Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) by Lisa Kleypas

Feeling awkward, but also having fun, Merritt experimented by bracing her feet on the ground and pushing to help their momentum. The combination of pressure and movement had a stunning effect on her. Every forward pitch brought her weight fully onto him, in deep steady nudges that sent bolts of pure erotic feeling through every nerve pathway. The tension was building, compelling her toward a culmination more intense than anything she’d ever felt. She couldn’t drive herself hard enough onto the heavy shaft, her body taking every inch and clenching frantically on each withdrawal as if trying to keep him inside. Nothing mattered except the rhythmic lunges that pumped more and more pleasure into her.

Keir’s breath hissed through his teeth as he felt her electrified response, the cinch of her intimate muscles. His hand gripped over her bottom, pulling her onto him again, again, again, until the relentless unfaltering movement finally catapulted her into a climax that was like losing consciousness, blinding her vision with a shower of white sparks and extinguishing every rational thought. When she emerged from the euphoria, she was locked tightly to Keir, who was still a hard presence within her. She rested her head on the shoulder of his coat, wishing she could feel the warmth of his skin and the hair on his chest. His hand coasted over her hips and bottom, slowly chasing the last few shivers that raced over her skin. He kissed her neck, letting her feel the edge of his teeth, the heat of his tongue. He began the rocking motion again, his powerful thighs tensing and relaxing, his hand guiding her hips.

Merritt moaned, too weak and shaky to move. “Keir, I can’t—”

“I’ll do it all,” he murmured against her neck. “Just hold on to me, darlin’.”

“This is only for you,” she managed to say. “Can’t come again … too tired …”

“I know.”

But the patient rhythm didn’t cease. As she sat implanted on that hard, unyielding flesh and felt its altering pressures inside with each back-and-forth sway, the tension began again. She started to move with him, her breath hastening with renewed effort. He braced one hand on the ground and slid the other low on her backside, pulling her into each thrust. She jerked as she felt one of his fingers accidentally slip into the crevice between the halves of her bottom. A guttural sound escaped his lips as her body clenched tightly around his shaft. The finger teased deeper, and she responded with a little squeal of protest, clamping down hard on him again. Keir groaned in pleasure and kept thrusting, while she yelped and writhed to avoid that impudently delving, stroking finger, her muscles squeezing over and over until she stiffened with a climax that stole her breath away. Somewhere in the midst of the white-hot shudders, she was aware of Keir finding his own release, his entire body turning to iron beneath hers. She subsided on him in a limp heap, panting, and gradually realized he was lying flat on his back. His chest vibrated with drafty chuckles that made her head bounce. Oh, he was pleased with himself.

“Did that hurt your ribs?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, still snickering.

“Serves you right,” she said tartly. “Keir, if you don’t remove that hand from my posterior in the next three seconds—”

He pulled it away obligingly, and lifted his head to grin at her. “Merry, my bonnie, heartsome, lively lass. ’Tis my jo, you are, and will be ’til my last breath.”

“Your jo?”

“My joy … my lover … my dearest companion and the spark of my soul. ‘Jo’ is a small word of large meaning … perfect for the woman who means everything to me.”





Chapter 32


OVER THE NEXT TWO days, Keir was in an unfamiliar state of acute happiness mingled with occasional unease. “Gleamy” was the Scots word for weather like this: sunshine interrupted by clouds or showers. There were no threads of continuity between his old life and this one, no rough edges anywhere. No recognizable faces or voices. Even the clothes he wore were new and strange. And yet it was all so comfortable and beautiful, he couldn’t help liking it immensely.

In a way, it would be easier if the Challons and Marsdens put on airs around him, or pretended he was beneath their interest. That way, he could preserve his sense of separateness, and remain a stranger in a strange land. But no, they had to be warm and friendly and interesting. He was especially charmed by the two youngest Challons, Ivo and Seraphina, both of them engaging and warm, but also possessing their father’s knack for a perfectly timed witticism—a bon mot, Merritt called it.

They asked countless questions about Islay, his friends, his dog, and the distillery, and they entertained him with stories of their own. To Keir’s relief, neither of them seemed to have difficulty accepting him as a half brother, despite the vast differences in their ages. They had been brought up in an environment filled with so much abundance, it didn’t occur to them to feel threatened by anyone.

The Challons were nothing like the noble families Keir had heard of, in which the children were raised mostly by servants and seldom saw their parents. These people were close and openly affectionate, with no trace of aristocratic stuffiness. Keir thought that was in no small part due to the duchess, who made no pretense about the fact that her father had made his start as a professional boxer. Evie was the anchor who kept the family from drifting too far in the dizzying altitude of their social position. It was at her insistence that the children had at least a passing acquaintance with ordinary life. For example, it was one of Ivo’s chores to wash the dog, and Seraphina sometimes accompanied the cook to market to talk with local tradespeople.