The Scandal of the Season by Aydra Richards

Author:Aydra Richards [Richards, Aydra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-29T18:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Mouse dozed against his chest, having slipped into an exhausted slumber shortly after Grey had coaxed her to let him cleanse between her thighs. It had embarrassed her, that intimate attention, likely more so than what had come before. But he had wanted to assure himself that he hadn’t done any real damage.

Because she had been so small, so tight—for all that he’d prepared her, he knew he had hurt her. But there had been no blood, which had relieved the worst of his fears, and Mouse had seemed well pleased with the both of them at the end, though she had demanded the return of her nightgown before she could be enticed back into bed.

She looked delightfully tumbled in sleep, her fair hair a dreadful tangle spilling down her back, her pale skin glowing rose from the abrasion of his stubble. Though he would have staked every pound he possessed on the fact that she’d never shared her bed with another, she had taken to it easily enough, tucking her head beneath his chin and curling up against him.

And he—he had stayed. It hadn’t even seemed like a conscious decision—just the correct, natural thing to do. He’d had mistresses before, but he had never been tempted to stay the night with one, to subject himself to one’s company for longer than it took to satisfy the both of them.

But Mouse was different—a lady, a virgin. He’d promised her that he had no designs on her virtue, and when she’d offered it anyway, he’d leapt at the opportunity. Because he’d been trying to work out how to seduce her, and instead she’d taken the initiative.

So he’d made love to her, because one didn’t simply bed a woman like Mouse. And it had been incredible. Transformative, even. Though he had never counted himself a particularly selfish lover—to his knowledge, all of his partners had been satisfied during their encounters—nothing that had come before had even remotely approached the visceral satisfaction he’d experienced when Mouse had fallen to pieces in his arms, nothing that rivaled the ecstasy of her fingernails raking his skin, the sweet grip of her body spasming around him.

His back still bore the marks of her brazen clawing. The salt of his sweat stung the minor wounds, like a penance for the aches he’d likely given her. Not that she’d minded there at the end—because Mouse was more than a bit wild in the throes of passion.

She shifted in his arms, likely jarred to the edge of wakefulness by the stirring of his erection against her belly, because that thin nightgown was no barrier against it, and he battered down the urge to roll her to her back once more and take shameless advantage of her drowsy daze and have her again.

It would be unforgivable, when she was likely still sore. When he hadn’t even been able to make himself withdraw from her in time earlier. He could not compound his irresponsibility yet further—because though he’d known that

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