Page 43 of The Viscount and the Vixen
She angled her chin, striving to appear bolder than she felt. “Everything.”
That smile grew, so wicked, so taunting, so full of promise. “As my lady commands.”
She hadn’t really expected him to obey, had never truly felt an equal in her relationship with Montie, but Locksley didn’t lord himself over her. He tossed his jacket to the floor. His fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. Without thinking, she stepped forward and covered his hands with hers. She could feel the tension radiating through him. What was he trying to prove by not yet taking her? That he could resist her charms? She could sense how difficult the battle was. She should take pity on him. Too bad that she wanted his surrender. “I’ll do it.”
Never taking his eyes from hers, he lowered his head in acquiescence, spread his arms wide. She didn’t mistake the gesture for submission, knew it was merely a pause in the war. “We don’t have to be at odds,” she said quietly as she worked on the buttons.
“We’re not. I daresay, we have the same goal: getting you bedded.” He shirked out of his waistcoat, sent it flying to where the jacket had landed.
She unknotted his neck cloth. “Yet I feel we’re going about it as though it were a competition.”
His hand came to rest just beneath her jaw and—with the slightest of prompting—he tilted back her head. “You want to best me.”
She did, damn it. She wanted him to yearn for her, to beg, to be at her mercy. She wanted to be in control because she hadn’t been before. After pulling his neck cloth free, she tossed it aside. “You don’t love me.” She unbuttoned his shirt. “You will never love me.” She removed the black-onyx-studded cufflinks, cradling them in her palm, not certain what to do with something so obviously expensive and well crafted.
He scooped them up, carried them to the bedside table, set them down. He dragged his shirt over his head, tossed it to the floor before facing her. She’d seen his magnificent form when she’d awoken that morning, and yet still it took her breath. The sinew and muscle, the way his skin was stretched taut over a form molded to perfection.
His eyes never leaving her, he dropped into a nearby chair and began removing his boots.
“You don’t like me,” she continued, hating that she sounded so breathless, that her voice had gone so raspy and deep at the mere thought of flicking her tongue over his nipple, along his ribs, going lower until she tasted his very essence.
“I mentioned liking you earlier.”
“Comparing me to pudding, which is so very flattering. Then you told your father that you don’t have to like me to bed me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Yet I did. But I’m not bothered by it.” Much. “I don’t fancy you either.” A small lie. It was difficult not to fancy a man who exuded such sensual awareness, who moved about like some predatory animal. “However, I at least want to ensure you desire me.”
His task completed, he stood and ambled over to her, his gaze roaming over every inch visible to him, and she wished she’d thought to take off her stockings and slippers while he removed his boots. She felt rather silly with them still in place.
Stopping, he cradled one of her breasts, flicked his thumb over her pearled nipple. “I’ve never desired anyone more.”
His mouth came down on hers, hard, demanding. His arms closed around her, flattening her breasts to his chest, as his hands bracketed either side of her spine and journeyed up. Torrid heat swamped her, her legs went weak, and she scraped her fingers over his broad back so she had something solid to hold on to.
He dragged his lips down her throat, along her collarbone, nipping and licking as he went, leaving behind the promise of devouring her when all was said and done. She had little doubt that she would awaken in the morning to discover herself covered in tiny love bruises. Love. She very nearly scoffed. There would never be any love between them. Even what was passing between them now resembled love not in the least. It was all about possession, claiming what he had gained through marriage, taking ownership of what was now rightfully his.
She should have resented it, how easily he made her want to surrender, how simply he flamed the fires of her own desires. She’d never clamored for a man to take full possession of her the way she did for him to join his body with hers. Not even Montie. Regardless of her love for him, she’d never felt this intense need, this fear that if he suddenly released her and walked away, she might very well die.
He moved his mouth lower, and she arched back, her breasts an offering as though to a god. His mouth latched onto her nipple, and he suckled with purpose. Crying out with unguarded pleasure ripping through her, she lifted her leg to his hip, pressing her feminine core against the firm rigid length of him. Even through the cloth she could feel the scalding heat.
Groaning low, one hand—fingers splayed—supporting her back, he moved to her other breast and took while his free hand cupped the round backside of her raised leg and journeyed along it to her knee, back down, back up, as he undulated against her, causing her to grow wet, to crave a deeper intimacy. Where had her breath gone? Why could her heart not slow?
Quite suddenly, she found herself in his arms once again and before she could fully appreciate her position, he tossed her onto the bed, followed her down with a feral growl, once more taking her mouth, his tongue delving deeply as though he feared leaving bits of it unexplored, and yet how could he when he gave it such a thorough mapping? She’d never been so affected by a kiss, but then he’d stirred sparks within her to life the first time that he’d plastered his mouth to hers. She hated admitting that she could spend a lifetime kissing him and never have enough.
He was reluctant to admit that he might never have enough of simply kissing her. The way her luscious mouth moved beneath his, welcomed him, had him anticipating her notch welcoming and closing around his cock. Because he wanted her so desperately, he fought to curb his body’s aching needs, refusing to give in too quickly to the temptation of her. But before the night was done, he planned to know her in every way possible.
She was remarkably beautiful, every inch of her flawless. She could bring any man she wanted to his knees. He vowed then and there to never go to his knees for her.
Breathing harshly, he tore his mouth from hers, plowed his fingers into the thick silken strands of her hair, and began removing pins.
Gasping for breath, she said, “It would have been easier if you’d done that whilst standing.”
“I didn’t want anything to obstruct my view.” He combed her hair out over the pillows, the glorious red in stark contrast to the pristine white. All the while her hands glided over his chest, his shoulders, his back as though she couldn’t get enough of touching him. The satisfaction in knowing that she wanted him as much as he did her was unlike anything he’d ever known.
Leaning up, she stroked her tongue around his nipple. Placing his hand beneath the back of her head, he braced her and relished the torment of her scraping her teeth over the sensitive skin before taking a quick bite that caused his bollocks to tighten. He’d never been with a woman he considered his equal when it came to pleasuring. Her boldness inflamed him. If he hadn’t kept his trousers on, he’d already be buried deeply inside her—which was the very reason he had yet to remove them. He didn’t know why but when it came to her he wanted more than slaking his lust. If this was all they’d ever have, he wanted it worth the price of his freedom that he’d paid for it.
He might not love her, might not be particularly fond of her, might not trust her completely, but he would honor the vows he’d given her. He would remain faithful, he would respect her, he would honor her as a wife was to be honored. But behind a closed door, he wanted her untamed and wild, brazen and bold, a vixen of the first order.
