The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,71
fingernails into his coat and raked them down his skin. He groaned, despite feeling his stomach begin to turn. Her spine arched beneath his hand and he rubbed his aching erection against her, wishing he could transfer just a handful of his passion to her. There were so many ways he could take her, and he didn’t doubt she’d let him be creative. But he wanted her one way and one way only.
Real.
His growl vibrated low in his throat. He caught her hair in his fist and twisted gently until she tipped her head back, baring the pale white column of her neck. Her magnificent breasts rose and fell with each hitch of her breath, as if desire beat a mad staccato in her veins. His own breath came sharply. She was offering herself up to him to use as he liked, and for all that was holy, he wanted to do any number of things to her. But she simply wasn’t there.
Her hooded perusal of him antagonized him. He was naught but a specimen to her. She was evaluating him, adjusting her tack to mirror his emotion. He hesitated, so she hesitated.
He could almost shout his frustration. Instead he kept his voice low. “Do you desire me?” he asked, for kissing her senseless was clearly not going to progress the way he needed it to.
Her rosy lips parted. “You know I do.” Her eyes slowly closed. She drew herself upward, as if to lift her breasts for his inspection. A moment passed. Then another. Her eyelids fluttered open. “Kiss me.”
He dropped her so quickly, she stumbled back. Disgust filled him. How could he want this, this creature? How could he be enamored of a woman who thought nothing of using her body as a tool?
Her bosom heaved. Her arms slanted outward for balance. Her expression was wild, as if she’d finally realized he would never be a victim of his own fantasies. He wanted a real woman, a flesh and blood woman, and he wanted her on fire for him.
He would never bed a succubus. When he had Elizabeth—and he would—she would want him. She would be there.
Chapter Thirteen
HE DIDN’T RETURN HOME STRAIGHTAWAY. He couldn’t. Not with his emotions raging out of control. But he wasn’t sure where to go. Montborne had White’s to retreat to, because he was the marquis. As a prominent Whig, Antony had Brooks’s, and Bart had his friends at the Crown Court to fall back on. Darius disappeared into London’s gaming hells—and look where that had brought him. But Con largely kept to himself. Unless he wanted the mindless chatter of passing acquaintances and total strangers—yes, that was it. Today he did. Anything to keep his mind from the dissolution and frustration roiling his thoughts.
He changed direction and loped to Will’s. His favorite coffeehouse was arguably London’s best coffeehouse, and he would be sure to meet a few interesting characters there who could take his mind off of Elizabeth and the maddening way she pretended to succumb to him.
There he was, thinking about her again.
His repetitive cadence as he tramped through the evening streets improved his mood. Oddly, he saw babies. Everywhere. Even at this late time of day. Most carried by their mothers or nurses, but a few being coddled by men.
Pride surged as he consciously—though not intentionally—ranked the handsomeness and sturdiness of each child against his own son, and found Oliver to be a superior baby by every measure.
By the time he reached Will’s, he had passed two stores with toys in their windows, and was making a mental list of the novelties Oliver would need. A rocking horse, a little ball, a cricket bat—did they make them small enough for striplings just learning to sit up?
As he came upon the coffeehouse, the clatter of cutlery and scattered bursts of laughter escaped through its open windows. Wafting aromas of fresh coffee and hot biscuits made his mouth water, so much so that he barely noticed the cloying, rich tobacco smoke wafting into the street.
He was already halfway to relaxation by the time he stepped through the open door…and came face-to-face with his oldest brother.
He froze, but it was too late to turn back. Blast it.
Montborne had drawn a chair fifteen or so feet from the doorway, directly in line with the entrance. Not that he would have been easy to overlook in any part of the tavern, even if he hadn’t waved Con down from ten paces. For while Con’s and Darius’