Page 114 of The Viscount and the Vixen
It had only been a few nights since he’d last seen her naked, but it seemed as though her body had changed, or perhaps he’d just not looked as closely. But her breasts were larger, her stomach more swollen. Now that he knew she was further along than he’d realized, he supposed changes would be happening more quickly.
Filling his hands with her delightful orbs, he pressed a kiss to the valley between them. Scraping her fingers through his hair, she dropped her head back on a moan. Then to ensure she understood his dedication to her, he dropped to his knees and kissed her belly.
“Locksley,” she whispered on ragged breath.
He looked up at her gazing down on him. “I love you, Portia. Every aspect of you, every part of you. And I shall love this child if for no other reason than because some part of it is you.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You’ve told me on numerous occasions that I’m an ass. I don’t think you’re getting any great prize here.”
“You’re wrong there. I’m getting the greatest prize of all: love.”
He shot to his feet. “Take off my clothes.”
She gave him a seductive and wicked grin. “Gladly.”
He’d always loved that about her, how comfortable she was with the body, with sex. He didn’t know if it came from her being a mistress or the devil in her, as her father claimed. It wasn’t important. He was coming to realize that a good many things he’d worried over didn’t matter. With her at his side, he was going to have everything he’d ever wanted, ever needed.
She took her sweet time disrobing him, tormenting him, slowly rubbing skin that became visible, licking it, taking it between her teeth, nipping. When he was completely nude, he moved to take her in his arms and she stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest. Her eyes, her intoxicating whiskey eyes, held his for two heartbeats before she went to her knees.
“Portia, you don’t have—”
“I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never done it. I never wanted to and Beaumont didn’t force me. But I want to now.”
His mouth had gone so dry that he doubted he could have spoken had the residence caught on fire and he needed to warn people. He merely nodded.
The rough edge of her tongue traced the length of him, up and down, over and over. His groan echoed through the room, and he thought she would be the death of him. Then her lips were taunting and teasing. He’d never known such exquisite torture. He fully intended to return the favor.
“Ah, my little vixen. You have the power to bring me to my knees.”
“It would make it more difficult to do this.”
He couldn’t believe he was chuckling. Before her, he never laughed when bedding a woman, although he realized it had been a good long time since he’d thought of himself as bedding her. Sometime between the moment that he married her and now, he’d begun to think of himself as making love to her.
Her mouth enveloped a good part of him, heated silk against velvet, her tongue swirling over him. He plowed his hands into her hair because he had to touch her, had to complete a circle. Christ, he was beginning to think like a poet. The next thing he knew he’d be spouting rhymes.
Although for her, he’d spout anything she wanted. With each sweep of her tongue, the pleasure spiraled through him, with each stroke of her mouth sensations set his nerve endings afire. She was innocence and vixen, daring yet unschooled, and he loved her all the more for it. Reaching down, he slipped his hands beneath her arms and brought her to her feet. Her mouth was wet, swollen, and he took it, tasting the saltiness of his skin on her tongue.
He backed her up until the backs of her knees hit the bed. Then he lifted her up and placed her gently on the mattress so he could feast on her.
She’d not yet had her fill of him, but she’d sensed his tension, his quivering need. She’d been driving him to the brink of madness. She’d understood that well enough as he did it to her far too often and easily.
Spreading her thighs, he skimmed his mouth up one leg and down the other. Up again and down. Up again... and hovering there. Blowing on her curls, using his fingers to open her up as though she were a rose that needed help unfurling. Then just as she’d tormented him, he tormented her with long slow licks, knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to recede. He came at her like the waves of an ocean, undulating, forceful, retreating but leaving dampness behind. Burying her fingers in his hair, she wondered if he truly understood the power he held over her. She would do anything he asked, even remain his wife.
He loved her. She was still humbled by the notion, and yet she’d also never felt more victorious. He was hers. Completely. He’d given her a portion of himself that he’d never given to anyone. No other woman had ever held his heart, and while she could not determine what she’d done to acquire it, she certainly wasn’t fool enough to argue with him.
She loved him too much, and she would love him until the day she died.
The pleasure cascaded through her, ebbing and flowing, taking her breath, taking her strength, taking her will. With so little effort he could possess her, control her, rule her. Yet he never pushed to own her. He gifted her with his touch, his tongue, his fingers. Kisses and licks, strokes and nibbles. She could so easily come undone, but tonight was a new beginning; tonight was one of lovemaking, of unselfishness, of giving and taking equally.
“Killian,” she breathed, hovering on the edge. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He took one last stroke, one last swipe with his tongue, before moving up and flopping onto his back. “Straddle me.”
Rising up, she rolled over until her legs were on either side of his hips. Plowing his hands into her hair, he held her still.
“Tell me you love me,” he ordered.
