The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(63)

And it would. The Marquess of Eversley was not for girls like Sophie. Uninteresting, unbeautiful. But in the darkness, she could pretend otherwise. And this night would keep her in memories for an eternity.

“What bits, in particular, Sophie?” He was at her ear again, his fingers stroking at the edge of her bodice, where her breasts strained for release against the too-tight lacing. “What has you curious?”

Her cheeks should have been flaming at the question, but the darkness made her bold. “All of it,” she said.

He laughed at the words. “No,” he said, moving his hand away, teasing her. “That’s not enough. Tell me, specifically.”

“I don’t know,” she said, the words coming on a wave of frustration. “Touch me again.”

“Where?”

Everywhere.

“Sophie,” he beckoned, like the devil at the door to hell.

She fought for thought. “A few years ago, I saw . . .” She trailed off, shocked by what she was about to tell him.

He stilled against her. “Don’t stop there, darling. What did you see?”

“I stumbled upon a stable hand. And a maid.”

“Go on.”

She shook her head.

“Where were you?”

“Looking for a place to read.”

“Where?”

“It was raining, and cold. And my sisters were talking about balls and gowns and gossip . . . and the mews were warm and quiet.”

“What did you find there?” He kissed down her neck, long, lingering sucks that made it difficult to think.

“I was in the hayloft.”

“And the stable hand was there? With the maid?” There was something in his tone that she’d never heard in a man’s voice before. Something breathless. Like . . . excitement? The thought made her excited, as well. More excited. As though such a thing were possible.

“No,” she confessed. “They were in a stall.”

“And you looked?” His tongue swirled at the crest of her good shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to. I was only looking for a quiet place to read.”

“I do not judge you.” He licked—licked!—the skin between shoulder and dress, and she thought her breasts might break free of their bindings. “I simply want to imagine the full scenario. What did you see?”

“At first nothing,” she said. “I didn’t know they were there. If I had—”

“You never would have stayed. You’re too good a girl.”

“But once I heard them . . .”

He filled her silence. “Once you heard them, you couldn’t stop yourself.”

“Even girls get curious,” she defended herself.

“What did you see, Sophie?” His hand was moving now, over her thigh, toward her knee, the sound of it on the fabric of her skirts unsettling.

“I couldn’t see much at first. I was looking down over the edge of the hayloft. I saw the tops of their heads. They were kissing.”

His lips settled on hers, immediately lifting, leaving her quite desperate. “Like that?”

She shook her head in the darkness. “No.”

“How, then?”

“You know how.”

“I wasn’t there,” he said, and the teasing in his tone made her even more aware of him. “Show me.”

God knew how she had the courage to do as she was told, but she did, running her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck, pulling him to her. “Like this.” And then she kissed him, letting her tongue slide over his lips and into his mouth, where he tasted like wine, hoping that she was doing it right.

He groaned and gathered her closer, careful of her shoulder, turning her so that her thighs draped over his lap, his hand finding the hem of her skirts and sliding to her ankle, the touch warm and wonderful.

She was doing it right.

After a moment, he broke the kiss. “Is that all you saw?”

No. “It became more . . .” She trailed off, hoping he would fill in the descriptor so that she did not have to. He did not. “. . . erotic.”

The sound he made was best described as a growl. “There are few things I like more than that word on your lips.”

“Erotic?”

He kissed her quickly, his tongue stroking deep before releasing her and leaving her breathless. “What was so erotic, Sophie?”

She was lost in the memory again, in the hope that she might relive it now. Here. With him. “He opened her dress.”

“Christ,” King said. “I was hoping he would do that.”

And then the bodice of her dress loosened, the too-tight lacing coming easily undone, and her breasts were free. She gasped, the sensation welcome, but somehow not enough. For he did not touch her. His hands were around her hips for some unknown reason. She squirmed, aching for his touch. “King,” she whispered.

The growl came again, softer, more breath than sound. “Then what did he do?”

“He touched her.”

One finger found the curved underside of her breast, and it was so unexpected and so desired that she nearly leapt from her skin. He ran that single, remarkable finger in a long, slow circle around her breast, leaving fire and aching desire in its wake. “Here?”