Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,37

we were having whisky,” he said quietly.

Marissa nodded and went to the sideboard. “I’ve only one glass.” The words were husky. “We’ll have to share.”

The sound of the whisky splashing in a glass met his ears before she turned around and came back toward him. She held out the glass, tilting the whisky against his mouth for him to drink, then took a mouthful herself.

Trent watched her swallow, wanting to taste the whisky on her lips.

He shrugged out of his waistcoat before sliding the cravat from his throat. “You have good taste in whisky.”

Marissa’s mouth parted slightly, the pink of her tongue flashing between her lips. “So I’ve been told. My nephew sent it to me.”

Taking a seat on the ottoman before the fire, Trent relieved himself of his boots before his fingers slid to the buttons of his shirt. His eyes never left hers as he tossed the sodden garment over his head. Once everything was laid before the fire, Trent stood and faced her. He was nearly naked, and Marissa hadn’t yet objected.

He undid his trousers, peeling the damp fabric down over his hips.

“I—” Marissa blushed furiously again, something Trent found endlessly enchanting. She stared at his chest, her fingers fluttering as if she wished to touch him and was afraid to do so.

“Marissa.”

Taking a deep breath, she looked up to meet his eyes. The motion strained the fabric of her bodice, pushing the tops of her breasts against the modest neckline of her dress. Water dripped from the edge of her skirt to the floor, dampening the rug.

“My dress,” she said, her breath hitching. “Is wet and—”

Trent shucked off his trousers to stand naked before her. “Take it off.”

11

She was only human. And Haddon had just disrobed while she watched.

Completely.

And he was bloody magnificent. Every inch of him. A thrill ran through her, fingers twitching, remembering the feel of all that lovely muscle and warm skin pressed against hers.

There was no doubt of Haddon’s intentions as he stood before her in the privacy of her small parlor, a place she had never brought any previous lover. Poor Enderly hadn’t made it past the drawing room.

Her eyes flicked below Haddon’s waist where his intention jutted in her direction.

Arousal snapped and curled between her legs, suffusing her entire body. There was no use any longer at pretending she didn’t desire him. Haddon would see through the lie in a matter of seconds. Dear Lord, her nipples were poking through the wet material of her chemise and gown, something he couldn’t fail to notice. Haddon wasn’t blind.

Haddon was like a hurricane, whipping about Marissa with such intensity he left her dizzy and breathless. It pained her to know her feelings for Reggie paled dramatically compared to Haddon, as if she were betraying her late husband somehow.

He’s just a dalliance.

She tried to cling to her paltry dismissal of him, told herself that this was only a casual encounter brought on by the weather and his heroic exploits in the rescue of her hat. He’d been marvelous climbing up that tree. There wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t want him in her bed after such a display.

Haddon crooked a finger in her direction. “Come here,” he purred.

Drat.

Marissa obeyed without thinking, taking a step toward Haddon, unable to take her eyes from his naked body, his skin painted gold from the flames licking up the supple lines of his hips and torso. She approached cautiously, determined to stay in full command of her wits. Laughable, under the circumstances.

“Lift them.” He nodded to her skirts. “Petticoats and all.” The words rasped against her skin.

“What—?”

He waved his hand up. “Do it, Marissa. Lift them. Now.”

Heat erupted again inside her. With shaking hands, she lifted the hem of her wet skirts, exposing a great deal of her silken-clad legs . . . among other things. The warmth of the fire glanced off her thighs as Haddon reached out to trail a finger from the side of her knee up her thigh and into the soft hair of her mound. His finger ran along her crevice, exploring the already moist flesh, gaze fixed firmly on her face, daring her to look away while he touched her.

The caress of his finger was light, barely more than the pressure of a butterfly alighting on a flower.

Moisture seeped between her thighs and she bit her lip. “I—”

“Shh. Don’t move,” he whispered before pressing an openmouthed kiss to the slope of her neck.

Marissa clutched the fabric of her skirts tighter. She