Page 62 of Again, Scoundrel

He was already positioned on top of her, his hard thighs encasing her soft ones. His cock shamelessly teasing her, so close to where it was meant to fit into her, but not there yet. It leapt in anticipation of breaching her.

He could feel her push herself against him. Her body in accordance with his, as it so often seemed to be. He spread her thighs and slid himself into her with one sure movement.

She made a little noise at the pressure of him inside her.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and then, “more.”

He slipped out evenly and then back in again, further inside her this time. He was still for a moment while she adjusted her body underneath his.

And then she whispered “more,” and he moved again, groaning at the deliciousness of the moment.

And then Alistair Crawford lost all control. He entered her again, all the way up to the hilt, and his body began to move. Languidly at first, but then picking up speed as she wrapped her legs around his back and met his every movement with one of her own.

His hips knocked against hers, her body taking the full brunt of him, and the only sound was that of skin slapping against skin. It was the most wonderful, the most delicious, the most erotic thing he could imagine.

Until she closed her eyes and whispered, “more, Alistair,” and “now, Alistair,” and arched her back to him. He came back to reality just in time to hold himself still while she fell apart beneath him. And then he spilled himself into the French letter, his hips thrusting, her name on his lips.

“Violet,” he whispered, dazed, and reached for her.

She came to him willingly, her head resting on his, her body curled up beside him, as contented as a languid cat napping in the sunshine.

He held her close, his eyes drooping into slumber.

“Alistair?”

“Hmph?”

“Thank you for wearing the French letter.”

“Mmmhm,” he said sleepily.

“What did it feel like?”

“Go to sleep, Violet.”

“I will,” she said, and her fingers dragged through the dark hair on the arm that held her. But she didn’t. “Does copulation feel different for you than for me?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never had the experience of being you.”

A wicked grin passed over his face as a particularly erotic thought occurred to him. “Although, after we’re married, I’d be game to find a way to switch places. Now go to sleep.”

He closed his eyes and dropped into a contented, bliss-filled slumber.

Chapter

25

Violet lay awake in the dark. The words after we’re married echoing around the anxious chamber of her mind.

The last few hours had been the most intimate and exciting moments of her life. She’d felt liberated from so much of what drove her every day: worries about her patients, worries about her medical knowledge, worries about her mother and cousin and family. She hadn’t really understood how much of her life had been about worry, about anxiety and control, until, for a few wonderful moments, she had let it all go.

And then he’d gone and ruined it.

After we’re married, he’d pronounced, as if Violet should have known all along that was the price to pay for their pleasure.

She thought they’d addressed any consequences with the French letter, but he’d had some other consequence entirely in mind. And she had no idea.