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She was still wet from their earlier exertions. And he was hard, long, and ready for her.
He bunched up the silk of her robe with one fist. “I want to watch.”
The expression on his face was rapt, hungry... it made her brave.
She lowered onto him, moaning as he stretched her wide. He didn’t move a muscle, staring down, watching her take him inside her.
She began to move, rolling her hips, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders. Her bottom hit the piano keys as she arched backward, and then slid forward and down. He watched, his jaw gone slack, eyes glazed with lust.
This was power. To take all that he had to give. And give him everything in return. To be the very center of his attention, performing this ancient dance for his pleasure and her own. It was intoxicating.
And very, very wicked.
His hands gripped her hips and he clasped her to his chest as he took control, thrusting with luscious, slow strokes that made her moan and shudder in his arms as she came and he followed her there.
Sated and still humming with pleasure, she laid her head against his chest, listening to the percussion of his wildly beating heart.
“I love you, West,” she whispered.
“The day you rolled up your sheet music and came at me like a general leading a battalion into battle, you said that love makes life worth living.” He kissed her. “And you were right. Your love makes life worth living, Viola. I can’t wait to live the rest of my life with you.”
Epilogue
Hanover Square Rooms
Christmas Eve
The large audience hushed as Viola’s father rose from his seat and walked toward the orchestra. Her Christmas carol had been saved for last as a mark of special favor.
The lovely Italian paintings adorning the arched ceiling of the concert hall were done in soothing tones and the reception for the new song had been enthusiastic thus far, but her heart still thumped erratically as she prepared to hear her carol sung for the first time in public.
West squeezed her hand. “The audience won’t know that you composed the carol, but I do. And I’m so very proud of you.”
Viola smiled, loving the way his fingers wrapped around hers possessively. He made her so very happy.
His sisters were seated around them, staring raptly at the stage. Birdie turned to give Viola a smile.
Her father tapped his conductor’s baton on themusic stand and the sound of silence filled the hall, the breathless moment of anticipation before the orchestra began to play, and the choir to sing.
“I’m a little worried about Papa,” she whispered to West. “The sound will be loud, intensified by the acoustics of the hall, but he might not be able to hear well enough to conduct in tempo.”
Her father raised his baton. But instead of conducting, he turned around, toward the audience.
“What’s he doing?” Viola asked.
“This Christmas carol was written by my daughter, Viola, Duchess of Westbury, a composer in her own right,” he pronounced in loud, ringing tones.
Viola gasped. A scandalized murmur traveled through the crowd. The king wasn’t in attendance tonight, thank goodness. Such a breach of protocol in his presence would have been unforgivable.
“She wrote it while I was composing my masterpiece, my Symphony no. 10, which the world will have the pleasure of hearing very soon.”
“Not very humble, your father,” West murmured in her ear.
“What’s he doing? This wasn’t the plan.”
“I submit that my daughter should be the one to conduct this orchestra and choir tonight. I myself taught her the art of conducting, though she’s never had the opportunity to put it into practice in public. My dear, please come to the stage,” he called loudly.
“Oh my God.” Viola’s stomach dropped into her slippers. “I can’t believe this.”
