The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway

Chapter Twenty-Six

That night, Violet had trouble finding sleep. Despite the soothing pitter patter of a light rain that had begun after supper, she found herself tossing restlessly against the pillows. The evening had been a mellow one, with many guests going up to bed early. She hadn’t seen Richard and wondered where he’d gone. She’d had a chance to catch up with Wick, however, the two of them chatting briefly in the atrium.

“Am I forgiven, Vi, for lying to you about my debt?” he’d said quietly.

The shame and remorse in her friend’s eyes had compressed her chest. She knew why Wick had lied. He’d felt that he couldn’t measure up—and she understood the feeling all too well. It wasn’t easy comparing oneself to one’s clever and capable siblings.

“Of course I forgive you.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze. “But it’s not my forgiveness you ought to be seeking out.”

“I already talked to Carlisle. We made peace.”

“I’m glad. He cares about you a great deal, Wick.”

“You as well.” His knowing gaze made her blush. “So am I to understand that we’ll be brother and sister in fact as well as in spirit?”

The return of their old camaraderie made her heart swell and allowed her to disclose her uncertainty. “I don’t know, Wick.”

“You do like him, don’t you?”

“Yes… of course. But we’re so different.”

“Take my advice, and don’t let that stop you. God knows he can be a bit blunt and overbearing at times, but you won’t meet a finer man.” Wick hesitated. “Even if he hasn’t had the best of luck with females.”

“He told me about his past,” she admitted.

“He did? There’s a first.” Wick sounded surprised. “He must really like you.”

Hope burgeoned. “Do you think so? Because you know me, Wick, and I can’t change who I am.” She bit her lip. “Let’s face it, I’m a hoyden who forgets proprieties all the time. I’m prone to scrapes, acting without thinking… what if I disappoint him?”

Wick stared at her… and burst out laughing.

“What’s so amusing?” she said, stung. It wasn’t often that she tried to share her innermost feelings.

“You are. Dear Vi,” he said with affection, “don’t you understand? Richard is drawn to you because you’re different from him. He needs your spirit and joie de vivre. Otherwise, he’ll end up an old stick-in-the-mud. Trust me on this.”

Now, moving restlessly amidst the bedsheets, Violet mulled over her friend’s words. Could it be true that Richard needed her? He seemed so strong and self-assured. But then she recalled the hints of vulnerability she’d glimpsed in him. How surprised he’d been when she said that she found him attractive. How lonely he’d seemed bearing his family’s burdens—and how he’d said she was an ease to him. Her insides melted.

Rap. Rap.

The sound startled her from her thoughts. She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Was someone at the door?

The double knocks came again… not from her bedroom door, but from… the balcony? She jumped out of bed, hurrying over. She parted the drapes, and her eyes widened at the sight: Richard was standing outside. Hastily, she yanked open the glass-paned doors. The rain-speckled wind billowed the curtains and whipped against her night rail.

“Gadzooks, what are you doing there?” she exclaimed.

“For God’s sake, lower your voice, or everyone will know I’m here. Could I explain inside?” he said tersely.

She pulled him into the room. Once she had the doors closed, she turned to look at him. Moisture glazed his stark features, his hair curling against his forehead in wet whorls. He was rumpled and wet from head to toe, his clothes dripping water onto the floor.

She repeated in hushed tones, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to give you something.” Looking thoroughly disgruntled, he said, “Do you mind if I dry off in front of the fire first?”

“By Golly, you must be freezing. Here, let me help you with your jacket.”

Between the two of them, they managed to pry off the sodden garment. After hanging it and his waistcoat to dry on the back of a chair, she went to fetch a towel for him from the washing stand. When she returned, he’d built up the fire in the hearth and was standing on the carpet in front of it, warming his hands.

The firelight cast his features in harsh relief. His damp shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the hard-paved contours of his chest. He’d shucked his destroyed cravat, and the open vee of his collar revealed the strong line of his throat and a glimpse of the hair-dusted muscle below. He’d removed his boots and socks; his soaked trousers molded to his powerful legs like a second skin. The sight of his large bare feet sent a quiver through her.

He was so deliciously primal and gorgeous, the very epitome of what a male ought to be. But what on earth had motivated him to climb her balcony in the middle of the night during a rainstorm? Her heart thumped, a honeyed awareness trickling through her. Wordlessly, she handed him the towel.

He dried himself off with efficient movements. With the towel draped around his neck, he slanted her a look. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I was awake. I’m, um, not a good sleeper.” Why did she suddenly feel tongue-tied?

Strained silence descended.

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” he said abruptly. “This morning, you said we could arrange some time alone together. I took you at your word.”

As he spoke, ruddy color rose up his jaw. His shoulders were tense as if he was… nervous?

“I’m glad you came,” she blurted.

His lashes flickered. “You are?”

“I, um, didn’t get a chance to talk to you this evening. To find out how things went with Burns.”

“Oh.” His brow furrowed. “In a nutshell, he seemed a havey-cavey sort of fellow, but neither your brother nor I believe he was the killer.”

“And Garrity?”

“We’re scheduled to talk to him in the morning.”

“Oh. That’s… good.”

Awkward silence stretched once again. Her pulse was racing.

“I brought something for you,” Richard said suddenly.

Going to his jacket, he plucked something from its pocket. Returning, he thrust a damp, paper-wrapped package at her as if he couldn’t be rid of it quickly enough.

“Um, what is it?” she said.

“Open it, and you’ll see.” His voice was grim, strangely resigned.

She took the package; it was as long as her forearm and oddly shaped. She unwrapped it with care—and blinked at the revealed objects. One item consisted of two sticks of wood tied together in the shape of a T. The ends of a short cord were connected to the top of the T, the middle section pulled back tautly and hooked onto a wooden latch on the body of the T. Nestled in the paper were also three little arrows, their tips blunted and made of wood.

Recognition dawned.

“Thunderbolts,” she breathed. “A miniature crossbow. Where did you get such a thing?”

“I used to fashion them for Wick and me when we were boys,” he said starkly. “We hid them beneath our desks and drove our tutors mad by shooting at things during our lessons.”

She was so filled with emotion that she couldn’t speak.

His shoulders hunched. “I thought since you liked to shoot… never mind. It’s a stupid thing to give to a lady—”

“I love it!”

She placed the precious gift on a chair and then launched herself at him. In her enthusiasm, she didn’t check herself and probably would have felled a lesser man. Richard didn’t budge an inch, his arms closing around her like steel bands.

“You do?” His voice was hoarse… hopeful?

Tipping her head back, she told him fervently, “It’s the best present anyone has given me.”

And it was. Not merely because she loved shooting, but because of what the crossbow represented. He understood her. Accepted her foibles and eccentricities. He truly liked her after all!

The feeling inside her was too vast to contain. So she shared it with him.

As soon as her lips touched his, desire combusted between them. They sank onto the carpet, tongues and limbs entangled, tearing at each other’s clothes. Before she knew it, her night rail was tossed aside, her bare back pressing against the carpet. Hanging over her, he gazed down at her naked body. Her embarrassment dissipated at the undisguised wonder in his eyes.

“By Jove.” His voice was as deep as the night. “You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

She trailed her fingers over the granite-hard contours of his chest; in the tussle, she’d managed to get his shirt off. “I was about to say the same thing,” she said reverently.

Flecks of ore surfaced in his eyes. “What did I do to deserve you?”

She grinned, about to make a quip, but he lowered his head to her breasts. The hot, wet suction on a taut peak made her spine arch off the carpet. She bit her lip to stifle a moan.

“Your nipples are so pretty,” he said huskily. “Sweet and ripe against my tongue. I’ve dreamed of kissing you here, suckling to my heart’s content.”

His words inflamed her almost as much as the decadent flicks of his tongue. He licked and sucked, the drugging pulls causing the place between her legs to flutter and dampen.

When his fingers stroked through those needy folds, a groan rumbled from his chest. “You’re so wet for me, lass.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I… I can’t help it.”

“Devil and damn, I don’t want you to. I want your pussy soaked for me.” His eyes grew smoky. “Aye, that’s it. Drench me with your dew, sweeting.”

She moaned as he pressed deeply, her moors on reality beginning to slip. Then he found that little knot of sensation, rubbing it as his fingers pumped fiercely into her. When he lowered his head, suckling hard at her nipples, she broke free of earthly restraints and shattered into ecstatic pieces.

~~~

His chest heaving, Richard stared down into Violet’s flushed face. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, sated, her womanly dew slick upon his fingers. Satisfaction flowed through him; at the same time, his cock was an iron ridge in his trousers, throbbing with an acuity that bordered on pain.

The gentlemanly thing to do would be to take his leave. He’d come to give her a present… and now he’d given her two. He couldn’t say which was sweeter: her response to the crossbow (a success rather than an unmitigated disaster, thank God) or the tight clench of her pussy around his fingers when she’d found her climax.

His thinking was not helping matters down south. He reminded himself that the point of tonight’s excursion was to demonstrate that he meant to woo her with more than lust. So he hadn’t exactly proved his thesis… but, then again, she wasn’t exactly complaining.

He hid a grin. Bent and kissed her nose. “I’d best be going before we get caught.”

Sitting up, he was reaching for his shirt when her hand slapped against his chest. She’d risen, kneeling beside him. “Wait just one minute,” she ordered.

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“It’s my turn.”

“Er, your turn?”

“Fair’s fair, Carlisle.”

He was about to remind her to call him Richard—but his breath left him in a sharp whoosh. Her fingers were fumbling with the placket of his trousers, the movements an exquisite torture.

But he didn’t want her to think that reciprocity was required. “Sweet, your pleasure is enough—”

He bit off a groan as his erection fell into her waiting hands. His randy cock had no scruples whatsoever. It twitched eagerly at her touch, the bulbous head nudging at her palms. With paralyzing pleasure, he watched as her slender fingers petted the thick, veined beast.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

“Hmm?” God, he loved her hands. They were meant to frig him.

“You know what you did to me beneath the wardrobe?”

Devil and damn. She couldn’t mean…

Swallowing, he said, “Which part, lass?”

“You know… when you kissed me… down there?”

She did mean that. Lust roared over him. “When I kissed your pussy, you mean?”

Pink-cheeked, she nodded. “Could I do the same… for you?”

Christ. Fierce arousal gripped him as he struggled for a proper response. His cock, being more forthright, showed its enthusiasm by releasing another droplet of seed. They both gazed at the pearly bead… and then, as if all this were happening in some fevered fantasy of his, she bent her head and licked it off.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

Pleasure punched him, reverberating in every sinew, bone, and cell of his being. Her licks were tentative, whisper-soft, and they made him harder and hotter than he’d ever been. This was the sort of thing he’d only paid for, never expected from a lady—and one who he meant to make his viscountess, no less. But watching Violet’s little pink tongue lap at his turgid shaft, feeling the indescribable bliss of those velvety lashes, he knew there was no going back.

If she was open to this, hell, who was he to argue? Like he’d said to her, who was to say what was proper or not between them? They would make their own bloody rules.

He planned to teach her all sorts of sports. Why not begin with this? With brimming anticipation, he threaded his fingers through her silken tresses and guided her lips to the head of his cock.

“Take me in your mouth,” he said huskily. “Suck me.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. Her lips closed around his crown, and she proceeded to drive him out of his ever-loving mind. She took to fellatio like a fish to water; what she lacked in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm and, goddamn, native ability. His fingers tightened against her scalp as she bobbed on his shaft, taking him deeper and deeper. Closer and closer to the point of no return.

Heat frothed in his bollocks, and he knew he was close.

He didn’t want to come alone.

In a swift motion, he moved so that he was lying fully on his back, pulling her hips to straddle his head. Her surprised gasp puffed against his erection as he yanked her pussy down onto his waiting mouth. He licked her dripping slit, spearing her tight sheath with his tongue while his fingers diddled her pearl. She went wild for him, riding his mouth, cramming his cock into her own as if she meant to swallow him whole.

It was too much. Beyond pleasure. Beyond anything.

“Lass, I’m going to spend,” he gasped in warning. “Move aside…”

But she wouldn’t be dislodged. Instead, she took him even more eagerly, his eyes rolling back in his head when he butted the silken end of her throat. Hot ecstasy stabbed through his balls. Seed geysered up his shaft, and then he exploded in her mouth. At the same time, her honey squirted against his lips, and he feasted on that rare nectar like a starved man, growling as his climax rocked him to the core.

Afterward, he gathered her in his arms, kissing her reverently. The taste of himself on her lips was intensely erotic… and a little worrisome.

“Violet, was that… all right?” he ventured.

“I’m not sure.” She gave him a dreamy smile. “Maybe we should try it again?”

With a relieved chuckle, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He tucked her in.

“Don’t go,” she mumbled. “Stay with me, Richard.”

“Time for you to sleep, love.”

“I’m not tired.” She yawned. “We could… stay up and talk…”

He stroked her cheek. “Rest, lass. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Her answer was a soft wisp of a snore.

His lips twitched. Because he’d gotten the last word… finally.