Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(39)

With a final, thorough kiss and a tweak of the sweet, tight bud of her nipple, he had withdrawn. The willpower required to disengage himself from her had been proportionate to the size of his cock, both of which had rendered his sudden retreat back to his seat a decidedly painful endeavor.

They’d blithely moved on to the next course, feigning an unaffected air that was as honest as paste gems on an actress’s throat. Filet de bouef sauce Madère aux haricots verts, as it happened. It was the first time in Sebastian’s life that he’d had a perfectly cooked steak on his plate and hadn’t wanted to eat a goddamn bite.

Because all he wanted—the only bloody nourishment that would satisfy him—was the gorgeous, unpredictable, untrustworthy woman he’d been forced to marry. How the hell had Carlisle ever imagined he could marry a goddess like Daisy Vanreid off to a man, whether he be a loyal, oath-swearing member of the League or no, without her tempting him to ruination?

Sebastian had a glass of whisky in hand now as he stared at the door adjoining his chamber to hers, and he couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting to fuck Daisy to oblivion. She was that alluring, that sensual, that innately beautiful. She was also bold and daring, witty and brave, smart and warm and soft, slow to rile, easy to laugh.

Ordinarily, he didn’t imbibe often, and especially not during the course of a mission, but something about the situation in which he currently found himself made him want to drink an entire barrel of liquor if only it would quiet the demons eating away at him.

The demons that told him to throw open the door between them, go to the woman he’d married, and take her. To tear away every scrap of fabric keeping her body from him until she was completely nude. To throw her on the bed, spread her luscious thighs, and take her for his own.

He groaned. Beneath his dressing gown, his cock was harder than ever, raging and pulsing at the thought of burying himself in soft, wet, womanly flesh. But not just any woman’s. Daisy’s. Christ yes, there was something about that golden-haired American minx that fashioned him Odysseus and her one of the Sirens. A beautiful, undeniable lure leading him into the treacherous rocks of the shore.

His ship was bound to crash if he followed her. Yet somehow, he couldn’t seem to stay away. Didn’t want to. Her skin had been softer than silk where he’d tasted her, kissed her, felt the rapid drum of her heartbeat. Whatever it was that sizzled between them, it was undeniable, and she felt it every bit as much as he did.

Without even realizing he’d moved, he found himself across his chamber, hand on the doorknob separating him from her. Jesus. This was getting out of control. He tossed back the contents of his glass, relishing the burn that only fine whisky could provide, and then set it aside. There was nary a sound on the other side of the door as he took a few breaths and willed his raging arousal to subside.

Going to her chamber was foolish, and he recognized it. But he couldn’t seem to keep his distance from her. One breath, two breaths. His cock was harder than a marble bust. Three, four. Still not lessening. Christ, this propensity for counting was all her fault, and it needed to bloody well end.

He thought of the queen. Thought of his maternal grandmother’s funeral. Five, six. Attempted to recall some Shakespeare, but the only lines that came to mind had her name in them.

When daisies pied and violets blue.

Damn it all to hell. More words returned to him, mocking. The cuckoo, then, on every tree, mocks married men, for thus sings he…

Bloody, bloody hell. Leave it to Shakespeare to taunt him as well, with a well-placed barb. She wasn’t his. Not to keep, no matter how much he desired her. This was all foolishness. Ridiculous. Unutterably stupid. And yet, he couldn’t excise her from his mind.

The scent of her—bergamot, vanilla, ambergris—still filled his senses as if she stood before him. His fingers burned with remembrance of the feeling of those hard little buds of her nipples.

Distraction wasn’t working. Neither was tarrying. Or breathing. He needed to see her. Needed to touch her. He rapped sharply on the door. Waited for her to respond. Hoped she would tell him to go to hell.

Instead, he heard her dulcet voice, so calming and pleasant to the ears. “You may enter.”

And enter he did. Damn if hearing her issue such an invitation didn’t make the blood pound harder through his veins as he thought of another sort of invitation. Another form of entry he might make into her territory. He was an unconscionable bastard, but he strode across her chamber just the same.

She stood near her bed, clad in only a silken dressing gown trimmed with ruffles and belted at the waist. It was cream, and the pallid color didn’t do her a bit of justice, but it looked like the sort of thing a young lady might have commissioned for her wedding trousseau. He couldn’t squelch the deep-seated satisfaction that took root within him at the realization that he was the one to see her in that robe and not anyone else.

The full effect of her beauty hit him then, visceral and raw. Left him reeling. He took her in, the woman he’d married, the vixen who was meant to be his dupe but somehow always seemed to hold him in the palm of her dainty hand. Christ, she was lovely.

Her hair was unbound, sending long, burnished waves cascading down her back. He longed to bury his face in those locks, to grab a fistful of golden skeins, wrap them around his hand, drag her head back, and hold her tight while he ravaged her mouth with his kiss. Her waist was small even without her corset, her breasts full and high, hips as lush as he’d imagined they would be. Her bare feet and trim ankles peeped out below the hem of her gown to tease him.