The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(22)
She came forward to hiss, “You hypocritical horse’s arse. I stepped out for some air. Alone.”
He had the gall to snort. “Yes, I’m quite sure Markham would offer up a similar story if we were to ask him.”
Anger rushed through her veins, settling in her chest like a heavy mound of potter’s clay. Simon loomed over her, snarling down in self-righteous fury, and she discovered he’d backed her up against a wall. She knew in that moment he would never believe her denials; he’d formed his opinion of her ten years ago and there would be no changing his mind.
Fine, she could play the harlot for him. Maybe then he’d leave her alone—though she truly longed to crack him one across his closely shaven jaw.
She exhaled, forced her limbs to relax, and licked her lips. Predictably, his gaze locked on her mouth, so she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. His chest continued to rise and fall, the harsh exhales filling the room, and his eyes darkened to sapphires. Oh yes, revenge could be sweet. Ever so slowly, she dragged one finger down the length of her bare collarbone. “Did you corner me in hopes of taking his place?” she asked, her voice low and intimate.
Simon shifted closer, the pure male, spicy scent of him filling her nose. She liked the way he smelled, orange and sandalwood with a hint of tobacco. The proximity of his frame distracted her as well. His evening clothes held no padding, and the well-tailored fit hugged him quite perfectly. She could see the outline—
“If I chose to take Markham’s place,” he started, placing his hands against the wall, one on either side of her head, to cage her in. He leaned in and for one terrifying, heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but he shifted just before their lips touched. The tip of his nose slid across her cheek, tiny puffs of breath heating her skin as he nuzzled her. Maggie’s breasts swelled, and her lids fell with a rush of pleasure that rippled the length of her body. “If I chose to take his place, it wouldn’t be here,” he whispered near her ear. “I’d take you to my bed at Barrett House and show you wickedness Markham could not even begin to imagine. But that is not why I cornered you.”
Close. He was much too close. Despite her desire to remain unaffected, her belly fluttered and warmth tingled between her legs. Why on earth had it only ever been this odious man to elicit such feelings? She swallowed. “Then why?”
He flicked her earbob with his tongue, then nipped the lobe with gentle teeth. She inhaled sharply. “What game are you playing at, Maggie?”
“I—” Her traitorous voice caught, so she cleared her throat. “There is no game, Simon.”
Her control began melting away. She longed to do every improper thing in the world to him—and for him to return them in kind. Odd since she hadn’t ever enjoyed intimacies with a man. Had hated it, actually. But somehow, this was different.
Why had she started this? Oh yes, she’d thought to teach him a lesson, make a fool of him. Have him panting with lust and then leave him begging—only this was turning into something else entirely.
“I like games,” he continued, his lips brushing over her throat in a seductive caress. “But I also like to win. I wonder, are you prepared to pay the price when you lose?”
She shivered. There wasn’t enough air in the damn room. “I never lose,” she rasped. “And you have more at stake.”
“Do I?” His nose slid along the sensitive line of her jaw, the skin prickling in his wake. “I think I could take you against this wall. Right now. Right here.” His hips pressed against hers, his erection stiff and unapologetic, and she sucked in a breath. Before she knew it, her hands clutched at his waist to hold him in place.
“But you should know,” he continued, his mouth hovering above her lips, “I only play games when there aren’t quite so many players. I do not care to be one of many.”
It took a few seconds for that remark to sink in. When it did, hurt and anger resurfaced to eclipse whatever else she might have felt. The unbelievable, thick-skulled swine.
All of her muscles clenched and she shoved at his shoulder with all her strength. When he stepped back, she pushed by him and strode for the door. While the idea of running had merit, she couldn’t resist a last parting jab over her shoulder. “Fitting, then, that we shall never know how you measure up.”
Simon needed several minutes to collect himself. The current state of his shaft, now diamond-hard, prevented an immediate return to the party, so he practiced the speech he’d been crafting for Parliament in order to distract himself from his run-in with Maggie. How she’d felt pressed against the length of him. Her sweet scent. The softness of her skin.
Groaning, he reached to shift himself inside his breeches. Christ, he’d never rejoin the others if he kept this up. And what had he been thinking, baiting her in such a manner? He had no intention of tangling himself with her, no matter how enticing the package. Why had he drunk so much wine at dinner?
At least he’d prevented her tryst with Markham.
That brought a measure of grim satisfaction for many reasons. Markham had been invited merely because Simon needed to gain the viscount’s support for the upcoming proposal. Yet the old fool had spent the entire evening salivating over Maggie—not that she’d done anything to dissuade him.
As long as Simon lived, he’d never understand what Maggie saw in those other men. While Simon could live with having been thrown over, she certainly deserved someone better than Cranford—or Markham. Had the woman no standards?