Page 41 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

He pulled her against him and kissed her.

It was nothing like their wedding kiss—that brief, formal brush of lips. This was fire and desperation, three days of careful distance exploding into need. She made a sound she didn't recognize, her hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer.

He backed her against the wall, his body caging hers, and she'd never felt anything like this before; this hunger, this need that seemed to consume her from within. His hands were in her hair, scattering pins, but she didn't care, couldn't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth on hers.

"Your room or mine?" he growled against her lips.

"Yours is closer."

He pulled back, his eyes dark and wild. "Be sure, Arabella. Be very sure."

"I'm sure."

Thunder crashed overhead as he took her hand and led her through the halls. They passed servants who suddenly found the walls fascinating, passed portraits whose subjects seemed to turn away in shock. She didn't care. Let them look. Let them gossip. She was tired of being careful, tired of distance, tired of pretending she didn't want this.

His chambers were dark, lit only by the fire and occasional lightning. She had a brief impression of massive furniture, heavy drapes, a bed that seemed to dominate the room; but then he was kissing her again, and coherent thought fled.

Chapter 9

"I've wanted this since I pulled you from that lake," he confessed against her throat. "Soaking wet, spitting mad, absolutely glorious."

"I was a disaster."

"You were perfect." His hands worked at the buttons of her dress with surprising skill. "You are perfect."

"I'm not..."

"Argue with me later." The dress fell away, and his eyes blazed as he looked at her. "My goodness, Arabella."

She should have been embarrassed, standing before him in only her chemise and stays. Instead, she felt powerful. Desired. Alive in a way she'd never experienced.

"Your turn," she said, surprising herself with her boldness.

His smile was wicked as he stripped off his shirt, revealing a chest marked by scars but undeniably masculine, undeniably attractive. The firelight painted his skin gold and shadow, and she couldn't resist touching, tracing the lines of old wounds and new muscle.

He shuddered at her touch. "You're killing me."

"Good."

He laughed, dark and rough, and kissed her again. They stumbled toward the bed, hands exploring, boundaries dissolving. Thunder shook the house, but it was nothing compared to the storm between them.

"Are you certain?" he asked one more time, poised above her, his control clearly hanging by a thread.

"Lucien," she said, using his name deliberately, watching his face change at the sound of it. "Stop asking and start teaching me."

What followed was revelation. She'd read books, heard whispers, thought she understood what happened between husband and wife. She'd been utterly unprepared for the reality though; the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the shocking pleasure of it. Lucien was patient when she needed patience, passionate when she was ready for passion, and tender in ways that made her chest ache. His hands roamed slowly, deliberately, mapping every dip and curve of Arabella’s body as if memorizing her by touch alone. She gasped softly when his lips found the slope of her neck, his breath warm against her skin.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, his voice low, “but you are mine.”

He let his teeth graze gently over the delicate flesh beneath her ear, following the bite with a kiss, then a soft suck; just enough to leave a mark. A visible reminder. She arched toward him with a soft whimper, pressing her body into his.

His hands slid down her back, holding her tightly to him as he began his descent—slow kisses trailing from her neck to her collarbone. Arabella threaded her fingers through his hair, breath hitching as his mouth moved lower.

“You always smell like lavender,” he said against her skin, nuzzling the hollow of her throat. “It drives me mad.”