Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(36)

“Shall I tell you?” he asked silkily, staring at that very pink bottom lip trapped between her small, white teeth.

She lifted wary eyes to him and gave a single nod.

“Very well,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed to her mouth, his gut tightening as her tongue moistened her lips. He drew a ragged breath. Casting good sense and years of restraint to the wind, he growled, “Never mind. I shall show you.”

Dipping his head, he seized her lips and kissed her. And knew true madness. True, head-spinning insanity. Swallowing her startled cry in his mouth, he deepened the kiss. His arms came around her, lifting her off her feet and pulling her closer. Starved, past denying himself, he drank from the mouth that had tormented him for days. With a groan, he let himself go, gave in to the impossible impulses he had felt from the start, since the moment he laid eyes on her—soaked in rain, covered in mud, her viper’s tongue lashing out at him.

Mouth fastened on hers, he slid his hands from her back up to her breasts, cupping them through the sheer nightgown. He kneaded the mounds, firm warm flesh that fit perfectly in his hands. Her nipples pebbled against his palms and she whimpered, kissing him back. Tentatively at first, then more aggressively, sliding her tongue against his as he rolled her nipples between thumbs and index fingers, aching to strip off her nightgown and feel their texture for himself. To taste their sweetness, bite and nip at the rigid little peaks.



He wedged his knee between her legs, pushing her higher against the bookcase. She pressed herself against his thigh with an untutored ardor. The core of her burned through his breeches into the flesh of his thigh, branding him. His hands released her breasts and cupped her face to better angle her head for his questing tongue.

She kissed him back, matching the thrusts and parries of his tongue, her small hands clutching his shoulders. He tangled his fingers through her hair, luxuriating in the silken tresses.

He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t prevent his hands from roaming every inch of her. Down again they slid, skimming the slim line of her spine to cup a deliciously full bottom. He groaned and massaged the tight cheeks, bringing her burning sex against him.

A desperate, wild need to rid them both of their clothes seized them. But the restraint and discipline that had ruled him through his life obediently reared its head, and he withdrew, removing his leg from between hers. Then his hands. Then his mouth.

Glassy blue eyes gazed up at him. She raised her hand to touch her lips, moist and bruised.

“Enough,” he managed to get out, the tremble in his voice betraying him, exposing her mind-weakening affect on him. He had set out to prove she was not immune to him and had only succeeded in torturing himself. His painfully hard erection attested to that.

She nodded, her dark hair falling wildly about her, mussed from his hands. He stepped back, the sight of her still far too tempting. The taste of her still far too fresh on his lips.

“Good night,” he murmured. “I’ll leave you to your books.”

Even as he departed, frustrated and aching with desire, it comforted him to know that his library wasn’t all that she enjoyed here. Despite her claims. Whether she cared to admit it or not, she wanted him. As much as he wanted her. Yet he’d be damned if he let her dig her claws into him any deeper.





Chapter 14


“Good morning, Lady Moreton, Mina,” Portia greeted, her face burning at the memory of last night’s debacle in the library—and the countess’s hand in it.

Averting her face, she turned and surveyed the surfeit of food on the sideboard. After selecting a large honeyed roll, she seated herself, still avoiding Lady Moreton’s gaze, afraid that one look and all would be revealed. Surely anyone could see that she had been kissed senseless last night?

She hadn’t slept a wink, too busy reliving that kiss. Her lips still tingled. Her head still reeled.

A footman stepped forth to pour her tea.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes scanning the table, mildly surprised to find Constance absent. Constance’s glowers over breakfast had become quite routine.

A plate sat at the head of the table. Piled high with food, it loomed rather conspicuously.

Mina followed her gaze. “Heath,” she explained, over the rim of her cup. “He stepped out for a moment.”

A frission of alarm rushed down her spine and she eyed her roll, wondering how quickly she could consume it without making a spectacle. Heath never breakfasted with them. Could this have anything to do with last night? It couldn’t possibly mean he wanted to see her again. He had practically run from the library last night.

“Drat,” Lady Moreton exclaimed. “This won’t do, won’t do at all.”

“Is something amiss, my lady?” Portia asked, stirring her tea.

Lady Moreton chewed her bottom lip as she studied a sheet of parchment next to her plate. “I’m devising to night’s menu, and I can’t remember if we have any Haute-Brion left in the cellar.”

Mina frowned. “But Heath—”

“Mina,” Lady Moreton quickly cut in, her voice sharp as a whip, “don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Mina snapped her mouth shut and chewed slowly, blinking from her grandmother to Portia.

“We’re having turbot with lobster sauce for dinner and I wanted to honor your visit with a claret I’ve been saving,” Lady Moreton paused, pinching the air. “The Haute-Brion is perfection.” She looked directly at Portia, her gaze keen. “I certainly couldn’t trust one of the servants to fetch something so dear.”