let her mind revisit the night they’d shared. She reached up and touched her lips, squeezed her thighs together at the memory of the way he’d touched her, the pleasure he’d brought her to.
My love.Those two words echoed in her mind and her heart felt full.
She couldn’t be sure how long they’d held each other, but she’d wanted to stay with him last night . The moment had felt so right, she’d almost blurted her confession—that she loved him.
Did those two words he’d spoken in the heated moments between them mean he felt the same?
Last night, she’d vowed to herself that she wouldn’t worry about the future. That she’d let herself have those moments with him beyond any talk of betrothals or what would come after.
And she didn’t regret a single moment. In fact, she knew now that Ross, a future with him, was what she wanted. She needed to tell him.
The hows and the ways that she would grow into the role of his duchess still weren’t entirely clear, but her own sisterwas a duchess. Lily had embraced her role with grace and a determination to remain true to herself.
Ivy told herself she could do the same.
