Everything in him screamed to take her, then and there. To sink home inside her, and allow their bodies to make the decision for them. But he could not. He tore his mouth from hers, knowing he would end it here this evening. Knowing he must, for both their sakes.
He stared down at her, breathing harshly, absurdly pleased by the contrast of her masculine hat, bound hair, and gentleman’s dress to her full, kiss-swollen lips, dazed eyes, and feminine beauty. “Tell me I am benevolent and without avarice now, my lady.”
She stared at him, silence deepening between them, as she slid her gloved hands from his hair, caressing his face, cupping his jaw. “You are a good man, Duncan Kirkwood. This I know.”
Her faith in him made his chest swell. But she was wrong. He shook his head. “I am not.”
She would learn soon enough who he truly was. A man without compunction. A man who cared for no one else. A man whose goodness had died the day he had seen his mother’s lifeless corpse on the floor when he was but a lad. A man who had seen and endured far too much of the world to ever be worthy of her wide-eyed worship.
“We shall disagree, then,” she said softly.
Damnation.Here she was, his Persephone. And he wanted to keep her, in his dark underworld, at his side. Forever. Something inside him broke open. Jagged shards rained. He was awash in her. In the way she saw him. In the man he saw reflected in her eyes.
But it was not meant to be.
“We shall disagree,” he repeated, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her lips before releasing her and disentangling himself from her touch. “This is your last visit here. Tell me, my lady, what aspect of the club would you like to research for your novel?”
Her gaze followed him as he put some distance between them, glittering. “I want to see the scarlet chamber.”
Beelzebub’s ballocks.
Chapter Ten
In silence, Duncanled her to the chamber where such shocking depravities had occurred the first night she had visited his club. It was not in use for the moment, meaning she could wander through its sumptuous appointments, taking notes as she wished whilst Duncan looked on.
Bereft of its lewd occupants, the space seemed somehow less wicked. Indeed, it was almost as proper as any drawing room, with the exception of the dark crimson wall coverings, immense bed, and shocking pictures depicting nude men and women cavorting. One caught her attention for its ribald subject matter, a woman on her knees before a man, his member in her mouth.
Gasping, she glanced back to find Duncan watching her. His brilliant gaze upon her felt like a caress. In his eyes, she saw the same need that had not stopped burning inside her from the moment he had first set his lips to hers. Each moment she spent in his presence, each kiss, each touch, stoked the fire until it could not be banked.
She was an inferno.
Just yesterday, he had laid his tongue upon her. He had licked her most intimate flesh, had brought her to throbbing release with nothing more than his mouth. The picture and the memory of him pleasuring her made a steady ache throb to life between her thighs. Would it be the same for him if she took him in her mouth?
She wanted to ask, but she dared not give voice to the forbidden words. Cheeks stinging, she turned away from him at last, walking about the chamber and taking notes she knew she would never use later. The research she was currently conducting was not forThe Silent Baron, for she could never relate such scandalous details and hope for publication.
No, indeed. This research was for her.
She noted an assortment of riding crops and whips laid out on a table, varying in length and thickness. Puzzled, she turned back to Duncan once more, only to find he had followed her and stood near enough for her to close the distance between them with a single step. His jaw was rigid, his large body radiating tension.
“What is the purpose of these?” she asked.
He shook his head in slow denial, his gaze continuing to burn hotly into hers. “Such detail should not be included in your novel, my lady. It would be beyond the pale.”
It was a fine time for him to draw a line between the depravities he would teach her about and those he would not, and she was having none of it. “Tell me.”
“Some prefer pain with their pleasure.” Though his tone was soft and low—gentle, almost—it possessed an undercurrent of darkness.
Pain with their pleasure.Shock flared as understanding dawned. The men and women who made use of the pleasure chambers at The Duke’s Bastard reveled in all manner of debaucheries, and apparently taking riding crops and whips to each other was yet one more.
She swallowed against a surge of something inside her, part revulsion, part curiosity. “Do you?”
He did not respond immediately, holding her in the potent thrall of his stare. “I enjoy giving pleasure,” he said at last. “Like gambling, it is something I excel at.”
Yes, he did, and she could attest to that. His words were neither a denial nor an admission, however, and they sent a shiver through her. She wondered how many other women he had pleasured. Did he kiss them all the way he kissed her, as if he was ravenous for her taste on his lips? The heat inside her suddenly cooled. She turned away, putting some distance between them once more.
“I see, Mr. Kirkwood,” she managed to say, gratified when her tone did not waver or reveal even a hint of her distress.
How foolish of her to think, even for a moment, that what they shared was special. For her to think he may have some tender feelings for her just because her heart seemed to swell two times its normal size whenever she thought of him. An icy tendril of despair crept up inside her as she thought of the longing she felt for him.
