The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(23)

Her long brown lashes fluttered wildly and she leaned into him. She gave her head the slightest shake.

After Lucy’s treachery he’d come to appreciate that the safest, truest connection with a woman was the pleasure to be found in her arms. Robert rolled to his side and pulled her close, so quickly their bodies never broke contact.

“What are you d-doing?” Her breathless question enflamed his senses.

He touched the tip of his finger to her lower lip. Even in his drunken stupor the previous evening, her spirit had beckoned. Though she’d never be considered any beauty in any sense of the word, there was a raw realness to the woman that set her apart from any of the respectable ladies or less respectable courtesans he’d ever met. “Kissing you again.”

He braced for the flash of spirit in her expressive eyes. Instead, a breathy sigh escaped her, the faint stirring of air brushing against his skin, and she tipped her head back.

Desire pulsing through him, Robert slowly lowered his mouth close to hers. If she pulled away, if she rejected him in the slightest, he’d set her free. “I do not remember how I came to be in your bed, only that I did. My only regret is that I was too bloody soused to remember the feel of you in my arms.”

Her breath caught on an audible intake.

This woman in his arms would forever remind him of the perils of drink. To not recall what had transpired, if anything at all, was the greatest of tragedies. “And if I let you go now, if I let you flee without kissing you, I shall forever regret it.”

Only, he suspected that after feeling her lush hips in his hand, the swell of her buttocks, that a mere kiss would never be enough.

He trailed the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips.

Her breath caressed his lips. “Y-you shouldn’t,” she said, the protest halfhearted.

He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. “I should,” he whispered. “May I kiss you?”

Surprise glinted in her eyes, but she said nothing and with a groan he took her lips under his. Slanting his mouth over hers again and again. The seductive scent of lavender and lemon that clung to her skin invaded his senses, more intoxicating than all of the spirits he’d consumed last evening, and he deepened his kiss.

With a moan she slipped her arms from between their bodies, and twined them about his neck. Encouraged, he took her hips firmly in hand and anchored her to the center of his thighs.

A low, strangled groan spilled from her lips and he swallowed the sound. Robert found her tongue with his, tasting, exploring, branding her as his.

He worked the edge of her skirts up and her thighs fell open in invitation.

Robert wedged his knee between her slender legs and pressed hard against her hot center. He rocked his leg against her in a slow, undulating movement. “Please,” she moaned, arching against him. He worked his hand between them and brushed the wisp of curls that shielded her womanhood.

A keening little cry escaped her and he again consumed that heady sound. He shifted his lips away from hers and trailed a path of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, lower to the soft swell of her cream-white breasts, and then closed his mouth around her nipple and she gripped his head, anchoring him close. Desire surged through him and he worked her nightshift up. “Helena,” he breathed against her skin.

Her eyes flew open on a gasp. Horror etched her features and in one swift movement, she brought her knee up quick between his legs.

With a hiss of pain, he rolled away, clutching himself.

In a brilliant blaze of shock and fury, Helena leapt to her feet. “Don’t you ever . . . how dare . . .”

“Words, princess,” he rasped, and through the tortured agony of movement rose unsteadily to his feet.

She clasped hands at the bodice of her nightshift, clenching and unclenching her fingers. “How dare you.” Her eyes formed round circles. She searched around, and he followed her gaze to the flash of silver on the floor. The muscles of his body went taut and he dove for the knife before the harpy took it to her head to bury her blade in his heart. Or worse . . .

Helena stumbled back. “Hand me my weapon, sir.” And if she hadn’t nearly unmanned him moments ago, he’d have felt like the worst sort of bounder for the high-pitch panic in her demand.

Robert held the dagger above her reach. If she believed for one moment he intended to hand a dagger over to a woman spitting mad with fury—a fury directed at him—she was madder than old King George himself. He stuck the blade between his teeth. “Do you know?” he bit around the edge of the blade. “I don’t believe I will.”

As he retrieved his rumpled shirt and pulled it over his head, a stream of inventive curses filtered about the room. Taking a perverse delight in ignoring the woman’s clear outrage, he next stuffed his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

“Did you hear me?” she demanded, her chest rising and falling.

He sat at the edge of the bed, with the sheets still wrinkled from their night together, and tugged on a boot. “Which part?” he drawled. “Your question about my paternity?” Robert paused midreach for the other boot to lift a brow. “Or your accusation of my possible proclivity for carnal activities with a female dog?”

She gritted her teeth so hard, the sound of it reached past the space separating them.

“I said I want my—”

“You’ll have your knife. As soon as I’m ready to take my leave. I’d be mad to trust you won’t stick your wicked blade in my belly.”