When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,63
think that her letter had gone astray somehow. Or perhaps she was impatient and the reply just hadn’t had time to arrive.
“Messalina?” His dark voice broke into her thoughts.
She looked up. Gideon had leaned his hip against her dressing table and was studying her with a slight line between his brows.
He stood nearly between her legs.
She whispered, “Yes?”
“I…” His expression was serious. “I’m not angry with you, you understand? I’ve always considered you a worthy opponent.” He grimaced. “That’s not quite the word I want, but I think you know what I mean. I admire your intelligence. Your stubbornness.”
“Thank you,” she said gravely, though a part of her was vastly amused by such an awkward compliment, however heartfelt it might be.
He shook his head. “You’re mocking me now.”
“Only a little,” she replied, taking another sip of her wine for fortitude. “Perhaps we’re past the point of being opponents?”
That devastating half smile played around his lips again. “Shall I press for a truce?”
Her nipples were tight and pointed, stabbing at the cloth covering them. Could he see? “On what terms?”
“Oh, I think the terms should come from you,” he murmured, his voice deepening.
She took a breath and wondered when the air had left the room. “Then I ask that you refrain from killing my brothers and be very, very patient with my sister.”
His smile seemed to drop for a moment, but perhaps that was her imagination, for in another blink it was as roguish as ever.
“You bargain hard, madam,” he whispered roughly, “but I am sure I can abide by those stipulations.”
“And if I have one more?” she asked, searching the depths of those black eyes.
“I suppose that depends on what it is,” he replied softly, leaning closer.
She bit her lip and his gaze fell to her mouth. “You will take me to the theater at least twice a month.”
Any other man in her experience, caught in a moment of flirtation, would’ve turned surly at her mild suggestion. But somehow Gideon’s sharp black eyes softened. “Of course. If it would amuse you.”
Actually, she wanted to return to the theater with him so that he might be amused.
Her smile was private.
“But,” he continued as he knelt between her spread legs, “I find I have terms as well.”
He was so close, his hard chest brushing against her soft breasts.
She swallowed.
“Do you?” She held his gaze, though her heart had begun to beat faster.
He nodded. “Just one.”
She found herself leaning closer to him, his breath caressing her lips. “What?”
“A kiss.”
He barely waited for her nod and then his mouth was on hers, commanding and wild. He groaned, deep and loud in the silence of the room, and took her face in his hands, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
She could taste the wine, and she suckled him as if to appease him. She was trembling. How could he make her feel this way? As if she was no longer in control of her own body?
As if she needed something more.
She broke the kiss, gasping, leaning her forehead against his.
“Can you,” she said, her voice shockingly raspy. “Can you take off your shirt?”
He stilled, and for a moment she thought she’d gone too far. That her desire to see his skin—his naked skin—was a bedroom faux pas of some sort.
She drew back and saw that he was staring at her with something like triumph.
He began to unbutton the placket of his shirt, and her gaze dropped to watch, her breath coming fast. He was so close that his knuckles brushed her breasts with every move.
She was wet there in that place between her thighs.
The neck of his shirt parted to reveal black, curling hairs. He came to the end of the buttons and reached behind his back to pull the shirt off.
The farthing on the chain around his neck swung forward.
She caught it in her hand, momentarily distracted. The metal skin-warm. Britannia was so worn, her head had nearly disappeared. A hole had been carefully drilled at the upper edge for the chain.
She looked up. “Why do you wear this?”
He began unbuttoning his breeches, there before her. “No reason.”
He must have a reason, surely? And if so, why wouldn’t he tell her?
As she pondered, he pulled the coin from her hand. Then he shucked off breeches, stockings, and shoes.
She caught her breath.
Gideon was wearing only his white linen smalls now, standing proudly, almost arrogantly. His penis and bollocks hung heavy against the thin cloth.
As she helplessly watched, a tiny dot of moisture marked the cloth.