Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,1

and much more exotic looking than any gentleman born and bred in Derbyshire should be.

“I’m no longer a young girl,” she reminded him needlessly, acutely aware of her age in comparison to his. Marissa decided she was a novelty to him—a thrice widowed older woman from a notorious family conveniently trapped, as he was, at a boring house party. Still, she found it strange to feel so insecure. Marissa Tremaine—she still thought of herself as such and not as Lady Cupps-Foster—was the daughter of a powerful duke. She was rarely intimidated by anything or anyone.

“No. You aren’t.” Another sharp pull of the sheet revealed the tops of her nipples. “I find you to be well-aged. Like a giant wheel of cheese. Cheddar, perhaps. My favorite, as it happens.”

Marissa giggled. “You equate me to a fine cheddar? I think I’d rather be compared to French wine or brandy. Even a good cider would be preferable.”

“Ah, yes, you do possess a delicious aroma now that I think of it.” He nuzzled the side of her hip. “I wonder if you taste as good as you smell?” The dark head disappeared beneath the sheet. A moment later the heat of his mouth traveled down one thigh, nibbling at the hollow of her knee as he moved between her legs.

Dear Lord.

Haddon made her forget everything but him, which was why she’d awoken this morning with a large, naked male snoring next to her. He was a rake, or at least he had been before he was widowed. She suspected that behind the veneer of doting father to his rambunctious girls, Haddon still was.

His teeth nibbled the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and Marissa’s body jumped in response.

A wicked laugh came from beneath the sheet.

On principle, she avoided rakes, even reformed ones. Having wed two of them, she knew how much trouble they could be. Haddon might well be worth the difficulty though Marissa had no intention of finding out. A brief dalliance during a tedious house party to alleviate their mutual boredom was acceptable, but Marissa knew she couldn’t see him again. Even if he hadn’t been significantly younger, Haddon possessed the ability to make Marissa feel things she’d rather not. There was a reason she kept her relationships limited to gentlemen who would not stir a lick of emotion in her.

Not so with Haddon.

As he nipped his way up the inside of her thigh, Marissa arched back, feeling the response of her body, when she should have been pushing him out the door. Haddon was demanding in bed, taking control of Marissa and her pleasure with breathtaking intensity. Her past lovers were not so robust in their attentions, only mildly satisfying her before taking their leave.

Haddon insisted on Marissa’s response. Devouring her until she was limp and draped over his chest. He’d done so at least three times last night. She could grow used to such treatment.

And Haddon.

Her mind rebelled instantly at the thought.

As soon as he’d taken her in his arms to dance last night, Marissa’s entire being had seemed to fold around Haddon, the sense of belonging to him and with him so terrifying, she had almost refused when he insisted on sneaking into her room.

I haven’t felt such a thing since Reggie.

Reggie, the father of her youngest son, had been the only one of her three husbands Marissa had actually loved. His loss had been devastating, leaving her adrift and grieving for years. Recovering from his disappearance and restoring her independence had taken great effort.

I can’t go through such a thing again.

Her fingers twisted in the sheets of the bed as Haddon’s ministrations sent small pricks of bliss rippling across her body. The pressure built slowly from the teasing pressure of his tongue until Marissa found herself rocking her hips into his waiting mouth.

Dear Lord, but he was skilled.

Haddon reached up with one large hand and palmed her breast, the callouses on his fingers adding to the sensation. Seeking out her nipple, he rolled the peak between his thumb and forefinger as his mouth moved against her. Haddon carefully drew out her response until a tortured moan escaped her lips.

An insistent rap sounded at the door. The doorknob twisted.

No. No.

Haddon flung one of her legs over his shoulder, spreading her wider, unconcerned that someone clearly sought entrance to her room.

A fist banged against the wood.

“I don’t need my fire lit,” she said in a strained voice, cursing the efficiency of the servants at Brushbriar and their determination to perform