Chapter Eight #3
“You appear determined to forget. And I’ve enough experience to know when a woman returns my advances. Which you did, and most ardently. Must I reacquaint you?”
“Your grace—”
“I’ve paid a heavy price for you, Irish. Am I not allowed to enjoy it? Am I not allowed even a kiss?”
“It’s not a kiss you want,” she cried.
And it wasn’t. Her eyes were enormous. The little cheat!
Why this sudden reluctance? She had lured him in.
With words, with her eyes, with her body.
And yes, he’d gone willingly. Through his own fault, he’d paid the price, a heavy one at that—the price of a dukedom.
But she had toyed with him once, and he had learned from his experience.
“I make no bones about it,” he stated bluntly. “Is it any wonder? I would like to experience again what continues to escape my memory! I apologize for my drunken state that night. It’s most odd, however, given that too much wine or any other spirits usually renders a man…incapable.”
And by heaven, he was going to make her want him—want him the way he’d wanted her the night of the masquerade.
Oh, she pretended now that she felt nothing, but he knew better.
He recalled the softening of her lips, her tempting eagerness.
That was branded into his brain. And now, well, perhaps he should give the lass a taste of her own medicine.
He would make her pant and writhe and cry out her longing for him.
He would bring her to the point of rapture, then deny her completion.
Catching her hand, he brought her to her feet. Her gaze flickered away, then returned. First the coquette. Now the maid.
He was not a man of quick temper. But the chit had managed to spark it, and once roused, it was not easily doused.
Did she truly believe he was such a fool? He’d fallen victim to her ruse once already. He would not do it so easily again. And if she was convinced he was a puppet whose strings she could pull at whim, she was mistaken.
Alec caught her up against him. She lifted her head the same instant his mouth came down on hers.
His fingers slid beneath her hair, molding to her nape, even as he molded her lips to his.
He would leave her in no doubt that he would not be a pawn.
His tongue ran along the seam of her lips.
She kept them tightly closed. So she would spurn him, would she, now that she was his wife and had what she wanted?
Something inside him hardened. No, he decided. No.
With a sound low in his throat, he brought her closer still.
She was wedded tight against him, her breasts mounded against his chest, slim thighs soft against the tautness of his own.
She sucked in a breath, and Alec pounced.
His tongue parted her lips, stealing around hers as she sought to tuck it back; he took it into his mouth and sucked hard.
In some faraway corner of his mind he registered the faint sound she made.
But he was in no mood for more trickery.
Why did she persist at playing the innocent?
His arm tightened. The pressure of his mouth was fierce. He kissed her with raw possessiveness, as if to imprint her with his mouth and his will.
He felt the way she twisted against him, trying to free herself. She didn’t want his kiss, his touch.
Finally he released her. He raised his head, but he was not finished. He was going to see what was his. A few swift moves and her robe and gown were on the floor.
She stood before him naked.
When she sought to shield her breasts, he caught her by the wrists—how fine-boned and fragile they were—and held them at her sides.
Some distant part of him registered that she turned her face away. Her bravado was crumbling. No doubt she thought him hard and heartless.
Her skin was alabaster white. She was slender as a reed, her legs long and shapely. Yet even feeling used, he experienced a sharp stab of lust. He envisioned those long legs wrapped around his hips, his rod buried deep and hard.
His regard was long and thoroughly unhurried. Vaguely he registered her distress, for even as he battled the pangs of awareness, his mind was elsewhere.
She was exquisite. Christ, it made no sense. How could he have made love to a woman like this and have no recollection? How? Christ, he must have been feeling the effects of too much liquor more than he thought. Surely he would have remembered beauty such as this.
Doubt crowded his chest. His mind blurred as he struggled to resurrect that night. Perhaps in the dark…clothing pushed aside…
His jaw clamped tight. His breathing was hard. Quick. He fought a scorching battle with red-hot desire that threatened to overcome reason. Releasing her wrists, he stared down at her, deliberately clamping his hand around one breast. She flinched.
His hand fell away. So, she thought him hard and heartless. So much for bringing her to rapture, he thought with a twist of his lips.
Abruptly, he snatched up his coat and shirt. “I’m going to my room, Irish. Come find me if you discover yourself lonely.”