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“Please,” she said, no longer sure what she was asking for.

“Please,” he echoed, his voice soft and seductive, and she raised her eyes to meet his.

A mistake. She, who knew far too well the emptiness of physical beauty, was enrapt by his beautiful face, his forest green eyes, his tawny mane of hair and seductive, cynical mouth. He was beautiful, and he wanted her. And God help her, she wanted him. Not because of his beauty, but because of the odd gentleness in his manner when she didn’t expect it, because of the lost look in his green eyes, because of the way he made her feel with just a few words, because of the way he made her melt when he touched her. The jaded rake he presented to the world was just as much a mask as her own was.

“P-p-please what?” she stammered, losing the train of thought.

“We need to go to bed,” he said in a soft, practical voice. “Do I need to ply you with more brandy before I get you there? Because I’m not going to do so. You’ll have to decide on your own.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. You feel it too. You can pretend all you want, but I’ve had a vast deal more experience in things like this, and I know when the need, the interest, the desire is mutual. I doubt you could want me as much as I want you, but I expect you want me more than anyone you’ve ever wanted in your life.”

“You are so vain!” she protested, trying to ignore the fact that he still held her hand.

“Not vain, Bryony. Realistic.” He was too close, but he didn’t touch her. “Now come with me to my bed. I don’t have to take your virginity—there are ways around it, leaving you technically pure in case you decide to marry.”

Whether it was the small amount of brandy, or whether she was using it as an excuse didn’t matter. She had decided. She wanted him. Her body cried out for him, her heart cried out for him, and this could be her only chance to have a taste of what had always been denied her, and she wanted more than a taste.

“You can’t take my virginity,” she said in a choked voice.

“Darling, I’ll do whatever you let me do, up to and including that. There’s a limit to the small amount of honor I still possess.”

She shook her head, and she could feel tears prick at her eyes. That damned cognac. “You can’t,” she said again. “I’m not a virgin.”

He stared at her for a long, heated moment. “Good enough,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HE WAS A RIGHT royal bastard, in word and deed and birth, Kilmartyn thought as he pulled her slight, warm body against him. If he had any kind of decency at all he’d let her spend the night dreaming of the book of erotic drawings and his kiss on her mouth, and then simply start anew tomorrow. He wanted her to come to his bed with clear intentions and informed agreement, and he’d always planned to have her that way. It didn’t matter that she was a lady—he would treat a courtesan the same way. You didn’t coerce, you didn’t force, and you certainly didn’t drug an unwilling female into your bed. Although if she put up any more resistance he was going to look for the laudanum.

He needed this woman, no matter who she was or what she wanted from him. He needed the sweet comfort of her skin next to his, her long legs around his hips. He needed to lose everything in the sweetness of her body, he needed to forget, needed to wash himself clean, and he needed her. No one else would do. And thank God she wasn’t a virgin—he wouldn’t harm her if he was careful.

She was shaking slightly in his arms, and she had her face tucked down against his shoulder, against the skin beneath his opened shirt. He reached his hand under her chin and tilted it up, to see her eyes full of unshed tears. “Are you crying, my dear Miss Greaves? Surely not. Tell me you don’t want this, be honest just this once, and I’ll release you. You can make your delectably tipsy way back up to the attics and we’ll never speak of it again.” He was lying to her, of course. Nothing could keep him away from her indefinitely. But maybe, just maybe he could keep Bryony for a better time, untainted by the bleakness of the last day. He could take her in sunlight and a field of flowers, no darkness and pain and death.

He realized with a shock that her arms were around his waist, holding him. Maybe she’d had more to drink than he’d thought. And maybe he was needier than he thought.

Her eyes were closed, the tears seeping beneath them, and he cursed the fact that his cock was so damned hard he could come just from looking at her, cursed the fact that he could never do the right thing. He needed to carry her up to her own room, settle her in her bed, and leave her with a chaste kiss on the forehead.

And that was the very last thing he was going to do. “Open your eyes, Bryony,” he murmured, and to his surprise she did. He kissed her then, putting his mouth on hers as he’d been wanting to do again since he’d had her in his bed and he’d foolishly let her go. But then, he hadn’t known what he’d find the next morning when he found the clothes bundled beneath his bed, what he’d find in his wife’s apartments.

Bryony tasted of cognac and salt tears and sweet, untutored lust. She tasted of the redemption he could never have, the fiery hell he was heading for. She tasted of everything he had ever wanted, and he lifted her up against him, so she was pressed against his erection. He slid one arm under her bottom, supporting her, and by instinct she wrapped her legs around him, not noticing he was lifting the fine linen nightdress up her long legs so that he could feel the sleek skin of her thighs. He set her on the table, sweeping the decanter and brandy snifters crashing to the floor, and the pungent scent of the spilled liquor added to the night air, added to the smell of her skin and the taste of her mouth. He broke the kiss, pushing her back on the scrubbed wood, and she went willingly, staring up at him as his hands slid up her legs, moving between them. He wanted to unfasten his breeches and slam into her—thank God she wasn’t a virgin, didn’t need to be wooed or treated tenderly. He could just fuck the hell out of her, hard and fast, as he desperately needed to, and wipe out the last twenty-four hours. He needed Bryony, nothing but Bryony, breathing her, taking her, drowning in her.

He looked down into her face, the indigo blue eyes and small nose, the lush lips that would feel so good wrapped around him, sucking him. Her tawny hair was loose, spread out behind her, and she looked delicious, irresistible, and her eyes closed. She knew what she was doing, and he thanked his stars. He pushed the night dress up to her waist, and she reached down in sudden shyness, trying to cover herself up again. Not a virgin, but not much more than one, he thought, ready for her, catching both wrists in his hand as he dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor and put his mouth between her legs.

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nbsp; He hadn’t done this to a woman in a long time, and he’d forgotten how much he loved it, the honey and sweetness of her. She was still making some kind of fuss, but he simply licked his way up to the tight little nubbin at the top of her sex, sucking at it while he used his other hand to trace her wet, silken folds. She’d had so little experience she most certainly hadn’t had this particular delight. He slid a finger into her, testing, and she let out a small cry, one of shocked pleasure. She was tight, too damned tight, and she was going to need to be a lot more relaxed or he’d hurt her, and he’d never enjoyed hurting women, even those who enjoyed being hurt. He suddenly realized she wasn’t struggling. Her hips were arching up against his hand, seeking completion, and he pulled out his finger and slid in two.

Tight, so deliciously, damnably tight, but he knew where to touch her, where to rub inside her, and he used his teeth on her, biting just enough that she arched off the table, spasming in hoarse, gasping response as he pumped his fingers, feeling her clench around him.

He didn’t want to stop, but she was panting, shaking with reaction, and he rose up, standing at the edge of the table, looking down at her as she lay spread out for him. “Wait,” she said in a raw voice. “I should tell you…”

If she was about to confess who she was she’d picked a hell of a time for it. “No,” he said. Her shawl had fallen and the nightdress was rucked up beneath her bottom on the hard wood table. He took the fine material in his hands and tore it up the front, to the row of tiny buttons that popped off as the material ripped beneath his strength, and her breasts were small and hard and perfect—she was perfect. He slid his hands up her body to cup those breasts, plucking gently at the hardened nipples, and she sucked in her breath as another ripple of response danced across her skin.

“More?” he said, barely recognizing his own rough voice.

She closed her eyes again, arching into his touch. “More,” she whispered. “Please.”


Tags: Anne Stuart Scandal at the House of Russell Romance