Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(41)

No matter how much the need clawed him apart inside.

“Your father,” he pried, taking advantage of the opening in their dialogue. His sense of duty refused to allow him to miss this moment, regardless of how much he wanted her. “Were his intentions for your marriage always transparent? Did you come to London knowing what he expected of you?”

Her long lashes lowered over her brilliant eyes for a moment, fanning against her cheeks. “I knew that he wished for me to marry an aristocrat. I had foolishly believed that coming to London would grant me a modicum of freedom. And I had somehow imagined I’d be given a choice in who my husband would be. How foolish I was to think he would ever do anything but control me. I should have known.”

Her voice hushed to a near whisper at the last. Jesus, if she was an actress, then she was possessed of a far greater talent than any actress he’d ever witnessed treading the boards. He thought he saw her—the real Daisy Vanreid—for the first time. She had lived a life of terrifying oppression under her father’s brutality. Coming to England was to have been her escape. Instead, it had turned into her prison in more ways than she had yet to even realize.

There it was again, that goddamn conscience he’d sworn he didn’t have, tearing into him with the precision of a well-sharpened dagger. She had been kept beneath her tyrant father’s thumb. She thought she’d somehow managed her independence. Thought she was married to a good man, a man deserving of her apology, a man who could be a real husband to her.

He was not that man.

And he had used her already—intended to use her far worse—than her father ever had. In the name of Crown, country, the League, and his own bloody desires. He was a bastard, a sinner, a liar, and a spy.

Walk away, the voice inside him, a voice that still contained a shred of honor, warned. Bid her good night and walk away before you do something you will regret. And yet, he couldn’t. Couldn’t force himself to spin on his heel. Couldn’t make himself utter polite pleasantries before wishing her an agreeable sleep and retreating to his chamber.

Instead of leaving, he stepped closer. One steps, two steps, three. There it was once more, the goddamn counting. And he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop what he wanted to do. Couldn’t stop the way she made him feel. His hands clamped on her waist, hauling her against him.

She fell into him with the rightness of a homecoming after a long journey. Vivid green eyes widened, lush lips falling open in surprise at the abruptness of his action. Her hands fluttered to his chest, and he was glad he wore a robe only, for it meant there was one fine layer of cloth between her skin and his.

He should press her for more information about her father, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t go another second without crushing her mouth beneath his. He took her lips with all of the turmoil churning through him and none of the finesse she deserved. His tongue traced the seam of her lips once before pushing inside to plunder. She tasted decadent, like the raspberry sauce that had been served over the biscuit pudding at dinner, and like something dark and delicious that was innately Daisy.

Her body was lush and warm beneath the silken splendor of her dressing gown. Tempting him. He wanted to tear the impediment away, to fill himself with her. To fill her with his cock. Instead, he slid his hands down her waist to cup the round swells of her pert derriere. Without a thought for her innocence, he ground her against him, his cock straining between them, hard and ready.

You cannot have her. Carlisle’s words came back to his mind suddenly, slamming through him along with the lust. A pointed reminder, taunting him. He had a duty to the League and his country, oaths to uphold. What the hell was he doing, kissing Daisy, about to tear off her robe and sink himself inside her? Fuck, this was foolishness. He risked so much. She’s poison to you.

Yes, she was, just like a buttercup. His buttercup. Beautiful, bold, alluring, and poisonous. But Daisy’s was the sort of poison that would kill him slowly. Leave him euphoric until he finally succumbed. And he wanted that poison. Wanted her so much the need of her threatened to split him apart.

He couldn’t trust her. She was the daughter of one of England’s most dangerous enemies, the former betrothed of a vile bastard hell-bent on death and destruction. Carlisle believed he had enough evidence against her to eventually see her in prison.

And none of that mattered one bloody whit when she was in his arms.

He kissed her harder, seeking to punish her for making him want her so much that he was willing to forsake everything he’d spent his life building just to have her. But he also wanted to mark her, brand her. To make certain she knew that whatever came to pass between them, some part of her would always be his, would always long to return to this night when they were wild and wicked together.

She moaned, straining against him, the hard peaks of her breasts digging into his chest. She had such sweet, responsive nipples. Her hands caressed over his chest, higher, linking around his neck as she kissed him back with abandon. Tongues dueled. Blood thundered straight to his cock, his balls tightening as if having her like this was enough to make him spend like some callow youth. His heart pounded.

Bed.

He needed her on the bed. Now. Needed her stripped of every scrap of fabric keeping her from him, the beauty of her body laid bare, legs splayed. He wanted to taste the essence of her, give her a crashing, body-shaking release with his tongue alone. Hell, yes.

One, two, three. He led her backward without breaking the kiss. Jesus, there it was. Counting again. Not many steps keeping him from what he wanted. His tongue in her mouth. His teeth biting her lower lip. Delicious. She was so bloody delicious.