She stepped closer to him, drawn to his heat. His menace. The urge to shake him was strong. To prove he was not indomitable. “Here is a truth for you, Duke. You want me, and you cannot have me.”
His jaw tensed. “I’ll not fall for your wiles, banshee.”
Banshee.
Yes, for him, she would wear that name. Bridget laid a hand on his chest, absorbing his warmth through her palm. His muscles flexed beneath her touch, reminding her of how strong he was, how capable of doing her harm. Oddly, she felt safe with him. He had shot her, but out of necessity, she knew. If he had wanted to do her harm, he’d had ample time and opportunity by now.
She stared at his mouth, remembering the possession of his kiss. Wanting more in spite of herself. “But you already have, Your Grace.”
Those beautiful lips lifted into a smirk. “I have done nothing of the sort.”
“Prove it,” she dared.
Before she could blink or even take the next breath, his mouth was on hers, his hands cupping her face, his lips demanding her complete and utter surrender. She had no defense against his onslaught. Her arms went around his neck, undeterred by the dull pain in her wound, clutching him closer to her when she should have used the opportunity to take action. Strike him. Shove him away. Show him his touch and his kiss were both unbearable to her.
But she was his captive in more ways than one, and instead of taking a stand against him, she gave him everything he demanded of her and more. This—their physical connection, the undeniable attraction between them—was the only yielding she would grant.
It had been weeks since his mouth had last owned hers, and he did it again now with hungry skill, opening, forcing her response. She could not remain unmoving. Could not be invulnerable as she wanted to be. Because everything else fell away when his lips moved over hers, when his tongue slipped inside her mouth.
He tasted of the bitterness of coffee and his own indefinable, irresistible flavor. Any ability to think, to question the wisdom of her taunt, was vanquished by his kiss. She made a frantic sound born of greed and desperate need.
She wanted more of him. All of him. Nothing mattered. There was no future, no past. No boundaries, no opposing sides, no danger, no destruction, no fear or loss. There was only seduction and sin and this glorious man, and all her stuttering mind could think was that she never wanted it to end. Even if he was the Duke of Carlisle and her sworn enemy.
She must not forget who and what he was.
Be stern, she admonished herself.Be strong, Bridget. You can find one hundred other men to kiss if you choose.
Ah, but that was the problem. Her stubborn, ridiculous, wrong heart only wanted to kiss this one. The cold, hard, heartless duke. Her jailer. The author of her downfall. The man who would send her to prison.
Somehow, not even that last, jarring reminder stopped her. She was kissing him back, tongue inside his mouth now, fingers in his hair. The Duke of Carlisle’s hair was smooth and thick. Some wildness within her prompted her to grab fistfuls and give it a gentle tug.
A growl emerged from him, and he kissed her harder, guiding her backward until she met the wall. He pinned her there, his mouth traveling down her throat. He found her wildly thrumming pulse with his tongue. And then, his fingers were upon the fastenings lining the bodice of her gown, plucking each button from its placket. Beneath it, she wore no corset, nothing but a fresh chemise. Her breasts spilled into his palms and he cupped them as her nipples stiffened into rigid peaks.
She could not stifle the moan that escaped her. His touch robbed her of the ability to think. Resistance was no longer an option if indeed it ever had been. Instead, she arched into him, her mound connecting with his thigh, separated by only three layers of fabric. The friction felt good. It felt freeing. But something within her also felt taut. Exquisitely tuned. She was an instrument ready to be played.
And without her needing to speak the words aloud, he somehow knew. He dragged her chemise down, exposing both her breasts to the air and his scorching admiration. His dark head bowed, and he sucked her nipple into his mouth. She had never before been touched so intimately. Indeed, it had never occurred to her that a man would do such a thing. In her world, a woman’s breasts existed to suckle babes, and certainly not for pleasure but this…sweet Lord and all the angels above…this was…oh.
There did not exist a word for it in the English language. At least not one Bridget knew.Faoi dhraíocht.Spellbound. Her body was a spring, tightly coiled. She was hot and pulsing. Aching and needy and ready. Each ravenous drag of his mouth upon her nipple sent an answering undulation of something wicked and wonderful to her core.
She made the grave error of glancing down at him, of watching his handsome face nestled against her breast, his teeth gently nipping and tugging, his tongue swirling over the hungry pink flesh. It was the most erotic, exquisite scene she had ever beheld. His hand was beneath her skirts now, fingers tracing a path of sensation up her thigh. He found the slit in her drawers with unerring certainty.
A gasp tore from her. He skimmed her seam once, twice. Thrice. Parted her folds, dipped inside to find the bundle of flesh that ached most. Where she was desperate for him. For more. For release.
All the while, he continued to suck and tease her nipples, alternating between breasts. When he stroked her, she jerked, white-hot sensation rocketing through her. His forefinger moved, the pressure glorious, the rhythm intense, the friction everything she wanted. Wanton and desperate, needy and voracious, she lifted her leg, hooking it around his waist. He obliged her by making short work of the cumbersome fall of her skirts with one hand while continuing his torturous pleasure with the other.
It was too much.
Not enough.
It was everything she had never known she wanted and needed.
She bit her lip, stifled her cry, too proud to admit how much she wanted him. To concede she had been bluffing. That she longed for him. That she had to have him. Only him. It mattered not who he was, who she was. She was an animal, consumed by her base lust. By the sensations he evoked in her, by his finger on her slick, swollen flesh. Working her. Making her come undone. Winding her up. Building the pleasure until she could take no more.
She required him. This. He was air. He was life. He was…
He rubbed her harder, increasing the pace and pressure. And just when she was about to lose herself completely, he tore his mouth from her breast and kissed her. It was a kiss that plundered. That ravaged. That took and transformed. That shook her to her very core, and she never wanted it to end.
A few more deft swirls of his fingers over her flesh, and she was lost entirely. She was his. At his mercy. Ready. Her eyes closed, head falling back to the plaster with a thump. But just when she was about to splinter into a thousand tiny shards of herself, he stilled.
