A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(105)

And she did.

Without breaking the caress, he returned her to the bed, lowering her to sit on the edge of it, coming to his knees at the bedside. She released his lips and pulled away. “No,” she said. “I do not wish you on your knees.”

“You shall like it when I show you all the things I intend to do to you from this particular position,” he said, his lips finding purchase at the soft, warm skin of her neck before opening and giving him access to the line of her jaw and the lobe of her ear. “Leave me here to worship you, love. And I shall make it worth your while.”

He took her lips again, loving the little sigh she released, the way she went limp at the touch, as though he she could not resist him.

As though he was as irresistible as she was.

The caress lingered until her hands fell to his shoulders and she pushed him back, again, putting space between them. “I don’t want you on your knees, Alec,” she repeated. “I want you.”

His hands threaded into her hair, “I am with you, love. I couldn’t be anywhere else.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand.” She leaned back. “I don’t want you with me. I want us with each other.”

When he finally understood the words, they were like a blow to the side of the head. He sat back on his heels there, on the floor of her tiny room under the stairs, and watched her for a long moment, as color rose in her cheeks and she said, “Do you see, love? I want us together.”

She wanted them equal.

Not a guardian and his ward.

Not a duke and a miss.

And not the other.

He swallowed, unable to find any other words but “I see.”

She had once more ruined him.

She saw the truth in him and smiled, wide and gleeful, before she went to her knees on the bed, shucking the coat and shirt she’d worn as a disguise that evening—as though she’d removed men’s clothing from her person a dozen times—revealing her high, lovely breasts, soft and perfect as peaches and fresh cream.

His mouth watered, and he raised his attention to her auburn hair, cascading around her shoulders. And then she reached for the fall of her trousers.

He watched her for a long moment his eyelids growing heavy with desire before he could not help himself. “Stop,” he growled, his gaze riveted to those long, lovely fingers where they lingered at the fastening of her trousers.

She stopped.

He rubbed the back of one hand across his mouth, aching for her. Afraid of her.

“Are you going to do it?” she whispered.

With effort, he rose his gaze to her. “Do what?”

She smiled at him—not the coquettish smile he’d seen on women before in this particular situation, but something far more dangerous—she looked happy. Gleeful. Eager.

You could make her happy if you decide to do so.

He pushed the thought away. He didn’t want Stanhope here. And then she replied, and the earl was the farthest thing from his mind. “Are you going to tell me what you want me to do?”

He was assaulted with images—with hundreds of ideas of what he’d like her to do for him. To him. To herself. He returned his attention to the trousers, a half-dozen buttons in the way of what he wanted. And he did as he was asked.

“Take them off.”

Her smile turned utterly satisfied. “With pleasure.”

The trousers were gone before he had time to appreciate her skill with the fastenings, shucked across the room, revealing bare legs that promised sin and salvation all at once. She lay back on the tiny bed, one long arm covering her breasts, and the other cutting a swath across her beautiful, rounded stomach, the hand covering the place he wanted more than anything in the world.

“Go on, Your Grace,” she teased, knowing that with every breath, with every movement, with every stunning smile, she made him mad with desire. “What can I give you next?”

“Open for me.” The command shocked him even as her lips fell open in a stunning, surprised inhale. For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far. And then she did, spreading her beautiful thighs wide on the narrow bed. She did not, however, move her hand.

He raised a brow. “Minx.”

She smiled. “You will have to be more specific about your desires, Your Grace.”

She was magnificent.

“I desire you,” he said.

The smile widened, but the hand did not move. “Much more specific.”

He unclasped the pin on his shoulder, holding his plaid in place, and her eyes widened, her fingers tightening so barely that one might not even notice. One might not notice, that was, if one were not fully riveted to the woman in question, hard and hot and desperate for her.

He was naked in seconds, his cock hard and aching for her.

Her eyes widened, and she—dammit—she licked her lips, her gaze trained on him. “More specific, even, than that.”

“I desire that you move your hand, lass,” he said, approaching the bed and staring down at her, reveling in her glorious nudity. “So that I might have a closer look at you.”

She raised a brow. “Only a look? Is that some kind of Scottish half measure?”

His lips twitched at her teasing and he let his burr take over. “Once I’ve seen ye, lass, if yer lucky, I might touch ye, and once I’ve touched ye, ye can wager I’ll be tastin’.”