Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(25)

“So you did.” She gave him a shy smile. “Beautiful, then.”

Their gazes tangled and held. Rhys took a deep, slow drink from those lovely eyes. They made him feel refreshed. Washed clean, as much as a man like him could ever be.

The longer he stared at her, however, the further the smile faded from her face.

In a nervous gesture, she moistened her lips with her tongue. Then she gave herself a little shake and announced to the room, “Home time, gentlemen.”

The last few stragglers roused themselves from their stools and lumbered out the door, grousing as they went. One of them yawned, and Rhys could not help but do the same.

“You must be exhausted,” Meredith said briskly, wiping her hands on her apron after straightening the last of the chairs and latching the door. “I’m sorry to have kept you up so late, blathering on about my silly plans.”

“They’re not silly plans. They’re quite sensible ones.”

Together they moved toward the back staircase. And even though they were plans she’d never need to put into action, he admired the cleverness and spirit behind them. He admired those qualities even more than he admired her lovely hair and eyes—and that was saying something. “You truly do have it all worked out, don’t you?”

“I do. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished with the Three Hounds so far, but I know I could do so much more.”

“I’m certain you could.”

“So you see …” She swallowed hard as they stopped at the door to his room. “The village, the inn, my father, me … we’ll all be just fine without you. You can leave, Rhys. Go live your life, and leave us be.”

Ignoring her words, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. He wasn’t going anywhere. “God, you’re beautiful.”

The words just tumbled out, and Rhys had no idea where they’d come from. He didn’t recall ever speaking those words to a woman before. Damn, everything with Meredith felt new. Or maybe he was just so green.

The gin. He blamed the gin. Liquor always made him maudlin and impulsive.

“Why, Rhys St. Maur,” she said, grinning, “was that flirtation?”

“No. I don’t know how to flirt.”

“Come now, be truthful.” She reached for the edge of his shirt collar and played with it coyly. Her voice husky, she said, “All this talk of marriage and destiny and fate—it’s all just a ploy to get into my bed, isn’t it?”

Was he really that drunk, or did she sound hopeful?

“No,” he said honestly. “No, it’s not.”

Though Holy God, the very idea of taking her to bed had him reeling. Pictures filled his mind. Wild, depraved pictures, like the etchings soldiers carried in their boots and bartered for greater value than gold. And thanks to the damned flames of gin licking away inside him, Rhys was powerfully tempted to act those pictures out, in the flesh. In her flesh. He wanted to find her softest, most secret place and lodge happily there, all night long.

Vulnerability flickered across her eyes. “Don’t you want me?”

Hell. Of course he wanted her. He wanted her so badly, his ears ached from clenching his jaw so tight. He wanted her so much, he could have pushed against this doorpost like Samson and brought down the whole damned inn.

But he’d made that mistake yesterday—pushing too hard, too fast.

He forced a casual smile. “I’m saving myself for the wedding night.”

Her burst of surprised laughter drew his gaze to her mouth, and there his gaze gladly lingered. She had lovely lips. A dusky pink shade, richer red toward the center. The lower one plumper than the top. Hers was a pretty face, but not a soft one. Her cheekbones sat high and proud. She had a determined set to her brow and jaw, and her chin tapered to a decisive point. But her mouth was a soft, lush, vulnerable curve in the midst of all that strength and resolve.

He wanted—no, needed—to taste it.

“No,” he whispered, standing straight and framing her delicate face in his big, gnarled hands. “I won’t take you to my bed just yet. But I’ll take that kiss tonight.”

Chapter Seven

And take it he did, before Meredith even had time to draw breath. He pressed his lips to hers quickly, as if she might change her mind if he gave her the chance, or as if he might change his. The timing was off, and their lips mashed together at the wrong angle, and her eyes were still open.

For a moment, she felt fourteen again. Awkward, uncertain. Painfully aware of everything but the joy of being kissed.

But then he tilted her face a degree, and his mouth shifted a fraction against hers. She remembered to close her eyes.

And suddenly, they fit. Suddenly, this kiss was everything. And she still felt fourteen again, but in that blissful, giddy way of tumbling headlong down a rocky slope with no thought for caution, no purpose but to chase exhilaration and joy.

Rhys St. Maur was kissing her.

And it was wonderful.

They remained that way for an improbably long time, mouths pressed together in tender innocence. He made no move to part her lips or explore her mouth with his tongue, though she would have gladly allowed it. If he’d wished, he could have taken everything. But he didn’t even try. He just kissed her softly, over and over again. The corners of her mouth. Her top lip, then the bottom. Sweet little sips of gin and heat.