The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,41

away. Glancing at Simon to ensure he still slept, she hissed, “You’re only interested in the game, in teasing me.” She went to jump off the table. “Forget the wager; forget it all.”

His broad body held hers in place, thigh-to-thigh, an area of forbidden intimacy and pleasure, his startling amber eyes meeting hers as his breathless sighs batted her cheek. “If I do this, Temple, really do this, we’ll be lost. I have a feeling”—he took her hand and tapped her knuckles against his chest—“I’ll be lost. And I can’t. I won’t get lost with you.”

She dipped her chin as tears, for the blasted second time this evening, pricked her eyes. “With your thousands, how could you possibly know?”

“My thousands meant nothing. That’s how I know.”

She struggled to straighten her skirts, untangle their bodies. She would never speak to him again after this debacle.

He swore harshly. “Remember you asked for this, you little hellion.” Hooking his hands around her waist, Sebastian lifted her from the table and to the floor as if she weighed nothing. Without comment, he took her hand, tugged her across the room and out the door. He murmured unintelligible words as they stalked the deserted hallway, gaslight flickering inside their sconces with their rapid passing. Entering the first parlor they encountered, he hustled her inside, kicked the door shut and pressed her against it.

At last, she thought, the last rational one she’d have for hours.

His arm circled her waist, the other climbing, fingers delving into her disheveled strands as he slanted her head and seized her mouth, drawing down on her bottom lip and sucking before diving in fully. His lips were parted this time, his tongue inviting hers to play. He no longer pretended disinterest. Instinct had her following his lead, parrying each thrust with one of her own. Rising on the tips of her boots, she gorged on a man she’d wanted since she’d seen him standing in Hyde Park, looking bemused and oh-so haughty. So English and so not. With a glint in his eyes, a melancholy shimmer she’d recognized.

Seeing that emotion, that particular one, had made all the difference in the world.

The frenzied joining melted her anger and his resistance, raw need pulsating between them in a languid, glorious wave.

In the end, it wasn’t a kiss. It was an onslaught.

And the duke had stated the situation correctly; Delaney would never be the same.

A blaze erupted in the hearth, the crackling noise shattering the silence, but neither of them shifted, halted, cared. She only hoped he didn’t torch the mantel and the elaborate crest branded into the wood that she’d hoped to inspect.

He braced his forearm on the door above her head and moved his lips to the spot behind her ear that had elicited a strong reaction earlier. “How long?” Sucking skin between his teeth, he released a spent, moist breath against her neck. “Your talent?”

She gasped and reached to cradle his cheeks, dragging his mouth to hers. “Since forever,” she whispered and touched her tongue to his, wanting to kiss, not talk.

He sank back in with a groan of defeat, the fire hissing, a clock ticking. His scent, leather and lime, filling her with every breath. Sebastian’s lips trailed away on another adventure, this time nipping her jaw and diving lower. “The chronology?”

She purred a vague reply. Yes. Her nipples tightened, painfully aroused as she struggled to get closer, a teasing abrasion against starched cotton while the wish that he was shorter or she taller bounded through her brain.

She dipped her arm between their bodies, set on exploring. His hand caught hers when she reached his waist and brought it to the door, where he held her trapped, pinned. “The chronology,” he murmured against her lips. “Why would you give it to them?”

She arched into him, a scalding press from chest to knee. He was hard all over, a wondrous mix of rippling muscle and mottled scars. A long, lean, impressive body. A work of art, when most men were ordinary creations.

Chest heaving, he reclaimed her mouth and pulled her under again, a ferocious battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His fingers clenched around the wrist he held imprisoned against the door. Reaching, he grabbed her other arm and drew it over her head, creating tension like a wire had been strung from her toes to her neck, and he’d tugged at it. They were, for one moment, nothing but a collective heartbeat. Sparks flickered behind her lids, helpless tremors racked