The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott
Chapter 7
Charity held her breath as the big, masculine body atop hers stiffened. As Neville’s green gaze burned into hers. Neville. So personal, so intimate. She liked thinking of him that way. No more Wilty. Not now, not ever. What a misnomer she had mistakenly bestowed upon him. How had she ever thought him too proper, a bore?
There was nothing wilted about the man whose strong, delicious body was atop hers. And there most assuredly had been nothing wilted about the thick length of him she had inadvertently discovered in his trousers.
Her curiosity had made her bold.
It was making her bolder now as she awaited his response. The taste of him—shaving soap and salty male flesh—was still in her mouth from when she had nibbled on his whisker-stubbled flesh.
“You do not know what you are asking, Charity,” he said, his voice strained.
The tenseness in his jaw could not be denied. She wanted to kiss it away. So she did. She put her lips on that harsh angle. Kiss, kiss, kiss. All the way to his mouth. And she kissed him there, too. Their lips communicated more smoothly in a silent manner, she had discovered.
And she did know what she was asking. She had spent the entirety of the day thinking about him. Thinking about the way she felt about him. Thinking about what her friends had told her the day before. Trying to distract herself by reading a book.
The book had gone mostly unread, though she could not deny that Confessions of a Sinful Earl was as wicked as it was intriguing. Her heart, however, had not been in the prose. Then he had come.
As if she had wished him here.
She had never imagined a man like him would come to her in her own chamber. But he had, at once handsome and proper and uncertain of himself, his shoulders and bearing stiff, his emerald gaze vibrant, his mouth a wicked promise that had delivered.
Their tongues tangled. She kissed him with everything she had, aware of the barrier of her dressing gown, trapped between their bodies, keeping her from what she wanted most. Dropping her head against the counterpane—who knew what manner they were situated in upon the bed, for there was nary a pillow within reach, but she hardly cared—she looked up at him, meeting his gaze.
“I do know what I am asking,” she told him. “I want you.”
That much was true. She did want him. She wanted him desperately. As she had been agonizing over her future and what she wanted, Charity had settled upon a new course of action. She would experience passion with Wilton—Neville. Why not? She wanted him. If he proved amenable, she would experience lovemaking for the first time. She did not need to marry him.
Her friends may be in love, but that did not mean she was.
No, indeed.
She was in lust.
According to the naughty books she had devoured, there was only one way to assuage such an ailment. So doing, she would be free of the hold Neville had upon her. She would forget all about him and happily go on to her trip with Auntie Louise when the house party came to an end. Moreover, she would finally know whether or not everything she had read about in the books was true.
She would have knowledge.
Carnal knowledge.
She hooked her legs around him, trying to draw him closer. But he had slid lower on the mattress, denying her the pleasure of his rigid cock against her aching core. That was where she wanted him most.
“Charity.” He moaned her name against her lips, and his hand cupped her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple.
Without the proper barrier of layers and corset, she became aware of a new sensitivity. The breath hissed from her and her back bowed from the bed. She wondered what it would feel like if he were to take the peak in his mouth.
“This is wrong,” he muttered against her throat as he kissed down to her clavicle.
Her fingers slid through his soft, golden hair. Imagine! This proper, staid man had come to her chamber of his own accord. He was in her bed. Plucking her nipple between forefinger and thumb. Neville was not just a skilled kisser. He was also quite excellent at seduction.
She rubbed her cheek over his silky hair and used a free hand to pull some of her buttons free. Thankfully, beneath her dressing gown, she was not wearing anything. Not even a chemise. She had bathed a few hours earlier and had not bothered to dress in anything but her robe, on account of her plans to hide in her chamber for the day.
Her gown parted and gaped. He followed the progress with his lips.
And then he answered her question by kissing his way down the curve of her breast. He reached her nipple, rubbing his lips over it first in taunting, teasing sweeps. Not enough. She needed more.
As if he had heard her unspoken plea, he flicked his tongue over the engorged tip. The breath hissed from her. Her back arched. It was good. Too good. How was it possible? An invisible cord seemed to connect her breast to the place between her thighs where the ache only intensified. He sucked her nipple.
She moaned.
His handsome face was tucked against her bare breast, and the knowledge that she had this effect upon the proper Viscount Wilton made her feel infinitely powerful. Like a Venus in her own right. She never could have supposed he would allow himself to engage in such shocking carnality. And yet, he was.
He seemed as lost to the sensations and the thrill of the moment as she was.
His hand had slipped between their bodies, finding its way inside her dressing gown. Long, masculine fingers traveled over her knee, skimmed her upper thigh, and then went to her center. He traced the seam of her, parting her folds. Finding the aching bud at her core.
Her pearl.
She had dared to touch herself before, but Neville’s caresses were different. There was something so potently decadent about a man bringing her pleasure. Not just any man, but this one. This golden-haired lord who was not at all what he seemed.
“Oh, dear God.” A groan of abandon and approval slid from her lips as she gave herself up to his exploration.
He released her nipple, pressed a kiss to the side of her breast, and glanced at her wickedly as his finger toyed with the bundle of nerves hidden within her sex. “As I said, my dear, you must call me Neville.”
She could not contain her surprised giggle. He was funny and charming and he knew how to make her feel…all these wondrous things. These forbidden, decadent, delicious things. How impossible it seemed. She never would have expected it. Not in her wildest fancies had she supposed Lord Wilton would seek her out in her chamber, fall into her bed, and devour her with his wicked lips and tongue and fingers and…
Well, heaven knew what else.
His cock? She knew the rude name for the rigid length she had stroked. Knew also a host of other words for it, silly words from the books she had read. Jewel of pleasure, pego, rod, instrument of…
Oh!
He slipped a finger inside her, quite putting an end to her catalog of synonyms for the long, thick, masculine hardness she had so recently caressed. The penetration was shallow. Just the tip of his finger. It left her feeling as if she needed more. If the stories she had read were any indication, he would need to fill her with more than a mere digit.
On a low groan, he peeled back the other half of her dressing gown until both her breasts were exposed. The nipple he had neglected was taut and hard, an offering for him. Should she beg him for more of what he had done to the other? Ought she to demand? Plead nicely?
Charity’s worries no longer mattered when he lowered his head and sucked the peak of that breast into his mouth as well. His thumb stroked over her pearl, where she was throbbing and achy. The combination of his hot, wet mouth sucking on her nipple and his fingers toying with the sensitive flesh between her thighs was too much. She thrust into his hand, seeking, knowing she was very near to coming undone.
Neville released her breast, then pressed a kiss to the inner curve. “I should not be here.”
No, he should not.
“But yet, you are here,” she pointed out.
She had been longing for experience and freedom. That was what she had been meant to seize on the Continent in her trip with Auntie Louise. What was the harm in seizing it now, with this man who delighted her so? No one would ever be the wiser. She could satisfy her curiosity and quell the ache he had started within her.
He withdrew his fingers from her sex and used them instead to pull the remainder of her buttons from their moorings. She tried to ignore the glistening wetness on them, a clear sign of the pleasure he had just been bestowing upon her. But she could not. Nor could she seem to gain control over her wayward body. She was yearning for him. Desperate for him.
Pulsing and throbbing and wet.
So wet.
Her last button had come undone, and she was not far behind it in her own unraveling. She pulled her arms from the sleeves. She was naked. Nary a stitch nor a scrap of fabric shielding her from his feverish, green gaze.
“You are nude,” Neville rasped.
“Yes,” she said.
He was not, and that omission suddenly seemed terribly unfair. She wanted to see him, too.
“You should be as well,” she added.
“Yes,” he agreed, before slowly shaking his head as if he were in a daze. “That is to say, no. I should not. This is terribly rash and wholly unlike me.”
She was growing impatient. “Let it be unlike you then. An aberration.”
“We should end this,” he said, even as he aided her traveling hands in pulling the coat he wore down his shoulders and arms.
The sight of Viscount Wilton’s arms in shirtsleeves was truly admirable.
Her eyes greedily drank in every detail.
He still wore his country tweed and his shoes. She found herself suddenly curious about everything to do with the process of lovemaking. Would he remove his shoes, his trousers? What of his waistcoat and shirt? She wanted him to be as free of fabric and barriers as she was. Wanted to know and experience it all. This adventure would have to last.
“Cease grumbling and kiss me,” she ordered him.
“We cannot—”
His protest died as Charity caught a handful of his shirt and tugged him toward her. From his rather enthusiastic response, she did not suppose he minded the manner in which she had interrupted him. They kissed as her fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat before moving on to his shirt.
And his hands, meanwhile, were busy caressing her everywhere and setting her further aflame. His tongue sank inside her mouth as he traced a line of fire down her waist, over the curve of her hip, and then found the apex of her thighs once more. Those wicked fingers traced along her seam, returning to the sensitive bud hidden within her folds.
Their tongues mated and he groaned into the kiss.
The low sound was all for her, and Charity could not suppress a rush of pride. She had done this to him. Her proper, staid, killjoy viscount had become a wild man for her. Undone by lust. Ought she to be ashamed?
Why, when the result was so exquisite? He rubbed her pearl with just enough tender pressure to take her the rest of the way. Over the ledge she flew, splintering into the welcoming oblivion of release. A rush of potent pleasure slammed into her, beginning in her core and spiraling outward in what seemed like hundreds of tiny ripples.
Charity found herself clinging to Neville in such a tight grip that one of his buttons had popped free. Her breathing was ragged, heart pounding, and the most delicious tingling remained between her thighs.
Neville tore his lips from hers and braced himself on one elbow, hovering over her, his lips dark from kissing, his eyes glazed with passion. “We must stop.”
But he did not make any move to leave her bed.
She framed his handsome face in her hands, reveling in his warmth, the slash of his jaw. “Who says we must?”
“Charity.” Her name was another groan seemingly torn from him as he pressed his forehead to hers. “This is madness.”
Yes, it was.
“Good madness,” she countered.
They had come this far.
Time to finish.
She was not going to let him leave this chamber until they both had what they wanted.
“Wrong madness.” But as he said the words, he kissed the bridge of her nose and his fingers, still between her thighs, slid through her folds, parting her. Probing. The tip of his finger moved over her drenched opening, then slipped inside.
“I want you to take me, Neville,” she whispered, urging him on with her hips, pleading to him with her body just as she did with her words.
He made another low sound of desire, kissing her cheek, her ear. “Not here, not now. Not like this.”
“There will be no better time,” she argued, frustrated. A tip of her hips brought his finger incrementally deeper. Still not sufficient. She felt hollow and aching and restless. “Please.”
“Darling.” His tongue traced her ear and then slid into the hollow behind it, sending a new frisson of desire through her.
But still, he was clinging to his honor.
And she was having none of it.
Her questing hand again found the thick outline of his erection, straining against the fall of his trousers. She stroked him, daring to apply firmer pressure this time as he had done to her. Another growl was her reward as he kissed down her throat and then sucked a nipple into the warm, wet recesses of that surprisingly wicked mouth.
She began thrusting into his hand, her body instinctively showing and taking what she wanted. Her fingers found the buttons on his fall. One by one, she plucked them free. The fabric of his smalls thwarted her as he caught the peak of her breast between his teeth and tugged.
“Charity.”
Oh, there was an opening. Her hand slipped inside the slit of fabric, and then she felt him. He was hot and thick and long, his skin surprisingly soft.
“Charity,” he repeated, far less warning in his tone this time as her fingers wrapped around his shaft.
She guided him to her aching center, where she knew he was meant to be for the act to be completed. “Neville, if you do not cease dallying, I shall perish of desire.”
His fingers left her, and then he was chasing her touch with his own, gripping himself between them. The head of his shaft glanced over her slickly. The connection was pure electricity.
He moved, driving her to the edge as he alternated between rubbing the tip of him over her engorged pearl and running it down her seam. His breaths were ragged and warm as he pressed his face between her breasts, kissing the center patch of skin there, head bowed as if he were in prayer. She clutched at his shoulders for purchase, finding him tense, as if he waged a war against himself.
As if he struggled for restraint.
“You feel so right, so good,” he murmured. “I want you, Charity.”
“Yes.” She was winning this battle between them. Slowly, surely. His defenses had fallen. The lines between what they should and should not do had finally blurred. “I want you too, Neville.”
Again, he stroked over her, toying with her sensitive flesh until at last, he kissed his way to her throat. Burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, he guided himself to her entrance. He exhaled slowly, and she felt the gust of his hot breath on her skin as a sign of his surrender in the same moment he entered her.
Such a strange sensation.
Not at all as she had expected it.
He stilled, lodged within her, lifting his head. “Are you…well?”
How polite he was. She would have laughed, but mirth was beyond her.
“Is there not more?” she asked, curious.
The press of his body to hers was pleasant, and the feeling of him inside her was uniquely pleasing—nothing more than a bit of discomfort as she had stretched to accommodate him. But surely the effusive prose she had read in bawdy books would not have pretended the act of coupling was so wondrous if—
“Yes, darling,” he said, giving her the most beautiful smile, a true smile, one which made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Darling.
It was the second time he had referred to her thus, and the endearment—any endearment—from his lips seemed rare. How wondrous a prize, to be the source of this man’s crumbling restraint. To be the one who lay with him, her body joined with his.
“Show me the rest,” she managed to murmur past her madly thudding heart and the frenzy of emotions.
Lust, she reminded herself. This is mere lust.
A sating of curiosity and needs both.
But when he began moving deeper, thrusting until he reached a place of acute, intense ache, and he took her mouth in a kiss that was both sweet and erotic, she forgot to care about the reason. He withdrew the hand that had guided him to her, and used it instead to hook her hip around his. The motion heightened his penetration and made her gasp.
He feathered kisses over the corner of her lips. “Have I hurt you?”
“No,” she managed, her nails likely biting into his muscles through his shirtsleeves. “You feel wondrous. Do not stop.”
Do not ever stop.
But that was a silly thing to say, and so she kept the last to herself. Of course this would end. This would never happen again. It could not! She did not dare. Best to give herself over to the bliss of the moment and the man. To cling to these glorious sensations while they lasted.
He hummed in appreciation and moved again, beginning a rhythm. The wetness of her dew likely should have been a cause of embarrassment as he glided in and out of her, prolonging and intensifying the almost excruciating ecstasy of the coupling.
This was more than she had read about. The stories could not do justice to the reality of Neville in her bed. She ceased to care that he was still nearly fully dressed while she was naked beneath him. If anything, the disparity in their circumstances served to make her wilder for him. There was something unbearably carnal about being completely nude whilst the proper lord was inside her, still wearing his fine waistcoat and tweed. If they were caught…
Oh.
It was wicked of her, but the notion of how forbidden this was, how dangerous to their reputations, how at any moment, someone could knock at the door…
She cried out and he swallowed her moan with more potent, drugging kisses as their tongues tangled. She clamped on him, the intensity of her crisis stunning her. A hundred thousand white-hot sparks seemed to charge through her. Thoughts ceased to exist. She was nothing but pleasure.
Neville’s reaction brought a fresh wave of convulsions through her core as his control fled even further. His well-modulated thrusts became faster and faster, until he was losing himself as well. A strange stiffness came over him, and in the next moment, the bloom of wet heat flooded her.
He collapsed against her, heart beating so fast she could feel it against her breasts, and she held him there, reluctant to let go.
And for some reason, the words she had uttered to her dear friend Olive, words Olive had returned to her just yesterday, stirred in her mind.
Love is worth fighting for.