The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(13)

“Thank you.” She put her glass down and scooted closer, near enough that her leg met his thigh. Her scent, sweet and dark with a hint of citrus, filled his head, and he dragged in a deep breath. The perfume wasn’t overpowering, which he appreciated. He wondered if she applied it behind her ears and to the tops of her breasts. Perhaps he’d soon find out.

One small palm landed on his chest, the warmth of her skin sinking through the layers of silk and cotton, into his flesh, and goose bumps broke out all over his torso. He had no idea what she would do, but he was eager for it.

“I am curious,” she said quietly, “if you feel as solid and impregnable as you look.”

He clenched his hands into fists to keep from touching her as she traced the embroidery adorning his vest. She embarked on a slow, torturous examination of his upper half, and he watched her face, looking to see how his proximity affected her, ensuring there was no fear. She was flushed, pulse pounding at the base of her throat, as she explored with gentle sweeps of her fingers, testing the shape of him. As if she’d never touched a man before.

God almighty, that fantasy would send him right over the edge. He pushed it firmly aside.

Bolder, she slipped her hands under his jacket, up to his shoulders, with her head hovering perilously close to his. She concentrated on her task, and he was aching to kiss her, to taste her. To make some discoveries of his own. With a strength of will he hadn’t known he possessed, he remained perfectly still and let her catalogue him—even when she returned to his chest and moved lower, over his stomach.

“Are you ticklish?” she asked, her voice a ragged whisper.

“No. Are you?”

“Very—not that you’ll ever find out.”

“You might change your mind.”

She hummed in the back of her throat and slid a hand over his ribs. “I think I have my answer.”

“To what?” he rasped, resisting the urge to lean into her touch.

She sighed dramatically and plucked at one of the silver buttons on his vest. “About whether you feel as strong as you look.”

“And what is your conclusion?” He smiled at the top of her head, feeling like a young boy about to kiss a girl for the first time. When was the last time he’d felt so free, so light? In no hurry to rush things along and make them both come? It had been ages.

“I don’t wish to say. Kings aren’t known for humility as it is.”

“Meaning, you’re about to compliment me.”

She tilted her face toward his, their lips so close that her breath warmed his skin. “Except mistresses are the ones who require compliments and presents, not kings.”

Was she fishing? Because he had a long string of things he found both enticing and arousing about this woman. “I’m happy to shower you with compliments. I have a rather lengthy list in my head, if you like.”

“A long list? Truly?” Her eyes sparkled behind the mask. “But you haven’t even seen my face.”

“I’ve seen enough to know you are beautiful, with a bright and mischievous smile. Brown eyes that resemble a fine ale. Legs so long they make a man crave feeling them around his hips. Skin like pale cream, especially the tops of your breasts.” He nodded to where the plush mounds were nearly slipping out of her corset. “In fact, every single part of you is so damn lovely that I’ve been half-hard since the moment I spotted you in the crowd.”

The lines of her face slackened and she blinked at him a few times. “Really?”

“Would you like to move your hand lower and find out?”

“I believe you.” She slowly dragged a finger along the bare skin of his throat, above his cravat. “But I would like something else.”

“Whatever you wish, madam.”

“Embrasse-moi, my king.”





Chapter Five




Katherine could not believe the words coming out of her mouth, like the devil had taken root in her mind and forced her to say the most outrageous things. Though the true cause was more likely the anonymity and champagne. Whatever the reason, she was now lost in a sea of lust and longing for this man, one she’d just groped like a side of beef at an auction.

He felt magnificent, too. All lean muscle and solid bone, with wide shoulders and a tapered waist. He sat perfectly still, reclined, like the king he pretended to be, and allowed her to paw at him, never breaking his promise to keep his hands to himself.

It wasn’t enough. She needed more.

The mask and costume allowed a sense of freedom she’d never experienced before, a loosening of the morals ingrained in her for the last twenty years. Louis didn’t seem to mind the role-play, either, his eyes going dark after she called him “my king.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his rapid breathing, and she noticed the bulge in his trousers when her fingers had traveled lower.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked, leaning forward to press his nose into her powdered hair. Was he smelling her?

“Yes, but you may not touch me.”

It was silly, this dictate, but he was large and . . . intense. Even through his mask and wig, she could tell this was a man with whom one did not trifle. And she didn’t know him, not really. He could be a masher or a thug. They were alone in a salon in a crowded amphitheater where anything could happen and no one would hear her calls for help.