all due respect, that’s my father you’re talking about.” Isis placed her glass on a spindly table with a sharp click. “We’re asking you to pick up the phone and make one call. If that’s beyond your capabilities, the name Magee still holds some weight. We’ll get what we need with or without you.” Her teeth ground together, and she held on to her temper by a thread. Her response was knee-jerk, probably rude and uncalled-for, but her father’s situation was already a sore spot for her without this sanctimonious man casting aspersions.
“The first time you bring a woman home, and she’s not only American, but as uncouth as her father. Congratulations, James. You have once again sunk to meet my low expectation.” If his tone could have gotten any icier, it would have frozen half of England in one go. “I’ll make a phone call. Roberts will see you out. I’ll tell your mother you stopped by.” His expressionless eyes flickered from his son to Isis. “Miss Magee.” The Earl of Kilgetty turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
THREE
That went as well as could be expected,” Thorne muttered wryly, opening the door of the taxi almost before it came to a full stop in front of the house. Isis threw him a hot look before getting inside and slipping silently across the seat. He slid in beside her and gave the driver the address of their hotel.
“I’d apologize and claim His Lordship wasn’t himself, but that’s exactly who he is, and neither of us makes any pretense otherw—”
Isis shocked the hell out of him when she flung her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were moist and warm, slightly parted, and more comforting than lustful. But Thorne had enjoyed that encounter with his father even less than she had, and if she was offering comfort, he wasn’t a man to turn down such an enticing offer.
Whatever the reason, he hadn’t been the one to make the first move. There was absolution there.
Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in, angled his head, and feasted on her with deep, greedy kisses, like a drowning man gasping for air in a monsoon. She gave back in equal measure, gripping both hands in his hair, pressing against him as she dived right in with verve and enthusiasm.
Adrenaline surged through him, and he was already hard. Unbuttoning her jacket, Thorne slid one hand inside, cupping the small, heavy weight of her breast. Her nipple was hard through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, and she arched her back to press her breast hard against his fingers. She whimpered as he rubbed his thumb over the hardness, feeling the pucker of the areola through the thin satin of her bra and toying with her nipple. She shifted beside him, her tongue dancing with his, her teeth scoring his lower lip, sucking on it until he thought he’d come right there in the back of the taxi.
His dick pulsed, and he pulled her across his lap without breaking contact. The vibration of her moan, low in her throat, went through his body like the hum of a tuning fork. Her fingers tightened in his hair. He cupped her arse, pulling her hard against where he needed the pressure. It didn’t help—made it worse, in fact, and more unbearable.
Combing his fingers through her silky curls, Thorne held her head steady as he invaded her mouth. The taste of her drove him mad. Lemon cookies and cola. Comfort and reprieve. He skimmed his other hand under her T-shirt to the softness of her midriff, just above her jeans. Her skin was like rose petals, cool and impossibly smooth.
The kiss was wild and bordered on rough. It was the kind of kiss long-term lovers shared, not the touch of two virtual strangers.
His fingers slid under the thin barrier to find bare skin. Thorne had never in his life been so aroused at the mere touch of a woman’s breast. The feel of her bare skin made him want to strip her naked so he could see all of her. The weight of her breast fit his hand as if made for him. Her sweet breast rose and fell erratically in the cup of his fingers. Thorne was stunned at his visceral reaction to her. Yes, God yes, he was physically attracted to her. He wasn’t made of stone. But there was something more—what the Spanish called la ñapa