When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(73)

“When I criticize Claiborne, at least I know what I’m talking about. Gregoire is an idiot.”

“Your opinion isn’t the only correct one, Max. And a man is not an idiot just because he happens to disagree with you.”

“In this case he was,” Max said obstinately.

Annoyed as she was, Lysette felt her mouth quiver with sudden amusement, and she clamped her lips together. She took another tack. “Part of being a good host is being gracious enough to overlook the ignorance of a guest so that everyone else can enjoy themselves!”

“Whose rule is that?” he asked, arching one brow.

“Mine.”

Max gave her his most authoritative scowl. “I’m master of the household, and I can do or say whatever I wish.”

Unimpressed by the display, Lysette rested her hands on her hips. “That was a good try,” she said dryly. “But you’ll have to win the argument some other way.”

Max rose from his chair, looking even larger and more towering than usual in his formal wear, his muscular legs outlined by snug pearl-gray pantaloons, his broad shoulders sharply defined in his black coat. “Are you challenging my authority?”

Lysette became aware of a change in the atmosphere, the challenge between them turning sexual in some indefinable away. Her heartbeat was suddenly spurred to a reckless pace, and she felt a ripple of pure lust as their gazes locked together. “What if I am?” she asked, her voice even softer than his. Recognizing the predatory gleam of enjoyment in his eyes, she took a strategic route to the round mahogany table in the center of the library, keeping it between them.

Max followed her without haste. “Then, as a Creole husband and head of the household, I would have to demonstrate who makes the rules… and who follows them.”

Lysette smiled provokingly as they circled the table. “Mon mari… you are actually quite adorable, in your own arrogant and domineering way.”

“Adorable,” he mused, moving in slow pursuit of her. “I don’t believe anyone has called me that before.”

“That is because no one else knows how to manage you.”

She heard the quick catch of laughter in his throat. “But you do?”

“Of course.”

Now there was no mistaking the heat of desire in his gaze, or the growing arousal of his body. “Ma femme, you need to learn a lesson,” he murmured in such a deliciously threatening manner that Lysette felt the tips of her br**sts hardening in response. His gaze dropped to the silk panels of her bodice, and he noted the distinct peaks beneath the shimmering fabric. “You had better pray that I don’t catch you before you reach that door.”

They faced each other with the table between them. Flattening her palms on the gleaming surface, Lysette leaned toward him and gazed at him steadily. “And the lesson you are referring to is that even when you are horrid, arrogant, and rude, I must tolerate it because you are the husband and therefore all-powerful?”

His eyes sparkled with dark mischief. “Yes, that one.”

“I don’t think so, mon mari. Since I am faster than you, I am going to make it through the door and up to my room before you have any chance of catching me. When you finally reach my door, it will be locked. And then you can spend the rest of the night in your own company. That will give you some time to contemplate your bad behavior at supper.”

His smile was distinctly wolfish. “Try,” he invited.

Lysette was gone in an instant, heading for the door in quicksilver strides. However, there were two things she hadn’t counted on… not only was she hampered by the skirts of her gown, but Max’s legs were twice as long as hers. Despite her head start, he reached the library door just as she did, and shoved it closed to prevent her escape. Gasping with laughter, Lysette let him turn her around and haul her against his body.

“It wasn’t fair,” she said breathlessly. “I’m wearing skirts.”

“You won’t be for long,” Max panted, crushing his mouth over hers. Lysette clutched the back of his head and urged him to kiss her harder, her lips opening eagerly. His weight pressed her against the door, and she moaned at the exciting imprint of his body, the hard chest and stomach, the stiff masculine ridge that was discernible even through the layers of her gown. Kissing her ravenously, Max fumbled at the door and turned the key in the lock. He gripped Lysette’s bu**ocks to pull her higher and tighter against his hips. She wanted to devour him, bite, lick, kiss him, pull him completely inside herself. He was hers, every obstinate, exciting, masculine inch of him.

His mouth broke free of hers, and he pulled her toward the table like some predator dragging its vanquished prey. Lysette emerged from the hot, swirling fog of desire long enough to gasp, “Not here. Someone will interrupt.”

Max lifted her and sat her on the table, pulling up huge handfuls of her skirts. “The door’s locked.”

“They’ll still know,” she protested, pushing at his busy hands.

Too inflamed to care, Max found the ribbons of her garters, and followed the line of her bare thighs. The rasp of his callused fingers on her tender skin made her quiver with pleasure, and her thighs parted despite her will to deny him.

“Max, upstairs,” she whimpered, as he reached the tuft of cinnamon hair and parted the damp curls.

“I can’t wait,” he muttered, circling the slick nub that swelled at his light touch. His fingertip rubbed gently over the rosy peak, and Lysette writhed in sudden desperation. She plunged her hands inside his evening coat, clawing frantically over his shirt, wild to touch his warm male skin.