it tight.
His gaze sought the particulars first, the lithe length of her legs, a tiny peek of a tawny nipple through gauzy silk, the dark, seductive shadow at the apex of her thighs. Reclined upon his bed like some sort of modern day Salome, wrapped in swaths of diaphanous gold silk and smiling with coy promise. Mary Chase. In his room. Ruining the sanctity of it.
He swallowed twice before his mouth worked. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Revenge, if he had to guess.
Her smile grew, and little dimples broke out on her cheeks. He wasn’t aware that she had dimples. Jack mentally shook himself and tightened his grip on the knife. His blood pounded through his veins, straight to his cock, damn it all.
“I asked you a question,” he said when she didn’t answer.
With her usual grace, she rose to her knees, and that thin fabric shifted, lovingly caressing her slight curves. “I should think that obvious, Jack.”
Jack? He wasn’t aware that she even knew his first name. He didn’t trust her an inch and would rather face a full-turned werewolf or a blood-starved demon before he touched her. But he could look. So he let himself, doing so with insolence, lingering on places that made him go hot. “I knew you’d have superior tits,” he drawled, hoping she’d slap him and get out.
She only smiled and slithered out of the bed, heading toward him. His skin grew tighter, hotter. Piss and shit, she was going to touch him. He backed up a step but halted when she grinned at the movement.
Her low, caramel-thick voice drifted over him. “I am tired of fighting, aren’t you?”
“Not particularly.”
Her cinnamon spice perfume surrounded him before she did. “I do wonder, Jack, why you deny what is so plain to see.” Slim, hot arms wrapped about his neck, and soft breasts pressed against his chest. He forced himself to look down into her eyes. Those wide, golden eyes could beguile a man in an instant. They gleamed now, not golden but her more human light brown. Petal soft lips touched his ear. “Why you don’t take what you want.”
“Because I don’t want you.” He didn’t. His insides twisted from being this close to her, but his body didn’t seem to care.
As close as she was, she felt the reaction, and a soft chuckle rumbled against his skin, making it twitch. “Liar.”
It wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She was too compliant. Too easy. A shiver of warning, touched with icy fear, lit down his spine an instant before her palm cupped his cheek, and she drew his mouth down to hers. Cold, dead. He reared back, a shout bubbling up, but iron-hard hands held him fast as a tongue snaked into his mouth and down his throat in a river of white-hot fire. Into his belly, tearing into his soul. And then he was screaming.
The heavy weight of silk satin settled upon Poppy’s shoulders, and she resisted the urge to squirm. There were worse things than getting trussed up in a dinner gown, she was sure; she just could not think of them at the moment. The color of a pink rose in bloom, the gown Mary Chase laced her into was inarguably beautiful. Held up by sleeves that were thin enough to be called straps, the low squared-off bodice did surprising wonders to Poppy’s meager bosom. And while the style of the day, according to Daisy and Miranda, was to adorn one’s dress with as much frills and laces as possible—thus giving a woman the appearance of a flower, which really made Poppy want to roll her eyes—this bodice was utterly smooth and devoid of ornamentation. For which Poppy was thankful. The skirt, however, was another matter.
Mary gave the bodice a final tug, and Poppy expelled a pained breath as Mary moved on to fuss with the gown’s more problematic area, namely the overskirt, with its numerous drapings, train, and whatnot. Bloody hell, but there were so many yards of undulating pale pink that Poppy could barely feel her own legs. They’d been smothered.
In an effort not to panic, she smoothed a hand over the tight waist of her bodice and glanced down at Mary, whose mouth had a decidedly unhappy pinch about the corners. “You are certain that you do not want to join us for dinner?” Poppy could not give an apple in Eden about the rules.
“No, mum.” Mary fluffed the overskirt, her nimble fingers making certain the draping rested