Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,21

lust and swallowing his pain. But he had never placed his lips on theirs.

He sucked on Lady Evangeline’s plump lower lip, then kissed the upper bow before pressing his mouth to the corners of hers. Now that he had begun, the urge to kiss her everywhere—to kiss her ceaselessly and never cease—rose, mad and strong within him. Her scent enveloped him. Ripe apple and honey-sweet woman.

He allowed himself further liberties, though he knew he ought not. His tongue slid past her parted lips to stroke against hers. Tentatively at first, and then with greater ardor when she responded in kind. The carnal wetness sent a new arrow of lust directly to his prick. The need to be inside her was so potent, he almost surrendered and picked her up in his arms to carry her to the nearest bedchamber.

However, though he thought he had rid himself of his conscience long ago, the bastard insinuated itself in the next moment, reminding him he could not go on kissing Lady Evangeline Saltisford. Her lips had never been his to take. She was a lady, quality, the innocent sister of Dom’s wife, by God. He had to stop himself now.

Summoning every bit of his inner strength, he tore his mouth from hers. But still, though he knew he should thrust her away from him, put as much distance between them as possible, the rest of him did not want to let her go any more than his mouth had. His hand was still on the curve of her waist, the other cupping her cheek.

Let her go, you daft prick.

Her eyes were dazed and wide, dark. Her mouth the deep-red of crushed berries. She was the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld, and he wanted her with a ferocity that could have crushed his soul if he believed he still possessed one.

“Your lesson,” he forced himself to say.

Then stepped away. Releasing her. His hands balled into fists at his sides to keep from touching her again. He was not the sort of man a woman like Lady Evangeline Saltisford wanted. Not the sort she would ever accept. Whatever madness had propelled her into suggesting kissing lessons from him, she would regret it.

She would regret him.

Just as Cora had, and Cora had been no fancy lady, no duke’s daughter. Ladies did not want bastard Winters unless their hands were forced, as Lady Adele’s had been. She might have gone soft and given her heart to Dom after the fact, but Devil knew the truth for what it was.

“I am afraid that was not good enough.”

Her voice shook him from his thoughts, bringing with them a stinging sense of confusion. She did not think his kiss was good enough? Is that what the baggage was telling him? He could not believe his ears. Nor his eyes.

“Not good enough,” he repeated, aware his voice resembled a growl more than anything.

Lady Evangeline Saltisford brought out the worst of him, it seemed.

Before him, she transformed, shoulders going back, defiance radiating from her along with that cool elegance she had. That duke’s daughter boldness.

She held his gaze, keeping him trapped more effectively than a man thrice his size. “I require more instruction, Mr. Winter.”

Milady had returned.

He did not know which urge he ought to obey first—the one to kiss the chill from her mouth or the one to turn her over his knee.

Neither. That was the correct answer to such a troublesome question. To such an impertinent female. To a lady who tested him and tempted him in equal measure. By God, if this nonsense kept up, he was going to have to seek out Dom. Someone else would have to play the guard for milady. Blade could do just as well as Devil. He was the one who had killed to earn his bread until finding Dom and Devil.

“More instruction?” He glowered at her, summoning all the force of his fury, that rage he had kept carefully within himself all these years.

But this slip of a girl scarcely took note. She certainly showed no sign of fear.

“Surely you cannot deem what just transpired adequate.”

There she went again with her duke’s daughter words.

“Seemed fine when you moaned into my mouth, milady,” he told her cruelly. Cuttingly.

Still, she showed no sign of retreating. “Why do you call me that?”

“You’re a lady.”

“You say it with such bitterness,” she said. “You run it together. Never Lady Evangeline. Nor Lady Evie. Always milady, as if you are delivering an insult instead of paying