Her Wicked Highland Spy (The Marriage Maker #10)(16)

Rosalyn tensed.

“I’m no fool, lass,” he continued gruffly. “You want me as much as I want you.”

Her lips were beyond tempting, so kissable and pouty.

“I…can’t,” she whispered.

“Can’t?” He caught her in his arms and pulled her close. “Or won’t?”

“Shouldn’t,” she replied, her spine ramrod stiff.

He ran the back of his hand slowly over her cheek and queried softly, “Who’s to say, but us?”

“Propriety—” she began, even as she molded herself against him.

She fit so right, like the missing piece of a puzzle.

“Propriety be damned.”

That made her stiffen once again.

He should have known. She’d likely heard such sweet words before. Was that what bothered her? He cursed himself for a fool.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. He ran his hands low over her hips and buried his face in her hair. “Just a kiss.” It was a lie. He wanted much, much more, but a kiss would be a start.

As his hands glided, her curves melted into him once again. “No doubt, you think me wanton,” she whispered so softly he barely heard the words.

So that’s what ailed her. He wanted to laugh. “Never.” He slid his palms up her spine, slowly. “There’s nothing bonnier than a lass who knows the pleasure of her body. I would look at you all night, lass.” His shaft throbbed in agreement. “A kiss. That’s all I ask.” She would taste so sweet.

Slowly, she lifted her face to his, and even in the dim moonlight, he saw the inner fire burning there. There was no denying she wanted him. He groaned and cupped the back of her head with his hand, tangling his fingers in her hair as he lowered his lips to hers.

She met him half way.

Their lips touched, tenderly at first. Hers were so incredibly soft, and she tasted far sweeter than he’d imagined. He brushed his mouth over hers, slowly, savoring the velvet of her skin before returning again to suck her lip into his mouth. She opened to him at once, and as his tongue boldly swept inside, she moaned.

The sound made his fist tighten in her hair as even more blood rushed to his shaft, hardening it further. As one kiss melted into another, he began to move. She rolled her hips forward, meeting his soft thrusts. Och, she tasted so sweet. She felt so right, cradled in his arms—familiar, almost as if she’d always been there or always would be. In her, he’d found what he’d sought for so long.

She broke off the kiss and slipped out of his arms.

“Nae.” He reached for her as she fled.

She paused by the hedge and looked back like a frightened deer. The passion still burned, he saw it by the way her breasts heaved. Then she turned and ran for the house.

Ethan exhaled a long breath. Damn it all. He couldn’t care less she wasn’t a virgin. No virgin reacted the way she did. He didn’t care—he liked how she moved, along with the fact she could match the full force of his passion. By God, he needed her. He ached.

He shrugged into his shirt, straightened his collar, and headed for the house.

This night, they’d unleashed something neither could deny. The intense passion lurking in Rosalyn’s kiss promised she would be in his arms again—and soon.

He entered his library and kicked the fire to life. He wouldn’t sleep for quite some time, not with the tightness of his bollocks.

If only he was in London. He’d pay the opera singer a visit. He needed a woman. Badly. He grabbed the brandy from the mantle, unstopped the bottle and drank a mouthful, then settled back in his chair.

A particularly memorable encounter with the opera singer sprang to mind, the night she’d knelt in a private box at the opera and, under the cover of darkness, had taken his length into her moist, hot mouth. He unbuttoned his breeches and freed his cock from its prison. His shaft stood up, painfully hard, as he began reliving the experience. He jerked his fist in a rhythm, but it wasn’t the opera singer who knelt there in his mind’s eye, but a lass with honey-colored eyes and pouty lips. As the rush of seed left his body, he closed his eyes and, in that moment, he knew.

He couldn’t let Rosalyn slip through his fingers. She was far too perfect a match. He would simply have to marry her.

Lord Stafford would surely have agreed.





Chapter Eight


Caraway Cake



Rosalyn yawned and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. Then her actions of last night paraded through her mind. She cringed, desperately for it all to be a dream, then buried her face in her pillow as heat burned her face and neck.

She’d stood there like a hussy, naked in the moonlight. Why hadn’t she rushed back into the safety of the water? Why had she simply stared at the full state of his arousal, wishing he’d take her in his arms, lay her on the beach and…

The kiss? Most likely, pity had been involved. Of course, the sight of a naked woman—any woman—would have aroused him. He was a man, after all.

She pounded the mattress with her fist.

She had to leave Brighton. The mere thought of facing Lord Brodie again made her want to shrivel up and die.

*

“You shouldn’t deny yourself, love,” Lady Sara said over tea in the parlor. She looked quite lively. Each day by the sea brought more color to her cheeks. “Ethan’s a fine young man. No doubt, he would love company on his afternoon rides.”