Page 91 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He could have a lifetime of bedding her and never grow bored. But tonight he didn’t want to bed her; he wanted to make love to her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, stroke every line and curve, taste every aspect of her. He wanted her scent, heated with passion, filling his lungs. He wanted her cries filling his ears.
He wanted to begin anew, exploring her as though she were a novel discovery.
Dragging his tongue from the tip of one breast to the other, he was aware of her thighs pressing against his hips as though she feared she would fly away if she weren’t secured.
“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, easing himself lower, planting light kisses along each of her ribs.
“You make me feel beautiful.”
He wanted to give her so many gifts: the gift of touch, the gift of pleasure, the gift of a shattering orgasm. He wanted her falling apart in his arms, wanted to hold her afterward as she came back together. For her, he wished he were a romantic, wished he knew the fine art of wooing.
But he’d never planned to court any woman, had always planned to be practical about his selection of a wife. That first day he’d been practical about her. He’d seen a woman whom he could never love.
Only now did he realize that he hadn’t seen at all. He’d been blind.
Something was decidedly different tonight. She wasn’t certain exactly what it was. The need was more intense, deeper. He kissed and licked his way down to her toes, so slowly, so provocatively, almost as though he were worshipping her, as though she were a goddess deserving of his adoration.
He moved back up, lingering at her thigh, teasing her with a promise that he wouldn’t stop there, that he had no intention of halting until she was writhing and begging.
“Don’t torment me.”
He licked her, nipped her. “I like how hoarse your voice gets when you’re on the brink of pleasure.”
“What else do you like?”
His mouth stayed on her thigh, but he lifted his smoldering gaze to her. She didn’t know if he’d ever looked more dangerous or more appealing. “I like the way you taste.”
Then he was tasting... the honeyed spot between her thighs, and she was no longer on the brink of pleasure but had fallen into its vortex, arching her back, clutching the sheets, feeling as though every nerve ending had come alive. He made her feel things she’d never felt before, experience sensations that had only hovered, had never been fully realized. He carried her to levels she’d not known existed; he caused her to soar.
Her cries echoed around her as she took flight. She was still ascending when he plunged into her deep and sure. Wrapping her legs around him, she scraped her fingernails along his buttocks, relishing his growl as he arched his back and pumped into her, faster, harder—
His deep groan, his shuddering body told her that he, too, was soaring. She couldn’t help it. She laughed, a quick burst of pure, unadulterated joy.
His responding laughter was quieter, lower, as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I have never enjoyed being with a woman so much.”
“It’s a sin how much I enjoy what we do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re married, which makes it all legal in heaven and on earth.”
“But we do such wicked things.”
“Mmm. All the better.”
Rolling off her, he brought her up against his side and slowly trailed his fingers along her arm. With her head nestled in the nook of his shoulder, she relished the beat of his heart, wondering if it were possible that he might unlock it just a little bit.
Chapter21
Portia should have made an excuse so she could have avoided coming to London, but the truth was that sooner or later she’d have to return and confront her demons. Sooner was better, get it behind her.
She’d had the coachman take her to a dressmaker’s—one of the more posh establishments that catered to ladies of nobility, according to the gossip rags—and told him to return for her in four hours. Once she’d been fitted for a lilac ball gown and another blue gown, she’d walked out and hired a hansom to bring her to the outskirts of London.
She regretted that the blue gown wouldn’t look exactly as the one before it, but what she had described to the seamstress didn’t look quite right when she’d finished sketching it out. Still, Portia couldn’t risk going to Lola, the woman she’d used before, couldn’t take a chance on someone recognizing her, spreading the word that she was here, and the truth of her past coming to light. Lola’s clients didn’t include noble ladies, but those for whom she did sew clothing kept quite a few aristocratic men company.
Which begged the question: What the devil was Portia doing slowly walking through her old neighborhood, strolling by her prior residence? She couldn’t linger, couldn’t stand on the corner and watch, hoping to catch sight of a new resident now. But she thought if she walked by she might be able to determine if someone else lived there, if Montie had moved on. If he’d replaced her, it was quite possible that even if he spotted her, he wouldn’t care. He’d ignore her. His pride would force him to.
He had so damned much pride. As much as her father. She’d thought all men were the same until Locksley. It would be so much easier if she hadn’t come to care for him. While she knew it had been wrong to marry him, he’d been so unpleasant when they’d first met that she convinced herself he deserved what he got: a woman of sin who had once belonged to another.
But now...
