Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(79)

Above him, she gasped and moaned. Her hand tangled in his hair, twisting and grasping. But she made no effort to wrench him away.

Needing to get closer, he lifted one knee to the piano keyboard. The incidental chord faded as he slid one hand up to knead her breast, tweaking her hardened nipple through the fabric. She inched closer to him, splaying her legs with shameless abandon and pressing her heat against his mouth. He began a swift series of experiments, running through his repertoire of kisses, nibbles, and licks until he found just the precise flicker of his tongue that set her thigh aquiver.

There, her body told him. Just like that.

So he did it again. And again. And again, refusing to slow or stop until she cried out in ecstasy, arching off the pianoforte with the force of her climax.

And still he did not relent.

Her fingers relaxed their grip on his hair, and she stroked him instead, raking her fingernails lightly over his scalp. A little sound escaped her throat. He doubted she was even aware of making it. A whimper, raw-edged with yearning. It was a sound of sensual satisfaction, and yet—it was an unmistakable plea for more.

Something in him snapped. She’d wanted a return to the wicked Julian, and she was going to have her wish. Turning his head, he kissed her inner thigh. Then he bit it, drawing on the fragile skin with firm suction until he pulled from her a sharp hiss of pain.

Widening his stance to brace his lust-weakened knees, he stood, pulling at the buttons of his trousers with desperate fingers. Within moments, he’d freed his rampant erection. He stroked himself a few times, gazing hungrily upon the plump, rosy display of passion so conveniently positioned at eye level. Staring at the way he’d marked her with that bite just at the top of her thigh. The tiny bruise was a violet petal fallen on fresh snow.

She was wet and hot and glistening. She was his.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, giving his aching arousal one last squeeze. “So damned beautiful.”

From the pianoforte, she rose up on her elbows. She gave him a sleepy smile, looking drugged with satisfaction. She would not wear that look for long. He was determined to rouse her, in more ways than one.

Grasping her by the hips, he dragged her down from atop the pianoforte. Her backside landed on the keyboard with a discordant crash, her legs on either side of his. Giving her no chance to prepare or protest, Julian guided himself to her entrance and thrust deep, encasing himself in bliss.

Sweet … heaven.

“Your legs,” he demanded, “wrap them over my hips.” He demonstrated his wish, lifting her thigh to aid her in compliance. Soon her ankles were linked at the small of his back.

“Arms, too,” he said.

She laced them tight around his neck.

With her clinging to him, he slid one arm around her waist. He braced his other hand against the pianoforte, to protect her from taking the brunt of his thrusts.

He worked her hard and fast, and beneath them, frenzied music played in an ungodly key, building to a quick crescendo. This was not tender lovemaking, but a claiming. This was his beautiful wife. This was his beautiful house. And this bright, elegant, glittering future … all of it, his for the taking.

She felt so good against him, under him, surrounding him. He threw back his head, and she chased him, pressing her lips to his throat. His whole body hummed with anticipation as he raced toward completion. She beat him to the finish, seizing around him in a second climax. He heard himself making harsh, guttural noises—shouting, almost. And why shouldn’t he shout? This was his house, his wife. No need to hold back.

So he didn’t. He came into her, losing himself in a clamor of bucking hips and strange, groaning piano chords, and clashing, open-mouthed kisses.

And life was very, very good.

For now.

Chapter Twenty

“Well, it appears someone’s feeding the beast. Grooming him, too.” Rhys St. Maur, Lord Ashworth gave the stallion’s withers a brisk rub. “Osiris, you look a damn sight better than when I saw you last.” The former warrior looked to Julian. “For that matter, so do you. Marriage must be suiting you.”

Julian shrugged. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? Where’s Lady Ashworth?”

“Merry?” Ashworth’s eyebrow lifted, splitting in the middle where a thick scar divided it. “Left her at the hotel. She’s fatigued from the journey, or so she says. Too enamored with the scented soaps and bed hangings, is more like it. But she sends her regards.”

“Bring her by Harcliffe House later, if you will. My wife will be glad to make her acquaintance.”

“Your wife.” Ashworth chuckled. “And just think, six months ago you were so determined to marry Lily off to some other man.”

Julian knew he was being ribbed, but he didn’t take offense. These days, so little seemed worth getting upset about. “I was only following the code, you know. A member of the Stud Club needed to marry her. Once you and Morland married elsewhere, the duty fell to me.”

“Duty, my arse. You’ve been in love with that woman from the start. Don’t try to deny it.”

Very well. Julian wouldn’t. He pulled a stub of carrot from his pocket and offered it to the horse.

Ashworth scratched the stallion behind his ear. “What would Leo think, if he could see the remaining members of his fast, subversive club? We’re all old married men now, settled and sedate.”