Page 1 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Chapter 1
London
1853
Morgan Lyons, the eighth Earl of Westcliffe, unhurriedly trailed his fingers over the slender bare back—the appearance of which always delighted him. A light touch, barely there, as soft as a cloud drifting across the late-afternoon sky. He’d discovered that Anne responded best to only the hint of sensation, as though the torment of being denied more pressure heightened her pleasure.
She was such a wonderfully carnal creature, willing to explore passion and pleasure in all its forms. It was the very reason he sought her company.
She was soundly asleep, not reacting to his subtle gestures, but she would be miffed if he took his leave without giving her a proper farewell. Gathering up her hair, with its hints of red that often made it seem as though it might ignite at any moment, he draped it over one shoulder, exposing the nape of her slender neck. Shifting his body so she was cradled beneath him, he pressed his hot, moist mouth to the ridge of her spine and began to leisurely travel downward.
Moaning low, she stretched languorously, like a feline lazing in the sun. “Mmm, I do so enjoy the way you awaken me.”
Her voice, lazy, raspy, sultry, caused him to harden swiftly and painfully. With his knees, he spread her thighs, opening her to him, and slid into her velvety haven. It was only here, when he could become lost in wicked sensations, that he was master, that the world and all its disappointments receded.
Welcoming him with a groan of satisfaction, she lifted her hips slightly, and he delved deeper. Now he was the one to groan, a growl really, low and throaty. This was what he needed, what he always needed. Hands gliding, fingers teasing, mouths devouring.
Theirs was an ancient ritual of writhing bodies, escalating sighs, and intense sensations. With a triumphant laugh, she bucked him off, straddled him, claimed him. Even as he took her again, even as he caused her to cry out his name, he felt nothing beyond the searing press of flesh. Why the bloody hell couldn’t he feel more—true enjoyment, immense satisfaction, contentment—instead of this bloody wasteland of lackluster emotion?
The room echoed with their grunts, their shouts, their cries. He knew how to touch, how to stroke, how to please, how to bring her the ultimate in pleasure.
Even when she collapsed over him, he fought his own cataclysm, staved it off as long as possible, until it consumed him, came crashing around him.
Replete, exhausted, breathing heavily, he lay beneath her. As always it was never enough. His legendary prowess mocked him, leaving him dissatisfied. Ah, the physical release was grand, but afterward, he always experienced a keen sense of bereavement, of something amiss, something that he could wrap neither his head nor his heart around.
He was always left wanting more, but for the life of him, he couldn’t define exactly what the more should be.
He knew only that for all her exquisite beauty, she didn’t provide it. But he also knew the fault resided with him, not her. He lacked something essential. It was the reason no woman had ever loved him.
As gently as possible, he eased her off him. Her green eyes lethargic, she gifted him with a contented curl of her lips, a cat that had lapped up the last of the cream. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before rolling out of bed.
He gathered up his clothes from where they’d landed on the floor when she’d first divested him of them hours earlier. It wasn’t until he’d sat in the purple velveteen chair to pull on his boots that she scooted to the foot of the bed and said, “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
He peered over at her, now wrapped modestly in the red satin sheet. She swung her legs off the end of the bed and grabbed one post. She gave the appearance of someone sitting on a swing, and he was reminded of a golden-haired girl he’d long ago seen in that exact pose. If he were capable of flowery emotions, he might have thought he’d begun to fall in love with Claire that day. Silly thought.
“You’ve grown bored with me,” Anne said succinctly, before he could answer. Not that he would have. He was not in the habit of sharing anything that resided within him. He allowed only the outer shell to be available for her amusement.
Haughtily, making a great show of securing the sheet more tightly around herself, she walked to the window. “They say no woman can hold on to you. I thought to prove them all wrong.”
After tugging on his boots, he crossed the room and wound his arms around her waist, inhaling her fading scent mixed with the musky fragrance of passion he’d unleashed earlier. “I’ve not grown bored with you.”
“Then stay the night. For once, stay the night.”
He tucked his finger beneath her chin, tilted her head around, and took her mouth as though he owned it. Only when she turned and sagged against him, did he lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed. Setting her down gently, he drew the covers over her. “Not tonight.”
As he was striding toward the door, she called out, “I hate you!”
Her words gave him no pause. He’d heard them before, from others. The first time he was five-and-twenty. The words had pained him then, but never since. Why did women not understand that hate could not hurt if there was no semblance of love? She didn’t love him. He knew that, accepted it.
She was as frosty as he. It was the reason they were well suited, the reason he’d not yet grown bored with her.
“Westcliffe?”
Striving to come up with a way to communicate that he wasn’t upset with her, he glanced back and merely said, “Tomorrow.”
“I expect to receive a very nice bauble.”
He gave her a grin and a wink. “Something to match the green of your eyes, I should think.”
