Her Missing Marquess (Wicked Husbands #5) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,41

silent understanding. The passion that had always been between them since they had first met took hold, simmering beneath the heaviness of the moment.

Mayhap she could give in to her desire. Take what she wanted and then leave him for good. Hurt him as he had hurt her. Break him as he had once broken her. Perhaps it was time to even the score between them.

She stopped thinking. Instead, she acted. She tugged his head down to hers, claiming his lips with hers.

He tasted of rain. Rain and Jack.

Delicious. God, so delicious.

How she ached for this man.

He made a low sound in his throat, and then he was kissing her back. Frantically. With bruising force. Carnal and wet and rough. His mouth moved over hers, his tongue sliding inside. She welcomed the invasion, rising on her toes to press herself against him. A moan escaped her.

She wanted more than kisses.

She was on fire for him. Beyond thought. Beyond common sense. All she could think about was Jack. His scent was in her lungs, his taste on her lips, his big, muscular body radiating wet heat into hers. He lifted her into his arms without breaking the kiss, somehow managing to maneuver both her and her heavy, soaked riding habit with ease.

And then he was carrying her across the stone floor of the folly, his boots echoing in the cavernous space, joining the din of the storm beyond the walls. She clung to him as he carried her, kissing him with all the pent-up need she felt for him. She became wild. She bit his lower lip, thrust her tongue against his.

He stopped, abruptly breaking the kiss. “Where the devil is the bed?”

His breaths were harsh and hot, falling over her lips. It took her a moment to realize he had asked her a question. Oh, yes. The bed.

“I had it removed,” she admitted breathlessly.

Too many memories.

Though she kept that bit to herself.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Why would you—”

“Shut up,” she interrupted, and then she kissed him again. Too much talking. Too much thinking.

She did not want to use her mind. She wanted the physical. She wanted touch. Desire. She wanted his body. And she was going to have it. Once, she promised herself. Just once. Burn him down like a stack of dry kindling. Strip him of his confidence and his excuses. Make him weak, bring him low.

Then never touch him again.

He kissed her back, the movement of his lips and tongue and teeth turning savage. It was as if he sought to brand her, to mark her the same way he had left the mark upon her throat she had been forced to cover with pearl powder.

She tore her mouth away, gasping for a breath. “Chair.”

Jack kissed her again. “Good idea.”

He carried her to an old, oversized wingback positioned near the hearth. Spinning them around, he kissed her again before settling in it, with her in his lap. Her heavy, wet skirts pooled around them. She straddled him, the drenched fabric of his trousers brushing her throbbing core. He was rigid against the falls. She ground herself against him, loving the friction, seeking more.

The heat of the day made the coolness of their wet garments somehow more erotic. She threw her hat to the floor. His had already disappeared in the furor of their embrace. His fingers were on the line of buttons traveling down the front of her riding habit, plucking them from their moorings.

She bit his lower lip, then kissed away the sting. Kissed him as she had been yearning to do, deep down inside, ever since the kisses they had shared in the drive. Her bruised knees protested her position, but she ignored them. A little discomfort was not going to stand in the way of the all-encompassing need to become one with Jack.

Nell rocked over his burgeoning cockstand. She was as drenched as their clothes, and for an entirely different reason. If she did not have him inside her soon, she would die, she was sure of it. The sound of rending fabric reached her, but she was too far gone to care. He pushed her bodice down her shoulders, down her arms. She shimmed, helping him, and together they peeled the soggy fabric down to her waist.

“Nellie.” There was no mistaking the reverence in his voice. “God, Nellie.”

He kissed her throat, then her collarbone, nipping her lightly with his teeth until she moaned, thrusting against him once more. The laces on her corset went slack.