a betrayal to Alfred. To everything she had spent the last year believing.
“I am not afraid of you, Lord Sinclair,” she denied.
And yet, she remained oh-so-very aware of his muscled frame beneath her. The haste of his movements had meant that she was seated in most unladylike fashion, her bottom wedged against the thick ridge of his manhood.
She squirmed, trying to get away. The action was instinctive, and yet it only served to grind her down upon him.
“Keep moving,” he gritted, “and see what happens.”
Her cheeks went hot. Indeed, she was reasonably certain that every part of her had been spontaneously engulfed in carnal flame. What was the matter with her? She had no right to feel an ache deep in her core. Her breasts were heavy, her nipples sensitive and hard against the stiffness of her corset. And his breath fanned over her lips. His eyes threatened to devour her whole.
She went still. “Lord Sinclair, you must release me.”
“Sin,” he said in that deep, wicked baritone of his.
It was gruff and yet smooth as velvet, all at once.
She felt it like a caress. Her tongue flitted over her suddenly dry lower lip, and his gaze followed the movement.
“What about sin?” she asked, breathless, even though she knew what he was asking of her.
She had merely blindly seized upon an excuse to delay the inevitable. Or to invent a distraction. A means by which she could escape.
You do not want to escape, taunted a wicked voice inside her.
Oh, how she hated the voice. Because it was right.
“That is my name,” he said. “I would hear it on your lips. There is no need for formality now that we are husband and wife. Indeed, I dare say there was never a need for formality between us.”
There was every need. Formality made it easier for her to cling to her defenses. The Earl of Sinclair was the man she had believed guilty for so long, the man she had loathed, the man against whom she had plotted her revenge. But Sin? Well, Sin was a different man entirely. The word itself was tempting. Wrong. Wicked.
She forced herself to recall that his former mistress, the beautiful duchess, had called him Sin.
“No,” she countered, “that is not your name. No one is named Sin.”
“It has been mine for as long as I can recall. Say it, princess.”
“Justin,” she said. For she knew his Christian name now. She had watched him sign it in his slanted, distinctive scrawl.
He tensed beneath her. “No one calls me that.”
“Justin or Lord Sinclair,” she said stubbornly, somehow feeling as if the distinction mattered, even if she did not know why. “Which would you prefer?”
“Sin,” he repeated.
“Sin,” she spat. “There, are you satisfied? Now let me go.”
“Not until you kiss me.”
The carriage rocked to a halt.
“We have arrived at our destination,” she argued, pushing at his chest again. “This is unseemly. Let me go.”
“Too afraid?” he asked calmly, lifting a hand from her waist to stroke her cheek.
Curse him. She could not bear to allow him to believe he scared her, or that she did not possess enough control to kiss him and feel nothing. Even if both were, in part, true.
“Never,” she vowed.
He ran the backs of his fingers over her skin. Although he wore gloves, there was something about the caress that stole her breath. Gave her pause. There was a surprising tenderness in that touch. In his expression. She did not know what to do with it.
But he had left her with little choice. With a deep inhalation, she lowered her head and sealed her lips to his.
Her defiance.
Her mouth.
Fuck, the weight of her in his lap.
Those dark, flashing eyes, that cloud of mahogany hair.
Everything about her was driving him to the brink. Sin had never wanted a woman more than he wanted Lady Calliope Manning. Strike that—Calliope, Countess of Sinclair.
His wife.
How surreal it seemed. Today was a day of victory. The culmination of the battle he had waged with her. He had won. But she was not about to surrender. He knew that much. Strangely, he found the notion of her fighting him erotic as hell.
Mayhap that was why lust was crashing over him like waves on a storm-tossed sea. That, and her lips. They moved over his, soft and hard at once. He could almost taste her rebellion. He remained still, allowing her to kiss him, waiting for her to retreat.
But she did not.
Instead, she kissed him harder. Deeper. She was the one in control.