The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway
Chapter Eleven
Ambrose Kent didn’t take vacations often, and now he wondered why. The verdant meadow was paradise. He was having a picnic with his wife, the scent of honey wafting on the summer breeze, birdsong echoing in the blue skies. And that wasn’t even the best part of it.
With his back against the sun-warmed blanket, he stared up into his spouse’s gorgeous face. The two of them were as naked as Adam and Eve. Marianne’s pale blond tresses streamed over her shoulders, one end curling around a lovely coral nipple.
His hands tightened on her soft hips.
“Ride me, my selkie,” he urged.
Emerald eyes heavy-lidded, she obeyed, rolling her hips, teasing him by rising until her pussy clamped just the tip of his cock… and then sinking down slowly. She took his turgid shaft all the way, her swollen lips smacking wetly against his bollocks.
God, yes.
“Faster, you little tease,” he growled.
With a sensual smile, she obeyed. Her rhythm was exquisite, mind-blowing, nearly drawing his fire. But he wouldn’t come—not until she did. Gripping her hips, he slammed upward as she came down, the intensity of the penetration wringing moans from them both. Seed swelled in his balls, his climax building. The breeze grew stronger, and the birds began to squawk, some damned woodpecker knocking with distracting insistence…
He blinked, chest heaving, disoriented by the dimness. He was lying on his side, his wife’s plush backside tucked up against him. Groggily, he took in the strange bedchamber… then it returned to him. The damned house party.
Being a man of simple tastes, he preferred hearth and home. Marianne enjoyed doing the social rounds, however, and for her sake, he would make any sacrifice. Lifting the blanket, he peered down and saw his fiercely erect cock wedged against her bare buttocks.
Maybe this won’t be a wash after all.
Of late, they’d dealt with constant interruptions at home. Between the antics of their nine-year-old son Edward, the theatrics of their eighteen-year-old daughter Rosie, and the adventures of the rest of the family, he and Marianne had hardly had a moment alone. Now that they did have some blessed privacy, he wasn’t going to waste it.
He nuzzled his wife’s neck, his palm sliding forward to cup her full breast. She made a sleepy, sensual sound, all the encouragement he needed—
Knock, knock, knock.
“Darling?” his wife said drowsily. “Is someone at the door?”
“Ignore them.” He nipped at her earlobe, tweaking her nipple lightly. “They’ll go away.”
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Ambrose? Marianne?” It was Violet’s voice. “Are you awake?”
“Bloody hell.” He inhaled for patience.
“You should get that,” Marianne said.
With a grumbled oath, he released his plump bounty.
“I’m coming,” he said through clenched teeth. And not the way I wanted to.
He shoved on his dressing gown and cast a longing look at the bed, where his better half was now sitting up. Her breasts were on spectacular display as she stretched her arms, yawning.
Soon, he promised himself.
He stomped to the door and yanked it open. “Violet, this had better be an emergency…”
He trailed off—because his sister wasn’t alone. Viscount Carlisle was with her.
Pulling his sister protectively to his side, Ambrose said tersely, “What’s going on? Why are the two of you together? And at this hour?”
“We happened upon each other in the library. It was, um, a coincidence,” she said.
His middle sister had never been an accomplished liar; he didn’t believe her overly innocent expression for an instant. More damning yet was how disheveled she looked: her frock was rumpled, her hair bound in an untidy braid.
His gaze swung accusingly to the Scot. Carlisle’s face was set in grim lines, his posture tense. Before he could interrogate the bounder, Vi blurted, “But that’s beside the point. Ambrose, we discovered something terrible in the library. Madame Monique—she’s dead.”
“Dead?” he said, astonished.
Violet nodded, her eyes wide.
Ambrose’s surprise didn’t last for long. For a man in his profession, it rarely did.
“Tell me everything,” he said briskly.
