A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(106)

She laughed then, wild and free, like the Highlands. “I think, Mr. Stuart,” she whispered, moving her hand, revealing a thatch of secret, stunning auburn hair, “that if ye’ll be touchin’ me, it’ll be you who is lucky.”

And she was right. He was the luckiest man alive. For the night.

To honor that good fortune, he laid himself down next to her, and proceeded to do all he’d promised, whispering to her the whole time, revealing her secrets in the little room as he made love to her. “So soft,” he said at her ear, his lips lingering over the soft skin of her neck. “So wet.” He licked, worrying the lobe between his teeth as he slipped a finger through her folds, drenched with her desire. “So warm,” he said, that finger sliding deep and returning again and again, swirling and petting and stroking until she was writhing beneath him and he moved to her breast.

He licked, long and slow, before taking the straining tip between his lips and sucking, soft and rhythmic, in time to the movements of his hand, and she came off the bed like she was pulled on a string, one hand threading into his hair, the other finding his, strong and sure below, slowing it as she rode her climax to its glorious end.

And it was glorious. She turned pink with pleasure, with excess. And when she settled, sighing his name and opening those eyes to meet his, he could see that her thoughts had scrambled.

She dragged his mouth to hers once more, kissing him slow and deep and thorough.

And when she released him, he said, “I desire it again.”

Her eyes went wide and her lips curved into a little O. He moved, this time spreading her thighs apart with his shoulders and lifting her to his mouth with one arm, turning her into his banquet. Loving her with his hands and mouth until she came apart in his arms, his name first a whisper and then a scream on her lips.

And when she’d collapsed once more in a heap on the bed, he pressed soft kisses to her stomach and whispered, “You, Lily. It will always be you. Everything. Always. You,” until her breathing returned to normal and he growled, “Again,” before pressing his mouth to the center of her, where she glistened, warm and pink and sated.

“Alec,” she sighed, barely able to find the words. “Please. Love. What of you?”

As though there were anything in the word that would give him more pleasure than the taste of her on his lips and the sound of her in his ears and the feel of her in his hands.

One last time.

“Once more,” he said. “Once more.” And he made love to her with slow, slick strokes, gentle and slow, honoring her. Worshipping her. Pleasuring her until she found her rhythm once more, moving in time to his strokes, to her own desire. Until she came again, hard and long and magnificent, her hands in his hair and his name on her lips.

This.

This was what he would think of when he was old.



He had destroyed her with pleasure.

She was in pieces on the bed, without ability to move or even think, when he came up to lie beside her, to hold her as she trembled, weak from his hands and mouth and words. She turned into him, his large, warm arms coming around her.

“You betrayed me,” she said to his broad chest, rubbing her cheek across the crisp hair there, unable to summon the energy to say it with more conviction. “We were to be with each other.”

“And we were.”

She shook her head. “You did not take your pleasure.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “That was the most pleasurable experience of my life, love. Sleep.” The words rumbled beneath her ear.

As though she could sleep with him there, with the hard length of him against her thigh like a promise. She was not going to sleep. Not until he had received his pleasure as openly and as thoroughly as she had.

Not until she had given it to him.

“No,” she whispered, sending her hand over the planes of his chest, enjoying the way the muscles of his torso tightened beneath her touch, and he hissed his desire. “I’ve other plans.”

“Lily,” he spoke her name in the flickering candlelight, his hand coming to hers, halting it on its path, just as her fingers found the place where soft hair grew thicker. “You don’t have to . . .”

She turned her face into the warmth of him, pressing a soft kiss to the skin on his chest. And another. And another, until his breath was coming harsher and she could feel the deep pulse of his heart beneath her lips. Only then did she slide her tongue out in a little circle, honoring him, adoring the way he drew tight like a bowstring at the touch.

She moved, her lips sliding down his body, over his torso, his free hand coming to her hair as he spoke her name low and dark and wonderful. She imagined he intended to stop her, but then she was licking over the planes of his stomach, breathing him in, and he was trembling at the touch, and—thank Heaven—forgot to stop her.

Not even when she moved her hand, sliding his away, clearing a path to the place she desperately wanted to reach. She leaned back, reveling in the size and strength of him—glorying in the fact that he was hers in that moment, as her mouth watered and her fingers itched to claim him.

And then ran her lips up the hard, straining length of him, breathing his name as he arched off the bed with a wicked curse, and she gloried in the power he had given her. The strength. The pride that this man was not only hers, but that she was about to give him all he desired.