The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(50)

He loved the way she kissed, the way she sighed into his mouth. The whimpers she gave when he started to pull away, like she couldn’t bear for him to stop. She clutched his shoulders, holding him tight, her body trembling against him. It was as if she held nothing back, as if she totally and utterly belonged to him in that moment.

I want her to belong to me.

He wanted to have her every way he could take her. Make her beg and scream. Order her to do every little dirty thing he could think of . . .

Mine.

Determined fingertips shoved his coat off his shoulders, down his arms, then went to work on the buttons of his vest. His brain finally returned to working order, and he stayed her hands. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing you.”

She tried to wriggle free, but he tightened his hold. “Katherine, wait. What’s happening? Why are we here?”

A deep crease formed on her brow as she stepped back. There were shadows in her eyes he didn’t like, as if something was troubling her. But she turned away, unfastened her cloak and tossed it over a chair. “I thought it would be obvious to a man as smart as yourself.”

He went to the sideboard. As he poured her a glass of bourbon, he said, “While I may be smart, I’m also creative. I can imagine several reasons you might want me to undress. But shouldn’t we discuss this first?”

“What is there to discuss?” She came over and grabbed the crystal tumbler out of his hand, and took a big gulp of the liquor. “I’m here, you’re here. There’s a bed.”

A shocking amount of pleasure darted to his groin. His cock very much liked the idea, lengthening in his trousers in heady pulses, yet he knew there was more happening here than she was telling him. “Just like that? Out of the blue, you’re ready to sleep with me?”

“Out of the blue? Have you been paying attention at all? I thought . . .” With a practiced flick of her wrist, she downed the rest of the bourbon and swallowed it. Then she set the glass on the table with a thunk. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I just needed—”

When she reached for her cloak, he sprang forward, grabbing her arm. “Kat, please. Give me a moment to catch up. Talk to me.”

“Do you want to sleep with me, or not?”

He didn’t like the wild desperation in her gaze, the recklessness he could almost taste in her kiss. Though it was likely idiotic, he gave her the truth. “Of course I do. I’ve been thinking of nothing else since our carriage ride.”

The edges of her mouth curled slightly and she moved away from him. Then her fingers went to the fastenings on her bodice, popping them open one by one. He stared, transfixed, like the world had slowed down. “Stop,” he said, weakly, unable to look away from her small fingers. “We should talk first.”

“I don’t want to talk, Preston. I want to feel.”

“That isn’t how this works.”

The sides of her bodice hung loose and she shrugged out of the heavy piece, revealing bare arms and delicate shoulders. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

I need to put a stop to this. She’s trying to seduce me.

Then she reached for the fastenings on her skirt. The movements were brisk, efficient, and soon layers of silk and cotton pooled at her feet. She stepped free, her form clad in just undergarments. “It has to be you, and it has to be tonight.”

Why?

He certainly thought the question but couldn’t get his brain to actually voice it, not when she undid the tiny buttons of her petticoat and shoved it over her hips, lowering the cloth to the ground. Her cream chemise and corset matched her silk drawers, and she was so exquisite that his teeth ached.

Instead of removing more, she stepped toward him, the mounds of her breasts bouncing with every step. His muscles were locked in place, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. Moving closer, she plucked at the buttons of his vest, opening them, then pushed the silk off his shoulders. His necktie soon joined the vest on the floor. His chest heaved as she removed his collar and worked on his shirt, the brush of her hands over his clothed skin the best kind of agony.

When she lowered his suspenders, his trousers slipped a bit on his hips. They both watched together as she unhooked the fastening at his waist, the ridge of his erection nearly obscene through the layers of fabric. When the wool slid down his legs, the thin undergarment did little to hide how much he wanted her. The head of his cock was already leaking, a small wet spot evident on the cotton.

She brushed the length of his shaft through the cloth with her knuckles. “You want me,” she whispered.

Had she doubted it? “Very, very badly. But I think you’ll regret it, Kat.”

“Do you have any diseases?”

“No, but—”

“Will you take precautions so I don’t conceive?”

“Yes, of course.”

Her palm swept over his cock, pressing hard and making him see stars. “Then what could I possibly regret?”

Fuck. Goddamn it.

He could feel his resolve crumbling like dry plaster. “You’ll regret giving away your innocence so impulsively.”

She stroked him again. “When you eventually marry, will you care if your bride isn’t a virgin?”

“Hell, no. But—”

“There is no but, then. I think it’s the older ladies who care more about virginity than men do. Decent men, anyway. And I don’t care, so why should you?”