with drink and good company and Decker’s collection of erotic art, she had never been far from his mind.
He feasted upon her lips now as if he could devour them. And the darkness within him wanted to. He wanted to tear her virginal night rail off her luscious body, carry her to his bed, and fuck her all night long.
But she was likely sore, and he could not treat her as if she were no better than a common strumpet. Instead, he would have to settle for kissing her. And for making her come. He wanted her in his bed again tonight, and Decker could go to the devil. Nothing was going to stop him from taking what he wanted.
Taking what was his.
Her lips moved, kissing him back. Her tongue glided against his.
Her head drew back, ending the kiss before it had properly begun, a frown marring her forehead. “You taste of whisky.”
“How do you know what whisky tastes like?” he demanded, though he knew he should not be surprised.
His new wife was no ordinary English rose. She wore trousers and had been painted in dishabille by Moreau.
“In the ordinary way,” she returned. “By drinking it.”
“I had some whisky after dinner,” he admitted.
And before dinner, as well, but she need not know that. He was not a souse, and he did not often over-imbibe. Indeed, the last time he had done so had been in the wake of Celeste’s death over a year ago.
“You had dinner and whisky with your friend,” Callie said, emphasizing the word. “Whilst I remained here alone, uncertain whether or not you would return?”
“Jealous, love?” he asked, unable to refrain from taunting her. In truth, he had supposed she would be relieved to be rid of him.
After all, she hated him, even if her body responded to his quite well.
She bit her lower lip. “No. Of course not. Why would I be?”
He groaned. “Stop torturing your lips, woman.”
Her frown deepened. “I am not yours to order about.”
“You are mine now, and if you do not cease nibbling at your lips, I will have to give them quarter the only way I know how.”
His cock was ridiculously hard. He ought to have drowned himself in whisky. Perhaps then he would not be so desperate to be inside her again.
Before she could say anything, he kissed her. Why was she so irresistible? Why could he not keep his distance? Exercise some restraint?
She had spent the previous night in his bed. He would be lying if he said he had not known a stab of disappointment when he had entered his chamber this evening and found she was not waiting for him. His reaction to her did not make sense, and he knew it. He had shared a bed with lovers before her. There was nothing special about the act, about the woman.
And yet, he had found her presence oddly comforting. Pleasant.
He kissed her with bruising force, wanting to punish her for the way she made him feel. But all he succeeded in doing was heightening his own desire for her. She kissed him back with equal abandon, her tongue gliding foraying into his mouth. Good God, he was not sure which of them was teaching the other a lesson.
The need to pleasure her rose within him, surpassing all else. Consuming him.
He released his grip on her tempting derriere and scooped her into his arms, intending to get her into his bed before she could attempt to escape him. Her mouth jerked from his, ending the kiss.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Put me down at once.”
He made it to his bed in three strides. “As you wish, princess.”
Sin tossed her lightly. Manhandling her was pathetically easy—she was so damned small compared to his hulking frame. She landed in the center of the bed with a feminine squeak.
“I am not…giving you husbandly rights this evening,” she protested, scrambling to her knees.
She intended to put up a fight. He was not surprised. Anticipation jolted through him. The hem of her night rail was trapped around her thighs, baring her knees. She was creamy perfection. Not helping his cockstand to abate at all, that sight. Her hair was a wild, dark halo of riotous curls around her face, streaming down her shoulders and back.
He remembered how it had felt in his fingers, silken and cool. How it had felt wrapped around his fingers, too.
“Calm yourself, Callie,” he told her with a composure that belied the fire coursing through his veins. He