The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(14)

Thus far, he’d kept his word and respected her wishes, though they were both perfectly aware he had the upper hand between them. The muscles lurking beneath his clothing were not padding.

“Fine,” he said. “May I remove your mask?”

For a beat she considered it, but recognition was too great a risk, given his age and cultured accent. There was every possibility they knew some of the same people or traveled the same High Society circles. “No—and leave yours on, as well.”

“I see. Then we plan to stay in character.”

She caught his gaze, mesmerized by the light flecks of green in his dark brown irises. At this close range, she could see the dark whiskers along his jaw and above his lip, the thick lashes framing his lids. Her belly dipped and swooped, the moisture between her legs evident. Never had she imagined a man could cause her to feel this reckless, this daring. It was like he’d lifted something heavy off her shoulders and she was finally floating free. “Is that a problem, my king?”

His mouth parted as hooded eyes, intense and hungry, locked on her mouth, causing a shiver to work through her. “Not at all. Now, kiss me, reinette.”

Like he’d pulled her with a string, she started to close in, her face drifting toward his. She put a hand on his chest, steadying herself as the room narrowed to just the two of them. They were speaking in hushed whispers, as if they weren’t alone. “Little queen?”

“Indeed.” Dipping his head, he waited with his mouth poised above hers. “It was Madame de Pompadour’s nickname and quite fitting for you, I think.”

Heavens, this man was hazardous to a girl’s innocence. He should come with some sort of warning, like in the pamphlets the teetotalers circulated about alcohol. Caution: may cause you to lose your inhibitions and your virginity. But this was no time for caution; this was a time for bold action, warning be damned.

I’m tired of waiting. I want to live my life.

And what better way than with a man she’d never see ever again?

Easing forward, she pressed soft kisses to the edge of his mouth, then the other side, while his breath ghosted over her skin, a hint of whiskey and cigar that reminded her of dark paneling and secret rooms. His heart pounded under her palm but he let her lead, grunting softly when she shifted closer and sealed their lips together. He tilted his head, making it easier for her, and their mouths moved, cautious at first, then stronger. More insistent, as if they’d waded into the shallows, decided they liked the water and then plunged into the depths.

In a flash, he took over. He kissed her hard, not letting up, and slipped his tongue in her mouth to stroke against hers. Her body melted against him, her fingers sinking into the plush fabrics he wore, to the muscle below, while her head spun. Who knew that kisses could be so consuming, so wonderful? He was a stranger, which made this all the more baffling, yet he was respectful of her, aware of his intimidating size. He’d done everything possible to put her at ease.

He broke off and dotted open-mouthed kisses under her jaw, then scraped his teeth across the sensitive tendons. “You’re so damn perfect,” he whispered. “I could devour you.”

Each word and caress echoed in the tips of her breasts and between her legs. She couldn’t think, could only feel. All that was left in her brain was the throbbing of pure lust, the pleasure created by his lips, tongue and teeth.

So . . . what would his hands feel like on her body?

When his teeth sank into the place where her shoulder met her neck, she gasped. This wasn’t enough. She was drowning in need and longing. “Touch me. Please.”

“Are you certain?”

Was she? This was what she’d wanted, an encounter no one would ever know about. An experience she’d never forget, one most women her age couldn’t even imagine.

You came here to have an affair. He doesn’t know you, and you’ll never see him again.

He’d proven trustworthy and she was attracted to him. A lot. So, what was she waiting for?

Scooting closer, she hid her nervousness behind Madame de Pompadour’s bravado. “Do you doubt your mistress’s mind?”

He chuckled, the sound rich and deep, and a large palm glided along the outside of her thigh, under her skirts, directly to her bottom. He squeezed one buttock through the thin cloth of her drawers. “I serve at your pleasure, mon chaton.”

My kitten.

With his free hand on the side of her neck, he angled her head and took her mouth once more, devouring her, his lips slanting across hers again and again, without respite. It was as if her request had unleashed something in him, turning their kiss from a steady fire into a roaring inferno. While his tongue mastered her mouth, his hand caressed her thigh, teasing the bare skin above her garter, until she squirmed in desperation.

“Do you want me to touch between your legs?”

Did she?

She was pulsing there, wet and needy. The ache was unbearable. She nodded.

His fingers danced closer to where she craved them. “The words, if you please. Just so we are clear.”

“Please, touch me. I am burning alive.”

In a swift motion, he scooped her up and placed her on his lap, her legs dangling to one side. Ignoring the hard length under her bottom, she wrapped her arms around his neck as his fingers moved to her inner thigh, into the part of her drawers. There was no hesitation or fumbling; this was a man familiar with females and their clothing. Gently, he dipped a finger into her folds, near her entrance, and she sucked in a breath, surprised at how good it felt.