Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,28

be denied. “However, I do prefer Theo. It is so much more civilized than—”

The final thread of his restraint—frayed beyond repair—snapped. He pulled her near, cupped her face, and lowered his mouth to hers, effectively silencing her.

He was kissing her.

Again.

Mayhap it was wrong. Certainly, it went well beyond the bounds of propriety. But then, so did appearing in a gentleman’s bedchamber in the darkness, wearing nothing more than a night rail. And she had done that. Because she could not bear the distance that had suddenly occurred between them.

A distance which was no longer present now.

Her hands went to his broad shoulders, the movement causing the counterpane to fall to the floor. His lips were firm, insistent, and hot. Moving over hers with an expert precision that made her melt.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing her to open for him. And open she did, on a sigh. There was no way to explain the change that came over her when this man kissed her. She had never imagined the act could be one of such intimacy, that his lips on hers could make her feel such an unprecedented range of sensation and emotion.

Here was what she had been missing from her life, and she knew it now, instinctively. Knew it even as the notion terrified her.

This man.

Theodore Winter. Devil Winter. By any name, her reaction to him was the same. The effect he had upon her staggering. She never would have thought it possible.

But she needed to be nearer to him now.

She was not close enough.

Rising on her toes, she entwined her arms around his neck. She pressed her breasts to the sturdy wall of his chest. Against her belly, a prominent ridge rose, thick and enticing, making a corresponding ache blossom to life between her thighs.

Just as quickly as the kiss had begun, however, he ended it, tearing his lips from hers and thrusting her away from him with such haste she nearly tripped over the discarded counterpane. But his strong hands caught her arms, helping her to maintain her balance. Searing her skin.

She looked down at the sight of his hands on her, and that was when she noticed the ink marking on his inner wrist, one she had previously not observed. Black and shaped like a blade, the mark looked as if it had been drawn upon his skin.

“Steady,” he told her, sounding as breathless as she felt.

She wondered for a moment if he was issuing the command to her or to himself. His blue stare was deep and intense, making her giddy. He released her once more in haste, as if she were fashioned of flame that would burn him.

She reached for him, her fingers tracing over the inking on his flesh for just a moment before withdrawing. “What is this?”

“A blade,” he said. “My sister Genevieve drew it. We all have them.”

How intriguing. Evie had taken note that her sister’s husband also had a similar marking on the top of his hand. It would seem each of his siblings had one.

“Your sister is talented,” she said, taking note of the attention to detail on the hilt of the dagger.

“I cannot help but to think you did not seek me out to speak of my sister,” he drawled, the coolness in his voice making her suppose he was completely unaffected by the kisses they had just shared.

The only sign otherwise was the hint of a flush on his sharp cheekbones.

“You are correct,” she forced herself to say. “I came here to speak with you about our lessons.”

“Our lessons are over.”

She raised a brow, saying nothing.

“That was not a lesson just now,” he bit out. “That was stupidity.”

His dismissal stung, but she was determined. “I want to continue them.”

“No.”

He seemed to forever be telling her that word. “Why not?”

“No good can come of their continuation.”

“Do you not wish to learn to read?”

“We cannot be alone together.”

“We are alone together now,” she pointed out.

“Not for long,” he growled. “You were just leaving.”

But when he moved as if he intended to throw her over his shoulder once more, she danced away. “You cannot remove me, Mr. Winter. I want to speak with you, and speak with you I shall.”

“Damn it, wrap the counterpane around you.”

Why was he so insistent about the dratted blanket? She had not seen herself in the looking glass—the shiner, as he had called it—but she was reasonably certain she looked the same as she always did. Blonde hair, upturned nose, mouth too