While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(56)

The humor faded from his eyes and she was reminded of something she had already realized about this man—he did not like being denied.

“I’ve no issue with the first request. As to you, Poppy, you know where I stand on that matter.”

He leaned in, those delicious-looking lips of his descending.

With a yelp, she ducked under one of his arms and darted forward, feeling quite smug at evading him so neatly.

That smugness died a swift death when he snatched her wrist and tumbled her back into his arms, his chest a hard wall at her back.

“Oomph!” she cried out at the impact, then stilled as his arm slipped around her waist, his big, warm hand searing her rib cage, directly beneath her breast. If she relaxed, she could rest his head on his shoulder. She could turn her face slightly and graze her lips to his jaw . . .

Only in no way could she ever relax like this.

Especially when he lowered his head and placed his open mouth just over the whorls of her ear. His hot warm breath tickled the sensitive skin. It wasn’t a kiss, but it was just as distracting. Just as dangerous to her senses.

“You needn’t be jealous, lass, it’s you I prefer.” His lips brushed over the lobe of her ear as he spoke and her belly clenched. “Just as you prefer me.”

“I don’t prefer you.” Heat climbed up her neck as his actual words penetrated. Her face throbbed with mortification. “And I’m not jealous.”

“Yes. You do . . . and you are, but you needn’t be. Not when it’s you I imagine in my bed.” His fingers fanned out on her ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. “And you imagine it, too. Admit it.”

“I’ll admit no such thing! You arrogant—”

“Honest—”

“Insufferable—”

“Irresistible,” he supplied.

“Oh!” Her cheeks burned with outrage. His head dipped even lower, his face turning so that his mouth grazed the side of her neck. He was going to kiss her. Again. Perhaps even bite her as he did that once. Heat throbbed between her legs.

Her chest squeezed, the air trapped inside, no longer flowing in and out of her.

She couldn’t let that happen, not when she was so desperately trying to stand strong and show him exactly how objectionable she found him to be.

She was too late, of course. In a manner. He didn’t kiss her. No, it was worse. He opened his mouth over the side of her throat. The velvet warmth of his tongue slid over her skin, tasting and turning her limbs to jam. She whimpered, her legs giving out. His arm tightened around her waist, holding her up, and then he bit down, his teeth scoring the stretched cord of her neck.

A strangled sound escaped her at the pleasure-pain of his teeth sinking into her. One of his hands lifted to her head. His fingers fisted in her hair, forcing her head back so that he had more of her to taste and bite.

If she had any doubt before that this man was wicked she no longer did. The things his hands and mouth did could only be called sinful. Perhaps even evil.

Before she could sink deeper under his spell, she lifted her foot and brought her heel down hard on his foot. Pain flared in the sole of her foot from the force of her kick, but she didn’t care. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

He cursed, his hold loosening, and she bolted.

“Poppy,” he growled as she raced down the wide aisle. She heard his steps fast on her heels and her heart hammered with equal parts fear and something else that felt horribly close to excitement. Blast her contrary heart.

It was the same sensation she had felt as a girl when she would swing from a tree rope and drop into the village pond. The brief moment when she was airborne and falling, wind rushing over her as her stomach lurched up to her throat.

She dove outside, racing for the house. She burst inside, startling the doorman. She spared him only a quick glance before rushing upstairs.

The duke’s bedchamber loomed ahead like a welcome beacon in the dark. He was never left unattended. Someone would be there to shield her, even if only a maid.

With that comforting knowledge, she plunged inside the room and let out a relieved breath. As expected, the room was occupied. Not only did a maid stand sentry in the corner but Lord Strickland was there, too, sitting in a chair by the duke’s bedside and holding a newspaper.

“Lord Strickland,” she exclaimed breathlessly, her voice louder than she intended. She winced and swallowed, fighting for some much needed composure.

“Miss Fairchurch.” His gaze flicked beyond her as Struan emerged fast behind her. A small measure of satisfaction churned through her at the sight of him. He looked rattled, too, his cheeks ruddy with color, eyes bright as though suffering a fever. The effect was altogether shattering, making him only more attractive. Much too threatening to her senses.

“Mr. Mackenzie,” Lord Strickland added in greeting.

“Lord Strickland,” Struan greeted, his deep voice tight.

The earl looked back and forth between them. “Are we having a race?”

“A race? Y-yes, a race,” she quickly agreed, releasing a single nervous titter of laughter. “I won.”

Lord Strickland looked knowingly between them.

She smiled uncertainly as Struan stopped at her elbow. “Mr. Mackenzie challenged me. I could not refuse.” She forced a smile, hoping that did not sound as ridiculous as it did to her ears.