Page 61 of Again, Scoundrel

“I want to,” she said. “But I won’t end up like Jess.”

He reached out and ran his hand along her jaw. “I would never allow that to happen, my love. I would never abandon you.”

“You have French letters?” she asked. “From your…” she faltered but pushed on. “From your travels?”

Alistair raised that eyebrow at her. French letters were the provenance of whores and sailors. Of course, he had some. He generally had one soaked and ready in case he went to a brothel. Not that he’d had cause to use one since he met Violet.

But he was certain he still had one prepared somewhere. He’d seen enough syphilis and pox in fellow sailors to be vigilant.

“I’ll just have a look, love.” He rose from the bed.

Violet’s heart stilled at the word, love. She’d noticed when he’d said it before, but she’d been too distracted by the sight of him standing naked before her to concentrate on it. Now it felt different, more weighted. But she pushed it from her mind because Alistair had risen from the bed and stalked across the room in search of the contraception she’d requested.

He was magnificent when he moved. Graceful like the cougar she’d seen once steal a sheep in the Hudson River Valley back home. But he was darker than that giant cat, especially in the dimly lit room. His sable head of hair made him look for all the world like a panther.

A parlor panther, she mused and let loose a little laugh, causing him to turn to her.

“Do I amuse you, Miss Goodwin?” he asked, finding what he searched for and returning to the bed, French letter in hand.

“No.” She cocked her head at him. “Did you have that already prepared?”

“Would it bother you if I said yes?”

Would it? It shouldn’t.

Violet had no claim over Alistair. But it did bother her, nonetheless. “It would,” she admitted. “But I am glad to know you’ve protected yourself.”

He crawled onto the bed next to her.

“Violet, no one who came before you matters. At all. They were all the same, and you, my love, are different. Now help me tie this on.”

His words recalled the conversation they’d had at the Waverly Ball, before they’d gone out to the gardens. Her cheeks flushed with the erotic memory, and she reached forward, toward him.

“Show me what to do,” she said, and he placed his hand over hers, tight against his cock that grew harder and longer under their joint touch.

“Harder,” he grunted, and she squeezed him and worked him the way his fingers urged her to, up and down his length until he was shaking beneath her touch.

“Now put it on,” he said, and she helped him roll the sheep’s skin over his hard cock before neatly tying its strings into a bow.

“You look very pretty, Lord Alistair,” she said, with a final caress on his hard tip.

He grinned. “Not half as pretty as you do, Miss Goodwin. Now lay down, Violet. There is more pleasure to be had.”

And then his covered prick was pressing into the soft mound of her thighs and her hips were thrusting up toward his, as if they’d never paused their lovemaking at all.

She thrilled at the feel of him there, so close to her body, the sheath allowing her to relax into the experience without worry, so that before long, she was pressing her hips into him, trying to fit him into her.

“Are you ready, Violet?” he asked, and her breathy “yes” made him press his forehead to hers. “You know what happens next?”

“I do,” she said.

She got more of him. She wanted more—more of the way her body felt alive when he touched her. More of the way her belly quivered under his sure hand. More of the way she felt precious and light when he cupped her face and kissed her. More of everything.

Alistair kissed her again and knew she could taste herself on his lips, could smell her own desire on his face. He shuddered at the thought of it making her wet and ready for him.

“Now,” she whispered, her voice breathy and low.

“Now, love?” he asked, kissing her again before she could answer.