Page 9 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
Mr. Russell moved to lay above her, the chaise not wide enough for both of them. His lips met hers in a searing kiss that reignited every nerve ending in her body. It was not the gentle peck of an acquaintance, nor the restrained touch of a gentleman caller—it was the kiss of a man who had long denied himself the taste of passion, now unleashed.
His hands, those of an artist accustomed to shaping beauty from raw materials, now gently caressed her face as if she were his most treasured creation. The sensation of his rough fingertips against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and Joy found herself leaning into the kiss, eager for the comfort and excitement it provided.
His hands traced the gentle slope of her collarbone, leaving in their wake a trail of heat on her chilled skin. Her heart raced, quickening with each inch he explored, as if it too sought to be closer to him.
“Mr. Russell,” she breathed out. But his lips met hers again and she forgot what she was going to ask.
He responded not with words, but with action, lowering his head to the tender expanse of her neck. The gentle nips preceded every gasp and moan that she offered up to the quiet room.
“Ah...” The sound escaped her, unbidden and raw, as he continued his ministrations. In that moment, Joy felt as though she were coming undone under his touch.
Emboldened by her experiences, her hands found their way to his chest, a chiseled landscape of his muscles. She traced the lines and grooves with a sense of wonder and discovery.
His breath hitched slightly under her touch. The room, filled with only the occasional crackle from the fireplace and their involuntary vocalizations, became an intimate cocoon where only their mutual desire existed.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he whispered, his hand returning to the heat between her thighs.
“Y-Yes?”
“Are you certain?” His piercing eyes searched hers, seeking permission, ever respectful despite the urgency that fueled them both.
“More than I have ever been,” Joy assured him. “Please, show me how it should be done.”
And with that affirmation, Mr. Russell aligned himself with her, entering her slowly, the tension in his body showing his restraint.
Joy’s eyes fluttered shut, her brow furrowing slightly in pleasure as the heat of his breath fanned across her neck, her racing pulse responding to the agility of his hands tracing the contours of her sides. Her fingers locked around his wrists, drawing him even closer, pressing their warm bodies together in an almost desperate embrace. His mouth left a trail of burning kisses down her collarbone and neck, displacing the cool air with each delicate nip and lick, sending shivers over her that turned into tremors of anticipation. The rough pad of his thumb brushed against the crests of her breasts, barely touching but evoking a moan from deep within her.
As he continued to stroke slowly inside her, Joy’s stomach fluttered. She arched into him, eager for more—for his touch to explore and claim every inch of her body that had been yearning for this moment for so long. When his kisses reached the valley between her breasts, his hot breath made them tingle with excitement. He placed a soft kiss there, followed by another on her sternum.
“More,” she breathed out against his hair as he nestled his face into the crook of her neck. Her hips rocked forward instinctively, grinding against him in a silent plea for release. She could feel the pressure building inside her core, pulsing with each throb of their hips together.
Mr. Russell let out a low growl against her skin before lifting his head slowly, looking into Joy’s eyes, holding her gaze captive.
The sounds of their lovemaking filled the room, painting a vivid picture of their entwined passion. The chaise creaked beneath them, its wooden frame moaning in response to the forceful thrusts. His deep groans reverberated against Joy’s ear, the sound raw and primal, as if every ounce of control he possessed was slipping away. In response, she cried out his name, high-pitched and breathless, her body arching off the chaise in search of still deeper pleasure. Their bodies moved as one, each motion mirroring the other’s increasing fervor.
As he drove into her harder and faster, Joy clung to him desperately, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as she surrendered to the rapture coursing through her. The scent of their sweat and each other’s skin mingled in the air around them, becoming intoxicatingly heady. With each powerful stroke, he pushed deeper inside, claiming her completely. Her moans became louder with every passing second, echoing off the walls.
She could taste the sweetness of him on her tongue as they kissed frantically, their tongues tangling and dancing together in a whirlwind of sensation. His lips were soft yet firm against hers, demanding attention while also offering gentle reassurance. His beard scraped against her skin, leaving tiny scratches that stung and tingled in a way that only added to the intensity of their encounter.
The heat between them was palpable. Joy felt it everywhere—in the damp flesh against flesh, in the pounding of their hearts, in the taut muscles that shook beneath her fingers. Her body tensed. A gasp escaped her lips, blossoming into a series of soft moans that echoed his name—a litany of pleasure that crowned the chaotic beauty of her release.
Waves of pure bliss cascaded over her, ripples spreading through the very fibers of her being, leaving no corner untouched by their exquisite torment. Every nerve sang, every sense heightened, as she surrendered herself to the ecstasy that claimed her wholly.
In answer, with a strangled groan, he reached his climax. His body trembled and collapsed atop Joy’s quivering figure. They lay there, a tangle of limbs and whispered breaths, as the echoes of their passion slowly faded into the quiet of the room.
In the aftermath, Joy’s body was heavy with fulfillment and the sweet fatigue of spent desire. Their chests rose and fell in unison, the only sound amidst the stillness, as they both caught their breath. She felt the steady rhythm of Mr. Russell’s heart—a drumbeat entwined with her own.
The heat from his body enveloped her, a tender shroud that warded off the remnants of any chill left in the evening air. His breath, now gentle and measured, caressed her neck in a soothing cadence, a stark contrast to the storm of passion that had raged moments before.
Joy’s fingers traced idle patterns across his broad back, muscles still taut from exertion, yet yielding beneath her touch. The texture of his skin was both rugged and sublime, and she wondered why she and her husband had never lain together this way. After the bliss had passed. This was the most intimate moment she could imagine sharing with a man, this shared repletion.
She then realized what she had done, how far her conduct was from what was expected of a respectable widowed governess. Joy chuckled softly, the sound dancing in the air. “We have scandalized the saints and shocked the muses, Mr. Russell.”
“Let them be scandalized,” he whispered back in a low rumble that reverberated within her chest. “And don’t you think ‘Mr. Russell’ is a bit formal, considering how we are dressed?” His hand swept up the naked skin of her hip and waist, coming to rest on her breast, where he tweaked her nipple.
“I don’t know your given name.”
“Moses. Call me Moses.”
