The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(65)

Numb, she stared emptily on as he made quick work of the billiards table.

Adair paused, his cue properly positioned. “Nervous yet?”

Terrified out of my bloody everlasting mind. “Of you? Hardly.” Did he hear the faint, threadbare quality of her voice?

He deepened his smile and let his stick fly . . . at last missing a shot.

“Moi turn,” she said sharply. It was vastly easier focusing on the red velvet table and her intended cue ball than the danger in loving Adair Thorne. Taking support from the familiar weight of the stick, she concentrated her energies on the white cue ball. She released her shot, and the loud thwack echoed around the room.

“It appears we are tied,” he observed after she’d connected with her sixth and final shot. He strolled around the table, taking up position beside her. They stood, their bodies so close the heat of him scorched her arms. “Were you swindling me?”

“Wouldn’t be hard to do.” Clearing her throat, she fiddled with her cue. “What’s the third competition to be, then?” she asked quietly, needing a diversion from the madness of her own yearnings.

Adair slipped the stick from her fingers and set it aside. “We could always split, and each claim a victory and expect a payment,” he whispered, lowering his head. “I’ll give you your London waltz.”

The lingering hint of champagne on his breath, more intoxicating than the bubbling brew itself, brought her lashes fluttering closed. “Wot koind of payment are ya thinking in return?” she rejoined, tilting her neck so she could meet his stare squarely.

Hooding his thick lashes, he moved his heat-filled gaze from her lips, back to her eyes, and then back again. With a groan, he cupped her about the nape and devoured her mouth.

Desire exploded within as she parted her lips, tangling her tongue with his in a violent, primitive mating. Adair sank his fingertips into her hips and guided her up onto the table, and then his questing hands continued their search from her buttocks to the curve of her breasts, leaving no part of her untouched. Under the fabric of her gown, her nipples sprang hard from his attentions. She moaned and parted her legs in invitation.

He stepped between them and, breaking contact with her mouth, dragged a trail of kisses down her neck. Then, lowering her décolletage and shift, he exposed her breasts. The cool night air combined with the conflagration burning through her and tore a keening moan from her. Bending his head, he captured the peak of one breast between his lips.

Cleopatra hissed. “Adair.” She arched her back, opening herself to his attentions as a throbbing ache settled at her center.

“What hold do you have over me?” he breathed against her skin, his hoarse words an echo of her very thoughts.

She tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth close for another violent kiss.

Suddenly, he stiffened. His breath coming hard and fast, he straightened.

Cleopatra collapsed on the edge of the table as he swiftly drew her gown back into place.

“I don’t . . .”

He touched a silencing finger to her lips and jerked his head toward the door.

A faint muttering, followed by the periodic open and closing of doors, pierced the dense wood. Taking her by the hand, Adair all but dragged her to the window and tossed it open.

“You’ll be ruined if we’re caught here.”

“I was ruined before I ever came,” she said softly.

He tightened his jaw, glancing once again to the commotion growing closer in the halls outside. “Not like this,” he muttered. “This would see that you never . . . marry a fancy toff.” Did she imagine the spasm that contorted his features? Surely that paroxysm of grief was no more than a play of the shadows upon his rugged features?

He cared about her reputation. How was it possible for his hushed words to both touch her heart and wrench like a knife?

Another click of a closing door brought her back from her melancholy. She glanced between the door and the mews below. For a long, dangerous moment, she contemplated remaining precisely where she was, at Adair Thorne’s side . . . and shredding her reputation and all hopes for a match. Because then there could be a them, together.

You fool . . . there could never be that. Not when your father tortured him and his brothers.

“I’ll catch you,” he whispered against her mouth.

“You think I need rescuing, Adair?”

Hefting himself over the ledge, he lowered himself by the arms until his feet dangled the ten feet below. “Everyone needs rescuing,” he mouthed.

She leaned out. “Even you?”

He winked and then let go. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs and then resumed a normal cadence as his boots hit with a solid thump. She’d jumped from higher heights scores of times, and yet the endless moment of his fall had torn a year off her life.

Silently, Adair stretched his arms up, urging her to jump.

Cleopatra lifted herself onto the ledge.

The door flew open, freezing her.

Oh, bloody hell. Her heart sank a slow, agonizing path to her soles.

Lord Landon, one of the Devil’s Den’s best patrons, stared back with shock stamped on his features.

A slow grin curled his lips in a roguish grin he’d worn too many times inside her club. “Miss Killoran?” he greeted, dropping a deep, formal bow.

She briefly contemplated the grounds below, finding Adair. Even with the distance separating them, worry flickered in his eyes.