The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,91

little layer between her and his rippled pectoral muscles. She swiftly drew back her arm, letting it fall safely to her side.

It was too late.

The damage had been done.

Charles’s rogue’s grin deepened, and lowering himself onto his elbows, he stared boldly up at her.

“This is generally where you inquire about the reason I’ve snuck into your household,” Emma said, proud of the steady strength to her voice.

“I am impressed at your having done so.”

Of course he would be. Though in truth, she was as well. After all, it had been no small feat, gaining entry and sneaking to his rooms while avoiding detection. It had required her waiting at the kitchens until the last of the staff had vacated before finding her way inside.

With the languid grace of a sleek tiger, Charles pushed himself up. “But, Emma-love,” he murmured, slipping a hand about her waist. And parting his legs, he drew her to stand between them. Emma’s heart somersaulted. “How have you not realized that anytime we meet is a welcome pleasure?” He wrapped that last word in deep, husky tones, layering it with silk that could never be misconstrued for anything but the seductive whispering that it was.

Emma cursed the weakness within that brought her lashes drifting down. “Y-you are loose with your words.”

“Only with you,” he vowed.

It was an absolute lie. A rogue with his reputation could melt the heart of the iciest dowager. She should say as much. She wanted to. But . . . his tongue teased the lobe of her ear, and her breath caught. Her pulse quickened. He flicked that slice of flesh against her, a scorching brand that surely marked her.

Stop.

And yet, no matter how much she commanded herself to step away and out of his arms, and focus her thoughts, once more she was reduced to heightened sensation and feeling that her body craved. That it hungered for.

Emma drifted closer.

Or perhaps Charles’s other hand, which had found its way about her waist, had guided her closer?

Then he drifted his mouth down her neck, lightly kissing that flesh.

Her body heated several degrees as he licked a path along the top portions of her breasts that had been lifted and put on display by the gown she’d donned.

“Y-you still do not intend to ask me why I’ve c-come?”

“Should I?” he asked huskily in between each worshipping kiss he placed upon her breast. “I was just happy to find you here.”

“O-oh, yes.” Then she couldn’t fight it. Not any longer. A little moan spilled from her lips.

“‘Oh, yes,’ you like that, love?” He paused, blowing lightly upon her skin. “Or ‘Oh, yes,’ I should ask?”

Ask . . . what? What was he saying? What had she been saying? “I . . .” She was too confused. Clouded by the same haze of desire she’d vowed to never fall prey to. Not again. Her eyes drifted open.

His gaze worked a path over her face. “Have you suffered some kind of harm?” he asked.

“No.”

“Has someone hurt you in any way?”

“Yes.” That grounded her, and she managed to step away.

He’d already taken to his feet. “Who?” If a single word could be a threat, then the icy syllable he clipped out now achieved that goal.

Emma didn’t want it to matter that he should care either way . . . And yet it did. She squared her shoulders. “You.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“You,” she repeated. In fact, over the years he’d made something of a habit where she’d been concerned. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from leveling that bitter charge at him.

“Me . . . ?” Charles shook his head.

Returning to the spot she’d staked out earlier, Emma fetched the same paper she’d committed to memory, which had also kept her company while he’d been off doing whatever it was he’d done with the women at his clubs. She hurled her copy of The Londoner at him, hitting Charles square in the chest.

He caught it to him. “What is this?” he asked, already reading.

“That is actually the question I have for you, Charles. What is this?”

“I am afraid I do not follow,” he said slowly, lowering the newspaper to his side.

“Your society is still functioning.” And worse, thriving.

“We are a club.”

Emma’s eyebrows went flying up. My God, was he making a jest about any of this?

“At no point did I agree to disband.”

Emma searched her mind, replaying every last word of the discussion they’d had in this very room, and rocked back on her heels. He’d not