A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(52)

She was through with the game, and he saw the irritation in her gaze when she found his. And then she spoke, shocking the hell out of him. “Shall I show you?”

She was fucking glorious.

He replied instantly. “Please.”

And then her hand was on his, and she was pressing him deeper, past the curls and into the silken softness of her, hot and gloriously wet. He swore, low and deep in Gaelic.

She gasped a single word as she took what she wanted, her gaze unapologetically on him. “There.”

He kissed her then, long and lush, his fingers searching and stroking and tempting her secrets from her until they were without breath. Releasing her lips, he found her eyes closed, as she rocked against him, her hand on his, showing him all the ways she wanted him.

He stopped. Those eyes opened instantly. Furious.

He couldn’t help the thread of amusement that coursed through him on a wave of aching desire. “Look at me,” he said.

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“I will give you everything you want, mo chridhe. Everything you need,” he promised, the words dark and low and filled with the accent he worked so hard to keep at bay with her. “I will show you heaven. But only if you let me watch you find it. That is my price.”

The words hung between them, sinful and full of sex, and for a fleeting moment, Alec regretted the last—as though she owed him.

She would never owe him. From this moment on, she would only need beckon and he would come to heel.

He’d never met a woman so dangerous.

But he was already wrecked by her, by her soft skin and her beautiful sighs and her magnificent gaze on his as he teased and touched, as he tested her curves and folds and the glorious dark channel where he wanted to be—beyond reason. Her eyes were locked on his as she rocked against him, begging him for more, narrowing to slits when he offered her slow, wicked strokes, and then widening when he found the spot that would bring her wicked, wonderful pleasure.

He watched those eyes, grey like the North Sea, riveted to him as her breath quickened and her hand clutched his wrist and she panted her desire, and he held that gaze until she called out his name and they lost focus and slid closed and she cried out again and again, branding him. Taking him in the darkness.

Showing him the sun.

When those eyes opened again, they found him immediately, her hands threading into his hair, her lips pressing to his, her tongue sliding into his mouth in a kiss that laid him bare and destroyed him completely, summoning his pleasure, hard and hot and nearly unbearable against her.

He pulled his lips from hers, gasping for breath, somehow still hard and thick as though he hadn’t come, wanting to strip her bare and open his trousers and make her his. Here. Now.

Forever.

And then her hands were moving her skirts, and he wondered if he’d spoken aloud. Her fingers played at the falls of his trousers, touching lightly—too damn lightly—and it took him a moment to find the strength to stop her.

Until she whispered, “Oh, my . . .”

And he loathed the reverence in the words.

Women dream of men like you, darling.

But for a night. Not a lifetime.

“No.” He lifted his lips instantly, releasing her like she was hot steel, branding him.

Her gaze was wide with confusion. “But . . .”

“No.” He lifted her off his lap and set her back on her seat, so quickly that it took her several seconds to understand what had happened.

They were both breathing heavily, and he could not look away from her for a long moment, her bodice in tatters, her legs askew, weak from the pleasure she’d found in his arms. He knew she was weak because he, too, was weak. And aching.

She was so close. He could take her.

She’d let him.

He pressed himself back against the seat, willing himself to turn away. To look out the window. To look down at the floor. Anywhere but at her. But he couldn’t, because she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And then he made the mistake, lifting his hand to his lips, meaning to erase the feel of her there, forgetting that her scent would be on him like a promise. And the desire was more than he could bear. He tasted her, sucking his fingers deep, reveling in her.

Fire came to her eyes as she watched and he saw the truth there. He could have her. She would let him.

Christ, he wanted her.

Even now, even with her hairpins scattered and her long auburn locks falling down around her and the hound and hare, that had been shooting off the top of her head earlier in the evening, now drooping by her left ear.

She looked as though she’d been ravished.

By The Scottish Brute.

This woman wanted marriage and children and love, and those were not things he could ever give her. They weren’t things she’d want from him. Too big, too Scottish, too brutish.

Not for marrying.

Not anything like the man she deserved.

What had he done?

He had to get away from her.

He rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, slowing it immediately.

Confusion flashed in Lily’s beautiful grey eyes, as he began to strip his tattered coat from his shoulders—she would need it to cover her own shredded clothes. “What are you doing?” She looked out the window. “Where are we?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, tossing the coat to the seat beside her and opening the door before the coach even came to a stop.