When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella by Megan Frampton

onto his bed— dear lord, his bed —and stepped forward to him, lifting her arms to wrap around his neck.
    “I want you to kiss me some more,” she said, her gaze on his mouth.
    “Of course,” he replied, lowering his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft and warm, and her tongue swept into his mouth and explored, tangling with his as she made a soft noise low and deep in her throat.
    His hands were at her waist, and he spread his fingers so they touched the curve of her spine, where her arse met her back. And then traveled lower, squeezing her flesh, kneading it as he pressed his erection against her body.
    It felt too good, too soon.
    Matthew had explored an attraction before, of course; he wasn’t entirely inexperienced, but he’d never before felt this immediate surge of desire, of attraction, of lust, of needing to possess. If he had, he wouldn’t still have been a virgin.
    The thought of which nearly made him stop. Nearly. Would she laugh when she found out? How would she find out? Was he willing to give that to her, something he’d mentally promised to give first to his future wife?
    Only how could he not share something so special with her, the most special woman he’d ever met?
    He lost all ability to think, however, when she pulled her mouth from his and pushed him backward, toward the bed.
    He shuffled until the back of his knees hit the mattress, then she gave him a harder shove and he fell back, bouncing a few times on the bed.
    She tumbled onto the bed on top of him, her eyes sparkling, her mouth red and moist from their kiss.
    “Your bed is much nicer than mine.” One corner of her mouth tilted up. “Not just because you are in it.” She unwrapped his cravat from his neck, then put her hands to his waistcoat and began to undo the buttons, quickly but competently. Then she pushed the two sides of the waistcoat away and began to undo the buttons of his shirt, her face frowning in concentration.
    It felt so . . . unusual, as usual, for her to be here, taking control where normally he was in control. Where he knew every single possible outcome, and had planned accordingly for each one.
    He had no idea what would happen next. Right now. As in, he had no idea that after she’d finished with the buttons of his shirt she’d lower her mouth to his neck and kiss it, then lick her way to the lowest part of his chest that was exposed.
    He definitely couldn’t have predicted just how amazing it felt, to have her body on his, her soft weight pressing him down into the mattress, her mouth on his bare skin.
    And how she raised her head and met his eyes, her own gaze focused with a particular kind of desire, of purpose.
    He resisted the temptation to close his eyes since he didn’t want to miss one possible sense of what was happening. And then realized, of course, he should be exploring, as he’d been given permission to, with his hands, his sense of touch not just restricted to experiencing what she was doing to him.
    He placed his hands on her ribcage, the part he could reach that wasn’t pressing on him, then spread his fingers out so his thumb and index finger touched the curve of her breast. And then he moved his fingers and she smiled at him, arching into his touch, and it felt amazing, better than any previous explorations had, even though they were both still entirely clothed (although he was now unbuttoned).
    “I want to see you with your shirt off. Again,” she said with a smirk, and he remembered how it had felt to know she had seen his naked chest, how shocked he’d been at the time.
    Only now he wasn’t shocked. He wanted her to see him, wanted to see that look of desire in her eye as she regarded him. More, he wanted her to touch him, to run those beginning-to-callous hands over his skin and touch him everywhere. Make him know what it was like to lose control of everything, for every plan and contingency to be forgotten as he gave himself to her.
    “You’re going to have to move then,”