The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(49)

He hadn’t, but he did not correct her. “You shouldn’t have agreed to bet me.”

“Because you’re a scoundrel?”

“Because I do not lose.” A stool scraped against wood in the pub. The man approached. King pressed closer to her, his hands encircling her waist. She squeaked her surprise as he leaned in. There was no time to prepare her. No time to change his plan. No time for anything but a quick, low “Time for my forfeit. Make it look real, Mrs. Matthew.” And he set his lips to hers.

For a moment, she froze beneath him, her lips pressed together in a flat line, her hands up at his shoulders, pushing at him, a little sound of protest caught in her throat. He lifted one hand to her neck, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of her neck, massaging there until she relaxed, sighing her pleasure at the sensation.

He didn’t intend to like kissing Sophie Talbot.

He didn’t intend for anything more than the most perfunctory of caresses—long enough to convince her pursuers, and mechanical enough to get the job done.

But the sigh did him in. He caught it with his lips, readjusting the angle, pulling her tighter against him and pouring all his expertise into the touch—instinctively knowing that if she’d ever kissed another, it had been nothing like this. For, if there was anything in the world King enjoyed, it was kissing. He adored the privacy of it. The magnificent way it tested and teased and tempted and ultimately told, foreshadowing a greater, more intense act.

Her mouth was open, her full lips on his, and he took what she likely didn’t even know she’d offered, worrying her beautiful bottom lip with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue and stroking deep, tasting her, the tang of bergamot from her tea and something sweeter, more delicious than he would have imagined.

She sighed again, and he pulled her closer, loving the way she gasped at the movement before giving in to it, wrapping her hands around his neck and threading her fingers in his hair. Christ. It felt good.

She felt good.

Even better when her tongue met his.

She was an excellent student.

And this kiss was getting out of control.

He broke it off, lifting his lips from hers, ready to stop the moment before it ran away with them both. But her eyes remained closed and her hands remained fisted in his hair, and he found that releasing her was not in the cards. Instead, he returned his lips to her skin, tracing her cheekbone, her jaw, running his teeth down the column of her neck to linger in the space where it met her shoulder. He kissed her there, licking delicately before he sucked just enough to elicit a lovely little cry.

A cry punctuated with his own growl.

Her grasp tightened, and she whispered his name. Not his title—the name she’d mocked again and again. “King.”

The word gave him great pleasure, and he smiled against her skin. “What did you call me?”

She opened her eyes then—liquid blue and filled with desire. It took a moment for her to understand the question. The teasing in it. “Don’t get ideas.”

“Too late for that.” His ideas were legion. And he liked every single one of them. He slid one hand down her back, over the swell of her behind, to grab her thigh and lift it, pulling her tighter to him.

She gasped at the movement, but did not pull away. Indeed, she arched into him with a low, humming moan. Sophie Talbot more than made up for her lack of experience with her glorious excitement. King could happily sequester them both in a room upstairs and spend a week exploring all the things that made her gasp and arch and sigh and moan.

But there was a man mere feet away who was searching for her. And this was neither the place nor the time for King to be intrigued by the lady. A point that was validated by the appearance of the man who’d questioned them, who stepped into the dimly lit space and did not hesitate in taking a long look at them.

King turned to keep her from view, suddenly caring very much that her current state be for his view alone. “You ask for trouble,” he growled at the newcomer, who did not move for a long moment—too long for King’s liking.

He turned around to face the man. “Did you misunderstand me?”

“Not at all,” said the other man. “It’s only that your wife has the look of Lady Sophie.”

“My wife is Mrs. Louis Matthew. I made that clear. And your attention is irritating me more than I think you’d care for me to be irritated.”

The man’s gaze lingered on Sophie, who, for the first time in her life, stayed where she was put. Thankfully. He then tipped his hat. “Mrs. Matthew, I do apologize for the interruption.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said quietly.

The man looked at King. “You might choose a less public place. Newlywed or not.”

King had never in his life wanted to hit a man more. He should receive a special prize for not doing so. “I appreciate your advice,” King said, his tone indicating anything but appreciation.

Once the man returned to the pub, King grabbed Sophie by the hand and pulled her up the stairs and into her chamber, wanting her away from the scoundrel.

She pressed herself against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “He knows.”

King ran a hand over his face. “I imagine he does, yes.”

She looked up at him. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”