Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(68)

He nodded. “What word?”

She considered. “How about ‘spider’?”

“Spider?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Who wants to think of spiders in the throes of passion?”

“No one, of course. That’s why it’s ideal.”

He shook his head. “Something else, if you please, with fewer legs.”

“Very well.” Her eyes wandered past him, toward the connecting parlor. “What about ‘armchair’? Perfectly harmless, and only four legs.”

“That won’t do. What happens when you beg me—and no mistake, someday you will beg me—‘Julian, make love to me right here in the armchair’? The moment will be ruined.”

Her eyebrow arched to a reproachful angle. She knew she was being teased. But here was a tried-and-true test of temperament—when confronted with sharp wit, did a person retreat or parry? Julian could never be friends with people who fell into the former category.

And Lily’s response was the reason he adored her, beyond expression.

“Well, then,” she said, working loose his cravat. “If that’s the case, we rule out so many options. Armchair, sofa, carpet, bathtub, dressing table, dining table, wardrobe. No good, any of those.” She pulled the unknotted cravat free, and the slow glide of linen against his neck made his body pulse with need.

Her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Nor can we use coach, carriage, hackney, landau, or anything of that nature. Oh, and nature! We must rule out grass, meadow, hillock, haystack, grotto, lake … Really, Julian, there are very few words left.” Her hands slipped inside his open waistcoat, and she skimmed her palms over the thin lawn of his shirt. She was teasing him, with words and touch, and he couldn’t have loved it more.

“Turn around,” he said hoarsely, adding a hand motion for clarity’s sake.

She obeyed, and he applied his fingers to the column of fabric-covered buttons chasing down her slender back.

“What about ‘mirror’?” she said, smiling into the floor-length looking glass across the room.

“Minx.” He caught her gaze in the reflection. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed as he returned to the task of undoing her many, many tiny buttons. There might have been a hundred, and he wouldn’t have complained. With each closure he eased free, he kissed the patch of newly revealed skin. When he ran his tongue down the valley between her shoulder blades, she shivered and moaned.

“Bedpost?” she gasped, gripping the same as he drew the bodice down her shoulders, revealing her stays and tissue-thin chemise.

He let a swift yank on her laces serve as his curt refusal there. After undoing the tapes of her corset, he put his hands on her bared shoulders and turned her back to face him. Her loosened bodice gaped at the neckline, and he slid a hand inside to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her hardened nipple. He bent his lips to the creamy expanse of her décolletage.

She threw her head back, tilting her face to the ceiling as he kissed and nibbled her throat. “I am,” she breathed, “almost afraid to suggest ‘chandelier.’”

He chuckled against her skin.

“Plaster,” she blurted out, pushing on his shoulder.

He straightened. “What?”

“Plaster.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “‘Plaster’ is the perfect word. Not offensive, not suggestive.”

“Plaster,” he repeated. “Very well.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Lily, I adore you.”

Julian had to admit, he’d harbored worries in the dark recesses of his mind, about how to make this different. As in, the actual act. He felt the need to mark this time apart from every sexual experience he’d ever had before. He’d even searched his imagination for an as-yet-untried lovemaking position, much as he thought it prudent to begin with the basics.

But with her teasing, Lily had given him exactly what he needed. He could safely say he’d never discussed spiders and plaster in bed before, not with anyone.

And as he kissed her again, taking her mouth with possessive, unrestrained passion, he realized it wouldn’t even matter if he had. They’d filled this moment with so much genuine affection, there was no room for his sordid past to intrude.

This was different because this was Lily.

This was different because this was love.

And he needed to love her, now. Then again later. As many times as she’d permit. He tugged down her bodice and chemise to expose one breast, dipping his head to tongue the plump globe and taut, berry-red nipple. Drawing the nub into his mouth, he suckled with steady intent. Moan for me, Lily.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, Julian.”

“Oh, Juuuuuuulian,” Tartuffe squawked.

Startled, Julian jerked back his head. Unaware of the interruption, Lily picked the same moment to seek a kiss. They bumped noses, then recoiled from one another in pain. Deuce it all, now he’d truly hurt her.

“What is it?”

“Damned bird,” he grated out, pressing his fingers to his nose to check for blood, at the same time surveying her face for swelling. “Where is he?”

“In my sitting room,” she answered ruefully, flopping back onto the mattress and covering her face with both hands. “Perhaps he’s jealous.”