The Sins of Viscount Sutherland by Samantha James Read Free Book Online Page B

Her quest for revenge would be lost. She’d come this far. She wouldn’t quit now.
    “How long were you wed?” he asked.
    She opened her mouth, floundering.
    “Tell me,” he said sharply. “Is it too soon?”
    “Too soon?”
    He made an impatient gesture. “Too soon after your husband’s death.”
    She seized on it. “Yes,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize it until now . . .”
    She had lowered her eyes. It did no use. His regard seemed to spear inside her.
    He caught her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Don’t play where you are not willing to go, Claire. You’re not a green young girl. You’ve been married. Not every man would stop. You’re undoubtedly aware of that.”
    What? Did he seek to play the role of gentleman now?
    She pushed at her hair, which had come down around her face.
    In the entrance hall the clock chimed.
    “Come,” he said. “The hour is late. Let me take you home.”

Chapter Five
    L ater that night, Gray strode into his oak-paneled study. At his desk, he reached for a bottle and poured a generous splash of whiskey into a glass. He was halfway through it when Dawes, his butler, admitted Clive.
    “I saw your light aglow in here.” Clive helped himself to a drink and a cigar. “May I ask where your beautiful escort for the night is?”
    Gray grimaced, watching the tip glow as Clive lit the cigar. “At home.”
    “And sleeping in her own bed?”
    He took a long draught of smooth Irish whiskey, reminded of the brandy he’d drunk with Claire.
    Clive took a pull of the cigar. “Set you down cold, did she?”
    His jaw tightened.
    “I see,” said Clive with a laugh.
    Gray thought of the lovely Claire Westfield, the way she’d pulled away from him. The memory had him gritting his teeth. A kiss was the least he wanted from the lady.
    He’d wanted to drag her back into his arms. He wanted to crush his mouth against hers. Bury his fingers through the thatch of curls at the valley of her thighs and seek the scalding heat of her flesh. Mount her and drive into the sweet heat of her cleft, feel her melt around his cock. Ride her fast and hard. Yet even as those feelings seized hold of him once more, he wondered about his desire for her. Wondered and hated himself for it. It was too damned keen. Gray was a man with iron-clad restraint. He didn’t like what he could not hold sway over.
    And he did not like what was happening with the lovely widow. What the blazes had he been thinking?
    He hadn’t, he decided blackly. At least not with his head.
    He didn’t take his women to his home . . . No one had slept in his bed beside Lily. Not here. Not at Brightwood. He’d loved only her. And when she died— He cut short the thought. Claire wasn’t his woman, he reminded himself. He did not have . . . women. He had lovers. He had bed-sport partners from whom he could disengage once passion was sated, women who wanted no more than he did. Women who graced his bed but not his heart.
    Roses. Wine. Christ, had he gone mad? What a fool he’d made of himself!
    He wasn’t used to being rejected. By heaven, he wasn’t through with the beauty just yet. He thought of Claire’s mouth, the slight pout of her lower lip, the way he’d run his tongue along the outline of her mouth. When he was with her, he could hardly take his eyes from it. He wasn’t satisfied. Not by any means. His pleasure had been cut short. He wanted to taste that delicious little pout that so entranced him. He thought of the grace with which she moved. He recalled the ripe lushness of her breasts against his chest, breasts that rose ripe and full above the neckline of her gown. Oh, yes, he wanted so much more from her. Sensation danced through him as he imagined her on her knees before him, his hands in her hair, holding her as she—
    Son of a bitch . He sucked in a breath and gave thanks he was sitting. The thought gave rise to a heavy flood of arousal that was almost painful. Desire stabbed through his middle. He