Page 8 of Scandal With A Viscount

“Not because . . . I didn’t intend—” He gave up on the buttons and dragged a hand down his face. Even in the low light, she could see the color in his cheeks, the rigid set of his shoulders. “You need to leave. Now. Before someone sees you, before—Georgie, your brother asked me to look after you.”

“And you've been doing such a fine job of it.” She took a step closer.

His jaw worked. His chest rose and fell beneath the open shirt, and she couldn’t stop staring at the lines of the muscles she longed to touch.

“You are an unmarried woman in my bedchamber in the middle of the night. If anyone saw you come in here—”

“No one saw.”

“That is not the point.” He stood, and she could see the evidence of what she'd interrupted still straining against his half-fastened breeches. “Max asked me to keep an eye on you, so you would avoid situations like this one. You're his sister, and you are—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Georgie, go back to your room.”

“I'm not what you think I am, Louis.”

That stopped him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I'm not some blushing virgin who needs protecting. You’re a couple years too late for that.”

“What? Who? Does Max know? Did someone take advantage of you?”

“None of that matters right now.” She untied her dressing robe and let it slide from her shoulders, exposing her night rail to him. “I came here because I want to. I know what I want, Louis. And right now I want you.”

His throat moved. His gaze dropped from her face to her body and came back up with visible effort. “But Max—”

“He never has to know. No one does.” She closed the distance between them and put her hands on his chest, his skin warm under her palms where his shirt fell open. He didn’t back away. Then she pushed him back onto the settee and climbed into his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. The hard length of him pressed against her beneath the opening of her night rail.

His hands came to her waist. Still not pushing her away. Holding her there, fingers digging into the fabric while his breath came ragged against her collarbone.

“This is a terrible idea.” But instead of stopping, his hips shifted under her, pressing up against the heat between her thighs.

“You're right.” She rocked against him, slowly, and watched his eyes close. “Tell me to stop then, Louis.”

He didn't tell her to stop. His fingers tightened on her hips and a sound came out of him—low and rough. His mouth found the base of her throat, and his teeth grazed her skin. She ground down against him harder, the friction of his clothed cock dragging a gasp from both of them.

“I want to feel you,” she said against his ear. “Please. I need you.”

His hands fisted in the hem of her night rail, and she felt his question in the hesitation—one last chance to stop this—before he pulled the fabric up and over her head in a single motion. The night air hit her bare skin and his gaze dropped to her breasts, her stomach, the place where her thighs gripped his hips.

“Hell.” The word came out of him like it had been punched loose. His mouth closed over her nipple, and the heat of it—his tongue, his teeth, the groan that vibrated against her skin—went straight to her core. She arched into him, her fingers raking into his hair, and rolled her hips against him.

She reached between them and freed him from his breeches, wrapping her fingers around his cock and stroking him the way she'd watched him stroke himself. His head dropped back, his throat exposed, and his hand gripped her thighs hard enough that she could feel each finger.

“Christ, Georgie.”

“Is this what you were thinking about?” She twisted her wrist at the head, ran her thumb through the wetness there. “When I walked in? Your hand on your cock, thinking about me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate in his response, but he sounded wrecked. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Show me.” She rose up on her knees, guided him to her entrance, and sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

The stretch of his cock filling her dragged a moan from her chest. She braced her hands on his shoulders and held still, her body adjusting around the thick length of him, feeling every inch. His forehead dropped against her collarbone, and a shudder ran through him, his hands trembling on her hips.

“God, you're so wet.” His voice was half gone, his mouth hot against her throat. “You feel incredible.”

She rolled her hips, slowly at first, in a rocking motion that let her control the angle and dragged him against the spot inside her that made her wanton. His fingers pressed into her skin, hard enough to leave marks. She wanted them there. Proof that, at least for the house party, the Viscount Ashworth was hers.

His control snapped. His hips drove up to meet hers, hard, and the sound she made was loud enough that she pressed her mouth against his shoulder to muffle it. He thrust into her again, his hands pulling her down onto him. The new rhythm was his—rough, deep, relentless.

She stilled her hips and held herself there—full of him, his cock buried deep, her body clenching tight around him—and watched his composure shatter.