and pushed forward. Though he still held her fist, it was easy to see how much more stable this position was, locking right up to her elbow. “Why are you teaching me to hit you?”
Brodie chuckled, his anger fading. “I suppose because it is adorable to see you attempt to be feisty, lass.” He sobered. “Though if you truly want to hurt a man who means you harm, lift your skirts high and kick him in the bollocks.”
“His . . . Oh, good heavens, I could never—”
Brodie cupped her chin. “If a man means to harm you, you must not hesitate to defend yourself. Men talk about fighting fair, but men who win fights keep their mouths shut and do what they have to. Remember that.”
Lydia bit her lip, and Brodie wanted more than anything to sweep her onto his lap and nibble that lip himself. Brodie took in her dainty nose, the heavy fall of lashes that swept down over her cheeks each time she blinked, and the soft natural rose in her cheeks that blended with her creamy skin.
It brought back a dim memory that seemed more like a dream to him. It was of his mother in the kitchens, dipping fresh strawberries into clotted cream. She would hand each of her children a strawberry, and he, his brothers, and Rosalind would enjoy the treat with her. It was one of the few happy memories he had of his mother before she died.
Brodie wondered if Lydia’s mouth would remind him of strawberries and cream. He reached up to touch her again, and her breath came swifter, her face flushed as he leaned in.
“If you dinna want me to kiss you, you’d best hit me now like I showed you, lass,” he warned and gave her but a handful of heartbeats to decide.
No blow came. Instead, her lashes closed, her lips parted, and in one quick motion, Brodie cornered her against the coach wall and swept her into his arms. His body jolted with heat the second he claimed her mouth. Her lips were warm and trembling beneath his.
This was no bold kiss like the one she’d given him when he’d been tied down. This was the very opposite. She shivered, and her hands fluttered against his body before they settled on top of his chest. Her fingertips dug into the cloth of his bottle-green silk waistcoat. He flicked his tongue against her lips, and she startled, opening to him further. Her sweet taste did indeed remind him of cream and strawberries.
Brodie coaxed her to be bold, and he showed her with his mouth what he wanted most.
“Give in to me, sweetness,” he whispered seductively. “Let me master you, my wild beauty.” He had never wanted so much to control a woman’s passion like he wanted to control Lydia’s. Perhaps it was due to his frustration over the brief time she had been his master, or maybe it was simply that seeing her play a wanton innocent now was bringing out a primal part of him that wanted to own every part of her and teach her all the sensual delights he knew.
He groaned in agonized pleasure and cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss. Her startled little sounds drew his baser instincts to the surface. He grasped her uninjured wrist and pinned it to the padded wall of the coach beside her head, holding her prisoner while he claimed his revenge in kisses.
She was panting, her fast breaths creating a rise and fall of her breasts, and he moved his mouth down to those tempting mounds. Her skin was smooth, and the creamy mounds were as flushed as her face. He wondered if her nipples were the same soft, sweet pink as her lips or a duskier color. He pressed hot kisses to her breasts, wishing her gown wasn’t so tight, so that he might free her breasts completely.
She moaned as he flicked his tongue in the sensitive space between her breasts, and he laughed softly against her skin.
“Ach, there’s so much a man can do with breasts like these,” he murmured, and she only breathed harder.
“What things?” she asked, her words breathy as she wriggled against him.
“Oh, grand, wicked things. Things a lass like you once claimed to ken.” He repeated the flick of his tongue, this time along the edge of her bodice, mere inches from her nipples.