The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(28)

Adair took her by the lower arm, encircling it in his palm. She gasped and made to wrench free. “Why did you tell me this?” he demanded gruffly, tightening his hold.

The young woman puzzled her brow.

He drew her closer so the walls of their chests brushed and she was forced to tilt the long column of her neck back to meet his gaze. “Pointing out errors, making suggestions.” Adair dropped his head down, shrinking the space between them. “Why should I believe there’s a thing real in that offering?” It was a question he asked as much for himself.

Did he imagine the hurt that sparked in her revealing eyes? If so, it was gone as soon as it had flickered to life. Through the glass lenses he’d cleaned a short while ago, Cleopatra glowered at him.

“Un’and me, ya jackanapes,” she hissed, giving her wrist another tug.

He gave another light squeeze, and that instantly quelled her. Detecting her faint wince, he gentled his touch. “Despite my brothers’ and their wives’ trusting nature in letting you share a roof with us, I’d be a fool to trust your motives, Cleopatra.”

She jutted her chin up mutinously, and that slight angling brought their foreheads colliding. “Then go ahead an’ build yar sure-to-fail hell. ’elp yarself along to your demise.” For Cleopatra’s remarkable composure, her greatest tell was the lack of mastery over her practiced, cultured tones.

“I’ve offended you,” he wondered aloud.

Cleopatra slammed the heel of her boot on his bare foot, and a hiss exploded through his teeth. The spitfire pounced, shoving her spare elbow against his rib cage. He grunted, and his grip slackened at the well-placed blow. She slipped around him.

“Hellion,” he gritted out, reaching for her.

A furious cry climbed to the rafters as he wrapped an arm about her waist and brought her back against him. She kicked and flailed with the same desperation of a person fighting for their freedom from the constable. “Ya bloody bully,” she spat, breathless as she wrestled against him. “Ya brainless, witless—”

He brought his mouth close to her ear, relishing far too much her spirited show. “Rather uninventive of you, love,” he taunted.

She stilled, and then with another shriek, she renewed her struggles. Bucking and writhing against him, she fought for her freedom, and just like that, all his mirth fled as a wave of desire slammed into him. The surge of lust was momentarily crippling.

“. . . useless, cock-less . . .”

Except . . . blood surged through his shaft, and he sprang hard against her lower back.

He swallowed hard; his breath came hard and fast.

Cleopatra ceased her struggles, and he gave thanks for small favors. Then—

“Let. Me. Go,” she spat, bucking against him.

I am lost.

With a groan, he spun her around and covered her mouth with his, swallowing the tide of inventive curses escaping her. He slanted his lips over hers, devouring the satiny-soft flesh.

Cleopatra went taut against him, her lithe frame so stiff she could splinter in his embrace. A half moan, half whimper left her. Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck and, pressing herself against him, met his kiss.

And he, who’d always feared and despised fire, embraced this conflagration between them. Adair filled his hands with her buttocks, anchoring her close. He kneaded the perfect contours and, not breaking contact with her mouth, continued his search. Adair worked his hands over her: down her trim waist, the narrow curve of her hip. Then parting her lips, he searched his tongue around the moist, hot cavern.

Their raspy groans melded as one. He reached between them and found the modest swell of her left breast. Through the fabric of her gown, he molded it against this palm. How perfectly she fit within his hand. His tongue mated with hers in a battle for supremacy he was content to lose. Hungry to know all of her, he sprang her breasts free of her modest dress and cupped her without the hindrance of the garment.

She tossed her head back. “Adair,” she cried out breathlessly.

The sound of his name on her lips fueled him. Gathering her right leg, he brought it up about his waist, twining that sinewy limb around him. He guided her back against his desk and, reclaiming her lips, swallowed the breathy sounds of her desire.

Cleopatra twined both her hands about his neck and dragged him down closer, a woman in command who knew what she wanted, and his ardor burned all the greater that she’d been transformed into a gasping, pleading temptress in his arms.

She is a siren and I am ensnared . . .

Through the thick fog of lust consuming him, that truth registered, and he pulled back. He ripped away from her as horror penetrated the madness that had driven back his judgment.

Cleopatra sagged back on her elbows. Glasses askew, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, she had the look of a well-ravished woman.

My God, I kissed Cleopatra Killoran.

She blinked slowly; the cloud in her eyes slowly lifted as she met his gaze. All hint of desire receded under the full weight of her ire. “Ya needn’t look so horrified,” she retorted. “It . . . it was just a kiss.” That mocking rejoinder was countered by the tremble there, and the unsteady way she got herself back to her feet.

Unable to form a suitable mocking retort, he retreated several steps. “You aren’t to come here again,” he said, needing distance from her. Frustration with himself, and this inexplicable hold she had over him, made his words come out more sharply than he intended.