Page 70 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
“It’s not going in your hair.” He lowered himself to the edge of the bed, cupped her shoulder, and guided her over until she was flat on her back. He dipped his finger in the chocolate and then gently painted it over her lips before joining his mouth to hers.
As he kissed her, she tasted the chocolate and his dark essence. There was a sweetness to it, not only to the flavor but to the gentleness with which he savored her, groaning low.
When he lifted his head, he smiled. “There, all cleaned up.”
“Not all.” She took his finger, closed her mouth around it, and licked off the chocolate that remained on it. She wasn’t certain any sweet had ever tasted so delicious.
His eyes darkened. He growled.
When she was done, he drizzled a small amountof chocolate over her breast, creating a little design of swirls around her turgid nipple before dotting the hard peak. Lowering his head, he lapped at her flesh. Of their own accord, her fingers combed through his thick hair and held him in place. Never had she imagined a man would do such wicked things with her, that she’d want him to, that she would crave the attention he so thoroughly bestowed upon her.
He moved on to her other breast, careful not to pour too much, but to create a delicate pattern. Watching him caused heat to course through her, as though the chocolate turned molten and seeped through her skin and into her blood. She suspected that he’d intended to coat all of her thoroughly and to take his time doing so, but she was soon squirming with need and desire and urging him to hurry. To finish the punishment that wasn’t a punishment at all.
Then there was no chocolate between them, and they both became lost in the sensations they each elicited in the other, with long strokes of a hand, the press of fingers, the sojourn of tongues over flesh. He wasn’t shy about exploring every inch of her, and his actions emboldened her to do the same with him. It was so incredibly liberating, more so than taking on an occupation rather than following the path laid out for her that, had she remained on it, would have led to marriage.
When he thrust into her, she tightened around him, holding him close, relishing how perfectly they came together. They moved in tandem rocking against each other. The pleasure built swiftly, perhaps because of the chocolate. Was it an aphrodisiac? Or perhaps it was him, perhaps that was what he was to her. Because he had the ability to make her insatiable, even as he satisfied her.
This time when she fell apart in his arms, it was with his name filling her screams.
After dipping the strawberry into the chocolate, Bishop carried it to her mouth. She had the look of a woman well sated after their frenzied coming together. He’d been so lost in her, in the sensations she caused to course through him, that he’d remembered to withdraw from her barely in the nick of time. He’d had the absurd thought that he wouldn’t mind her carrying his child. But he also knew he would do nothing to force her into marriage. No compromising situations. No limiting of choices. Because if he’d learned anything at all about her, it was that she needed to be in charge of her destiny, to decide her course. To be free of Societal restraints. Not to be hindered by others’ expectations.
“What would you like for a treat to nibble on the next time you visit?” he asked.
She smiled lethargically. “You.”
Chuckling low, he dropped a kiss on her lips. “I was thinking of something sweet. A woman who puts five lumps of sugar in her tea must like sweets.”
“Chocolate and strawberries serve just fine.”
“I couldn’t believe when you dumped the chocolate on my head. I might have—”Fallen in love with you then.He furrowed his brow. Where had that thought come from? He was not a man to fall in love. He liked her a great deal, more than was wise with his reputation being what it was. He wouldn’t allow her to be painted with the same brush, and that meant an eventual parting of their ways.
“What?” she asked. “What might you have?”
“I might have thought you were jealous.”
“Cross, more like. You’d flirted with me the night before, and at the time I thought you were a Lothario.”
He set the bowl aside. “And now?”
“I still think you’re a Lothario, but at the moment you’re mine. I suppose tomorrow evening, however, you’ll be Mrs. Bowles’s pretend lover.”
Did he detect a bit of pique in her voice? He brushed strands of her hair back from her cheek. “She and I ended our arrangement. My current situation is rather distracting.” Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to her shoulder. She had the most delicate shoulders. “And she had no further need of me since her husband is dead.”
She jerked upright. “Murdered?”
“No. Natural causes, although it happened in his mistress’s bed.”
“Oh.” She settled back against the pillow.
He trailed his finger over the swells of her breast. “You sound disappointed.”
“I thought perhaps someone was killing men whose wives were having affairs. Although I don’t know why one would. I was looking for a connection, I suppose. An easier task at exonerating you. The best way to prove you innocent is to find who is guilty. At the moment we have damn few clues.”
He pressed his thumb against her brow, easing away the pleats that had formed there. “Don’t think about it. We should leave our troubles on the other side of that door.”
Lifting a hand, she cradled his jaw. “How can you not be worried?”
“We’re in the early days yet and I’ve hired an extremely skilled investigator. You’ll get to the bottom of things.”
