In Scandal They Wed

  She jerked away from the contact, scurrying aside. Spencer crouched and stretched out a hand, feeling the air, searching the dark. His fingers brushed something soft. He curled his hand around a fistful of fabric and tugged.

  “Evie?” He tugged again, inching closer, pulling her toward him by the hem of her gown. “Evie? Are you—”

  A sudden kick to the chest knocked the breath from him. Caught off balance, he fell back onto the floor. He heard her scramble away, moving deeper into the cellar.

  He followed, catching hold of her arm. “Evie! Stop! It’s me!”

  Dropping to his knees, he slid one hand up her arm to her face, cupping her cheek. He lowered his forehead to hers and spoke directly into her face, willing her to hear him, to believe. “It’s Spencer. You’re safe. I’m here.”

  She stilled against him, her breath falling fast and hard. For several moments, she said nothing. Not a sound escaped their lips as he held her close, their breaths mingling, lips so close he almost felt the tender swell of her upper lip.

  His mouth tingled, remembering the taste of her. He yearned to close that last bit of distance, touch that lip with his mouth.

  Bloody hell. Now was not the time to suffer lust toward his wife. She was in the grip of some living nightmare. He refused to let his cravings outweigh her peace and well-being. Especially since the blame for this entire incident could be settled on him. He should have sent Adara home. Instead, he’d left his wife to her sharp claws.

  “You’re fine,” he repeated. “Safe.” His thumb trailed small circles over her cheek as he waited for Evie to recover herself.

  He sucked in a deep breath and tried not to notice the petal-softness of her cheek beneath his hand. Or the close press of her shuddering body to him.

  At last she spoke, her voice small and shaky. She’d climbed back from whatever edge she’d been toeing. “Spencer?”

  “Yes.”

  A sob caught and twisted her voice. “What took you so long?”

  Then she was in his arms, the last bit of space between them gone.

  He sighed, the sound ragged with relief. “I’m sorry. God, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed against his throat, the tip of her nose ice on his skin. “You’re cold.” He cursed and started to pull back, ready to remove his jacket.

  Her fingers tightened their clutch on his arms. “No, don’t go.”

  He shook his head in the dark. “I’m not leaving you.”

  She slid her fingers from his arms, delving beneath his jacket to wrap her arms around his chest. She shifted, practically sitting in his lap. “I called for you,” she whispered. “Knew you would come.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

  “You’re here now.” She buried her face into his neck and clung harder, inhaling deeply. The sound clenched his gut. His cock hardened beneath her voluminous skirts.

  He cupped the back of her head, noticing her hair had fallen loose, trailed thickly down her back. He couldn’t resist. The thick mass felt too soft, like silk in his grasp. He delved his fingers through it.

  “I’m so sorry that Adara locked you down here. The fault is mine.” And it was. The thought of Evie hurt, in pain, when he could have prevented it, filled him with fury. “Let’s get you out of here and warm you up.”

  He knew of her aversion to the dark. Doubtlessly, she wished to be out of the cloying gloom that had reduced her to such terror.

  Her arms squeezed around him, stopping him from moving. She shifted, pressing her breasts into his chest. His breath fell faster, harder.

  “Not yet,” she purred. The words fanned warmly against his skin.

  He looked down, trying to make out her features in the impenetrable black. She moved again, pressed a light, openmouthed kiss to his jaw.

  He hissed.

  “Spencer,” she sighed his name, before flicking her tongue against his lip. Just a lick. A taste that made him tremble like a boy with his first maid.

  His grip tightened on her arms. “Evie, you shouldn’t—,” he broke off, leaving his warning unfinished. Touch me? Whisper sweetly against my skin?

  Was he a fool? He’d wanted nothing else since the first moment he saw her, muddied pinafore, hair a horrid mess, blue eyes snapping with clear unwelcome.

  Her fingertips brushed his cheek. “You make me feel safe. You chase away the fear, Spencer.”

  Something loosened inside him at her words.

  She continued, “When I’m with you, I forget everything except this.” She took his hand from her arm and dragged it to her breast.

  He sucked in a breath at the feel of her nipple beading through the fabric of her dress. He surged again, his erection a near painful throb.

  Bending his head, he crashed his lips over hers.

  He shuddered at the first taste of her. Holding her face, he angled her head for a deeper kiss as hunger exploded hotly between them. Her breast seemed to swell against his hand. He fondled it, found her nipple, delighted in her gasp.

  Her palms slid down his chest and then up again, wrapping around his shoulders. He groaned, yearning to strip off their clothes and lose all barriers between them, to feel her hands on his flesh.

  Never breaking their kiss, she shifted until her knees slid down his hips, her dress pooling around them.

  He grasped her other breast, cupping the sweet little mound. A little mewl escaped her from their fused lips. Desire spiked through him, dark and heavy, sinking heavily in his groin, simmering through his blood. His cock strained against his breeches, hard and aching, ready to plunge into her warmth.

  With a gasp, he tore free. He grasped her arms and forced her back. She strained toward him with a frustrated moan, hands still clutching his arms, her sharp little nails digging.

  “Evie,” he croaked, his arms shaking with restraint. “If we don’t stop this now—”

  She climbed off him, tugging him to follow. “Don’t stop. Don’t think.”

  Unable to deny her, deny himself, he came over her. Her hands skimmed up his arms, laced behind his neck. She arched beneath him, her face shaking, trembling near his own. Her skin felt incredibly soft against his skin. “Take me, Spencer.”

  It was everything he’d ever wanted to hear from her. What he’d been waiting for. His desire for her edged close to pain now. He wasn’t sure he could stop at this point.

  “Spencer,” she breathed sweetly against his ear.

  “Down here,” he reminded her, his voice rough and choking as she dragged her lips down his neck. “In the dark? You are certain?”

  “It doesn’t frighten me. Not with you.”

  “I won’t stop,” he vowed, warned, his voice thick and unnatural.

  Her cool fingers splayed over his cheeks, and there was such tenderness in the clasp of her hands that something unraveled inside him.

  Her words fanned over his mouth. “I’m counting on that. Make love to me.” Her voice choked a little against his ear. “Please. Not because of duty or honor. Not for the purpose of conceiving an heir. Pretend to want me. Even a little.”

  Pretend? “In all my life, I’ve never wanted anything more than this. Than you.” He sank over her and claimed her lips again. All gentleness fled.

  His hands drew her up against him and slid around her, working quickly over the tiny buttons at the back of her gown. He slipped each cloth-covered one free, fumbling and cursing in his eagerness, pausing as she slid his jacket and vest free. He growled impatiently as she pulled his shirt over his head. She laughed lightly, gasping when he gave up and ripped the last few buttons at the back of her gown. They popped and scattered to the ground with light dings.

  He yanked her dress down to her waist, pulling her arms free of the sleeves. Her arms felt warm and deliciously bare wrapped around him. Loosening her stays, he pulled her corset down enough to bare her breasts.

  In the dark, everything was sensation. Taste. He wished he could see her, but this would have to be enough. For now
.

  Palming the perfect mounds, he let his hands act as his eyes. She gasped. His thumbs tested the nipples, rolling and stroking the pebbled tips. She arched into his hands, moaning.

  “There’s no going back now,” he growled, kneading the soft flesh. “It won’t be like before, Evie.” It will be me. Not Ian. Us. You in my bed every night. No more running.

  Wild whimpers escaped her. He increased the pressure of his fingers, rubbing the tight buds until she moaned and writhed under his hands. So wonderfully responsive, arching into him, moaning . . . begging.

  “Say it. Say my name.”

  “Spencer,” she sobbed.

  His cock throbbed against his breeches, the erection painful, thick with need. He slid one hand beneath her skirts, skimming her stockings until he located the slit in her drawers. He brushed the soft curls between her legs, a satisfied smile curving his mouth at the wetness he found there.

  She jumped, gasped, her fingers clamping around his wrist.

  “Easy,” he murmured, still touching her, his fingers sliding against her slick folds. “Let me feel you.”

  She didn’t release her grip on his wrist, but her body trembled, quivered. Her legs parted wider for him, and she thrust herself against his hand, ready, eager after the initial shock of his touch.

  He glided his fingers over her, sliding toward her little nub. He brushed the spot, lightly at first, teasingly, gradually firmer, harder until she was surging against his hand in a desperate rhythm, crying out.

  Unable to wait another moment—he’d waited long enough—he freed himself. Sliding his hands over her slim thighs, he splayed her wide for him. Sweat broke out over his brow as he nudged her entrance, edged inside the delicious, sucking heat of her.

  He pushed deeper.

  She wiggled free. “Wait!” The sound of her voice, desire-laced and sultry, only made the blood pump harder in his veins.

  “Evie,” he groaned her name. She couldn’t mean for him to stop now!

  She urged him back with her hands on his chest and rose to her knees before him. He tried to haul her back, but she pressed a hand to his chest, stopping him. He had a sense of her shaking her head at him. “Not yet.”

  He strained to see in the dark, heard the slight rustle of her skirts, then gasped as her small hand closed around his cock—stroked him, at first slowly, then harder, each pump of her small hand driving him mindless.

  “Evie,” he groaned, falling back to the ground. “Please, I need you to—”

  He reached up and grasped her arms, determined to end the torment and finish this properly. Before she finished him.

  Her hand lifted then, left him . . . replaced by her mouth.

  Defeated, his hands dropped from her arms as her lips surrounded him. “Evie,” he moaned, “you’re killing me.”

  Chapter 22

  Evie prayed she knew what she was doing. Millie’s advice was imprinted on her brain. Advice that had seemed bold and impossible at the time, but no longer.

  She didn’t wonder if she could do it . . . only whether she could do it right. Do it well. If she could please him. Drive him wild with desire the way that she not only wanted to but needed to.

  “Evie, stop, please . . .” The rest of his words died as she worked her mouth over him, tasting, savoring.

  When Millie had told her about this part of it, she had thought the idea vaguely revolting. She had not guessed at the heady empowerment she would receive from bringing him to his knees, at reducing him to broken pleas.

  She laved him with her tongue, enjoying the ripples of pleasure coursing through his body, flowing into her. His groan ripped across the air, shuddering through his body and into her. The sound undid her. Her belly twisted and tightened. If possible, he swelled, grew harder, larger against her lips.

  He seized her arms and tried to pull her up. “Evie, please, no more—”

  She sucked at the tip of him, resisting the pull of his hands, determined that he take her only when he was overcome, mindless with need, so lost that he wouldn’t notice her lack of experience . . . or her maidenhead.

  “No more,” his voice bit out, pulling her out from between his legs.

  In a single move he rolled her beneath him, on top of his discarded clothing. His hands delved beneath her skirts, grasping her hips with a roughness that both thrilled and alarmed her. She had done it . . . driven him to the point of mindlessness.

  She stretched her hands into the darkness, searching for his face. Her palms brushed the scratchy texture of his cheeks and she latched on, dragging his face down to hers even as his hands tore at her drawers, ripping the slit in the fabric even wider.

  Then he was there.

  She gasped against his mouth at the sudden surge of him inside her. He didn’t ease in gently. He was beyond that. She’d made certain of that.

  He filled her, stretched her to capacity. Slick and large and alien. She fought the instinctive urge to pull back, to escape the strangeness of his throbbing member buried deep inside her.

  She whimpered.

  He must have taken the sound for pleasure, because he groaned and repeated the process, clutching her hips for leverage.

  Relax. Breathe.

  He still kissed her, his lips fierce, bruising as he eased out and drove back inside her again, lodging himself to the hilt with another shuddery groan against her lips. She drank the sound, reveled in it. The sound of his surrender. His passion for her.

  Gradually, the strange and uncomfortable sensation of him inside her changed into something else as he began to move, setting a quick pace, pumping in and out of her. Something raw and desperate that made her move faster against him. Without grace or rhythm.

  Clenching heat grew at her core, turning to a growing burn. The slick drag of him against her weeping flesh made her fidget, writhe beneath him, reaching, seeking for something close, near, within reach.

  The burning twisted into a deep, gnawing ache. Desperate for more, to increase the delicious friction of him inside her, she tangled her tongue with his and parted her thighs wider, lifting her hips off the ground.

  She moved with him, against him. Any way she could. Her hands slid around him, found the taut cheeks of his backside, and reveled in the sensation of his flesh flexing as he worked over her.

  She moaned, no longer caring if he was mindless, if he was lost to passion. She was. Her body afire, she thrust her hips to meet his every drive. Her inner muscles clenched around the delicious hardness of him. A ragged cry broke from her lips, the sound shameful and decadent and something she’d never imagined to hear from her lips. A sound she didn’t know she could make.

  And still, he moved harder over her, thrusting deeper. He slid a hand beneath her, lifting her off the hard ground and bringing her even closer for his penetration.

  Evie gasped, swallowed, clung to his shoulders. She felt like she was being propelled forward, pushed ahead in a great race, a desperate chase for something elusive . . . just within reach.

  She moaned his name, the sound twisting out from deep in her throat. The pressure grew, built. She bit down on his shoulder, tasted the warm saltiness of his skin as her body exploded, came apart, splintered into a thousand pieces. Spots danced before her eyes, and she was convinced she would never come together again. She would forever be this, changed, never herself again. Shattered.

  He collapsed over her, sliding his hand out from the small of her back and bracing his panting length over her.

  They lay there for some moments, their bodies rising and falling with heavy breaths. She felt him pulse, still lodged fully inside her.

  He lifted his head from the arch of her neck. “Evie?”

  “Hmmm.” She reached up to touch the ends of his hair lightly, rubbing the silky strands between her fingers, afraid of what his next words would be, if they might somehow possess the power to ruin this.

  Had he realized? Did he know?

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Her chest tighte
ned, painful pinpricks breaking out over her flesh. Because he knew he’d breached her maidenhead?

  “N-no.”

  “I’m usually not so . . . forceful.” He made a rough sound in his throat. “I certainly never imagined our first time together would be like this . . . on the floor of a cellar.”

  A sigh shivered through her. He didn’t know.

  She reached a hand for his cheek, enjoying the rasp of his skin against her fingers, feeling both relieved and awful. Because he didn’t know.

  A small part of her wished he had figured it out. Then the truth would be out. For better or worse, subterfuge would no longer hover between them. As long as her secret remained hidden, he didn’t know her. He never could. She was no different than his father, gulling him into believing an illusion.

  “It was perfect,” she murmured, her eyes burning, her voice thick. Perfect as it could be.

  His voice rumbled low and deep. “Indeed? Then it shouldn’t be difficult to impress you a second time. A bed shall help in that endeavor.”

  He rose and pulled her to her feet. Her skirts fell around her legs in a whisper.

  In the dark, he helped her set her clothes to rights, buttoning the back of her gown with an efficiency that convinced her of his experience in such a task. Legs steady as jam, she swayed for a moment until he steadied her. Her head spun. She clutched his arm for support.

  He folded a hand over hers. “Are you unwell?” His voice rang sharply in her ears.

  “Just a bit dizzy. I didn’t have a chance to take breakfast this morning—”

  “You mean you haven’t eaten since yesterday?” he demanded.

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her face. “Yes.”

  He cursed and swept her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. “Damn fool,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” she demanded. “I don’t appreciate—”

  “Not you. Me,” he growled in an angry voice as he stomped toward the shadowy stairs. “I should have known better than to take you down here like a well-seasoned . . .” His voice faded away with a low growl.