Darius: Lord of Pleasures by Grace Burrowes Page B

Lindsey was balanced over her, braced on his hands.
    And it was her turn to sigh, more slowly, more of a bodily sigh or relaxation of her defenses, because in this kiss, he would take care of her.
    “Better,” he murmured, shifting to cruise his lips over her features. He nuzzled and nibbled and grazed and tasted, her jaw, her forehead, her chin, and then back to her mouth, until she was happily melting into the bedclothes, ready to concede that duty and pleasure could disguise each other thoroughly.
    And then the real kissing began, as his tongue stole past her lips, into her mouth, and began to insinuate beautiful, naughty, wonderful, previously unimaginable notions. She tried to follow his lead, until she realized her hands were tangled in his thick, dark hair, pulling him down to her, and her body was…
    “Merciful heavens.” She turned away by force of will but kept her hand wrapped around the back of his head, inviting him to rest his forehead on her collarbone.
    “That is a little taste of option A,” Darius said, sitting up.
    Why was any effort at all involved in letting him go? “And option B?”
    He leaned in again, and when she’d inhaled in anticipation of another rousing, lingering, soul-stealing kiss, he put a brotherly peck on her forehead.
    “Good night, Vivian.” He rose, took her glass from the night table, and turned to leave.
    “That’s it?” She struggled up to her elbows. “Good night, Vivian?”
    “Good night, Lady Longstreet?”
    “Get out.” She tossed her book at him. “Just go, and I hope you sleep miserably.”
    He stopped at the door to blow her a kiss, still smirking, and Vivian realized she was smiling too. Awful man—how was she supposed to sleep after that?
    Which, she reflected, had likely been the point of his experiment.
    ***
    Darius took himself to his bedroom, resisting the urge to stand outside the door and listen for the sounds of Vivian Longstreet going to bed. She’d be methodical: banking the coals, replacing the fireplace screen, snuffing each candle, and in all likelihood, locking her door. Her place in her book would be carefully marked with a bookmark—no dog-eared pages for her naughty Lord Byron—and she’d kneel beside the bed to say her prayers, no matter how drafty the floor, no matter how her knees might ache.
    William Longstreet had taken a perfectly lovely young woman to wife and made her elderly, as well as deaf, dumb, and blind to her own appeal.
    Darius had been more honest than she’d known, when he’d said she deserved pleasure. She deserved heaps and hoards of it, years of it, but instead she’d gotten duty. As he readied himself for bed, he had to wrestle with a question: Vivian deserved a romp, a frolic, a few weeks decadently rife with flirtation and sexual gratification. He was in a position to give her that, but as she’d said, then what? A virtual spinster, she’d be ill equipped to deal with the attachments that formed when two people were physically intimate.
    Except, he could teach her that too. He could teach her to flirt and carry on and enjoy herself, and part with a sigh and wave before moving on to the next enjoyment. Clearly, Lord Longstreet had urged her in that direction, but Vivian had been too timid to dip her toe in the waters of dalliance.
    Or maybe, she had been too wise.
    By habit, he checked on John before turning in, finding the child fast asleep in his bed, the tomcat blinking slowly as Darius closed the door to the boy’s room.
    He could fathom pleasuring Vivian, could imagine it all too easily, but far more difficult was the idea that she was eager to bear his child. He’d seen it in her eyes—she wanted a child, and to his surprise, he wanted that for her as well.
    And this, he reasoned as he climbed between cold sheets, was why he didn’t allow other women the intimacy of coitus with him. It made a simple situation complicated and had him wishing all manner of impossible things, when he really should be