The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(108)

“Please, Sophie,” he begged. “Again.”

As though she could resist him. “I love you,” she whispered.

And then that fist released, and he moved, reaching for her, tangling his hand in her hair, pulling her to him for a long, wicked, wonderful kiss, stealing her breath and her sanity until he pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers, his thumb raking over her jaw as he met her gaze. “Again.”

“I love you,” she said, the words lost in another wild kiss, this one accompanied by his hands stroking down her back, pulling her tight against him and lifting her high off the ground, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him as he backed away from the door and kicked it closed with one long, muscled leg.

He carried her to his bed, following her down, pressing her into the soft mattress, the weight of him welcome between her thighs. She gasped at the sensation, the pleasure of him there, where she’d wanted him for days. He rained kisses over her face and neck, speaking as he went. “Christ, Sophie . . . I shouldn’t want this . . . I shouldn’t take it . . . I can’t be what you desire.”

Except he was what she desired.

He was the only thing she’d ever desired in her life.

“I shouldn’t accept your love,” he said between soft, drugging kisses, his fingers working at the sash of her dressing gown, his lips on the soft skin of her neck. “I’ll never be good enough for it.” He paused, lifting his head, meeting her eyes. “But Christ, I want it.”

“It’s yours,” she said, leaning up and catching his bottom lip in her teeth, sucking at it until he groaned his pleasure and gave her the kiss she desired. “As am I.”

He cursed, the word a benediction in this, and released the belt of her dressing gown. “I’ve never seen you naked,” he said, working at the pearls of the nightgown beneath. “I want that. I want that before you leave. Before you go and find a life more perfect than what I can give you. I’ll spend an eternity in hell for it,” he vowed, “But I don’t care. I want to see you naked. I want to worship you until you remember nothing but my name. But my touch. But this place.

“I want to worship you until I can’t close my eyes without seeing you. I want the memory of you, Sophie. Forever. So when another man loves you and gives you the life you deserve, I can torture myself with it.”

Tears threatened at the words. There would be no other men. No other love, she wanted to scream at him—she was his alone. Forever.

She wanted it, too, and she loved the feel of the silk sliding off her, baring her skin to the candlelight and his gaze. He pulled back, lifting off her, sitting up, and she was instantly nervous at the loss of him, moving to sit up herself, to cover her nudity.

“No,” he said, pressing her back down to the bed flat against the crisp linen sheets, open to his gaze and his touch. His attention lingered on her shoulder. “How does it feel?”

She smiled at his care. “I barely notice it.”

“Liar,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make it truth.” His hands spread over her skin, down the sides of her torso, over the swell of her belly, down her thighs, and she forgot she even had a shoulder, let alone one that had been shot. “You’re so beautiful,” he said again. “So beautiful.”

His hands ran down her legs to her slippers, and he slid off the bed to kneel there, at her bare feet. He took one in his hands, running his thumbs over the sole, sending waves of unexpected pleasure through her. “I still think of you in slippers on that road,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her ankle as he made her wild with decadent pleasure. “I hated that you mistreated yourself.”

He switched to her other foot and offered the same treatment as she shook her head. “They don’t hurt now.”

“No?” he asked, kissing at her ankle, his tongue slipping out to find the sensitive skin there.

She sighed her pleasure. “You feel wonderful.”

“Good,” he whispered. “I want you to always feel wonderful.”

She loved his touch, but she wanted him, too. Wanted to explore him as he had explored her. If tonight was all they would have, then she would take her pleasure as well. She sat up, her fingers finding his soft hair, urging him up, over her, until she could reach his long, muscled thighs, tracing up to the waist of his trousers, to work at his shirttails.

He grasped her wrists, and she resisted his touch. “No,” she whispered. “Tonight is for me, as well.”

He watched her for a long moment, his green eyes darkening with each passing second. “I’m not sure I can bear it.”

“You shall have to,” she replied. “I want my exploration.”

He released her, rising up on his knees over her, pulling the shirt out of his trousers and over his head, revealing his chest and torso, defined like a statue from a Renaissance master. She couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers over the muscle there, loving the catch of his breath. “You’re like Michelangelo’s David,” she marveled, exploring the dips and rises of hard muscle. “You’re perfect.”

He watched her as she touched him, his breath ragged and glorious. “I’m not at all perfect,” he said. “But Christ if you don’t make me feel so.”

She sat up then, wanting to get closer to him, to feel his warmth, to explore him. She flattened her palms against his chest, loving his heat and strength, and couldn’t resist leaning in and pressing a kiss there, glorying in the feel of crisp hair. At the caress, his hands threaded into her hair, tilting her face up to him. “I don’t think I can take much of this, love.”