The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(39)

“I’ve come to my senses. I thought you would be glad about it, honestly. The last time I saw you, that night at Sherry’s, you told me to forget I knew you.”

“And in response you recounted all of the indecent things you did know about me.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“I liked hearing it. I wish you’d tell me more.” When he didn’t respond, she kept going. “Don’t you ever do anything impulsive?”

“Not if I can help it.”

That sounded boring to Katherine’s ears. Perhaps he merely needed a little push. “Earlier in the club you said you still think about it. Being with me, I mean.”

He shifted on the seat, his gloveless fingers gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “We should not discuss this. I vote for riding uptown in silence.”

She was having fun needling him, so much that she could hardly contain a devious grin. “Overruled. Tell me what you think about specifically when you wake up in the morning. Then tell me what you do about it.”

“No.”

“Why not? Are you embarrassed?”

“Christ, no. You’ve seen me do it up close, Kat. So there’s no need to go into great detail.”

“But details are my favorite thing.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I won’t do this anymore. It’s not fair to you.”

Not fair to her?

She pushed that comment aside for now, too focused on getting past that impenetrable wall of determination that surrounded him. “Shall I give you my details instead, the ten items I think about late at night and what I do after?”

His throat worked as he swallowed, but he didn’t look at her or speak. She wondered if he truly was done playing with her. Just when she was about to give up he gave a small nod.

Emboldened by her victory, she angled toward him and rested her head against the carriage wall. She focused on his shoulder and said quietly, “Number ten on the list is your costume, the way it fit your body. You looked very strong and tall. Nine is your thighs in said costume, which were so spectacular as to deserve their own number. Eight, your huge hands and how they felt on my skin, all rough and eager.” She shivered at the memory. “Seven, the filthy way you talk when you’re being intimate with a woman. Six, the little growls and grunts you made when you were pleasuring yourself.”

He hadn’t reacted thus far to her list, other than the rapid rise and fall of his chest. So, she asked, “Shall I go on?”

“Please.”

It was an anguished rasp, as if he both loved and hated what she was saying, and the air in the carriage grew thick and heavy. Her next words were softer. “Five, your lips and tongue and how they teased mine. The fourth thing I think about is your erection, with its veins and smooth-looking skin. It seemed so very hard that night. I wish I had touched it and kissed it.”

Preston’s head dropped back, his eyelids sweeping closed. “Fuck,” he whispered, adjusting the bulge in his trousers.

The words were affecting her, as well. Between her legs throbbed with excitement and longing, and she rubbed her thighs together to seek a small bit of relief. There was no reason not to tell him the rest of it, she supposed.

“Three, when you spoke to me in French, but especially when you called me ‘mon chaton’ and ‘reinette.’ I liked that very much. I spend quite a lot of time thinking about number two, which was when you kissed and licked between my legs. It’s like the very best secret no one told me about, unless this is a special skill only you’ve developed.”

He rolled his head toward her and the heat in his gaze scorched her. It was the intense, hot stare she remembered from the French Ball, the one that curled her toes. “I loved licking your pussy. I’d do it every day, if I could.”

“If it’s like that every time, I would definitely let you.”

The edge of his mouth hitched, like her comment satisfied him. Their heads were inches apart in the enclosed space and it felt as if the entire world had distilled down to this carriage and this man. They weren’t Katherine and Preston, struggling against expectations and rules. In here, they were two people lost in lust and longing, with shared breaths and secrets that might lead to more.

Please, she thought. Let it lead to more.

Finally, he asked, “What is number one, reinette?”

She moistened her dry lips and whispered, “When you were licking between my legs, you put a finger inside me. I loved the fullness. I liked knowing you were inside my body. I can’t help but wonder what two fingers would feel like . . . or maybe three.”

Almost before she finished speaking, he closed the distance and took her mouth with his own, his lips rough and hungry. Unapologetic and demanding, and every bit as arousing as she remembered from the night of the ball. His large hand cupped her jaw, angling her where he liked, and the kiss turned deeper, until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need air and her brain was welcome to nod off for the time being. She wanted to drown in the feelings rioting through her, the desire burning in her blood.

It felt so good, like she’d had too much champagne. Her head swam with the smell of leather, musk and the hint of tobacco. That was pure Preston, her naughty hardworking king.

Hers?