“Brute,” she spat.
“Unfair.” He spoke to her lips. “We’ve barely touched.”
“Perfectly fair.” She grasped the edge of the table. “You are using your size as an advantage.”
“And you used sensual wiles for the same.” His button nicked the bare part of her arm—just below her sleeve and above her glove. “As a gentleman, I promise never to call you the proper name for that kind of person, whether you give me permission or not.”
“My acting like,” she swallowed, “a hellion does not forgive you acting like a brute.”
“Is hellion the word you’d choose?” He snorted. “Very well then, hellion, you’ve deprived me of sleep. You’ve deprived me of food.” His eyes flashed as he leaned in. “And you played me for a fool.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t assume”—she bent back—“you know more than anyone else in the room.”
He cupped her jaw with one hand. “Perhaps you shouldn’t assume I am a scoundrel with dishonorable intent.”
“What do you want, Lord Bromton?” The question held more breath than she’d intended. “I know you want something, and I don’t believe it is me.”
Isn’t it?His eyes asked the question as his thumb burned a line across her cheek.
“And,” she said, “stop falling silent just to make me breathless and confu—” She ceased abruptly. “Breathless and angry,” she finished.
With his free hand, he worked her cap far enough back to release a single lock of hair. “For now, all I want”—his cheek brushed against her forehead—“is the courtesy of an answer.”
She blinked. Furiously. Her eyelashes brushed against his hot, unforgiving skin.
“Did you ask a question?”
“I asked if you play often,” he murmured.
Was he referring to billiards? “No.”
“Who taught you to play?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not.” His breath shuddered. “So long as—from now on—you play only with me.”
She closed her eyes. She wasn’t certain what was happening. However, just because a handsome, heady-smelling, hard-bodied marquess demanded exclusive rights to her billiards, did not mean she was obligated to comply.
“Is my consequence so grand you cannot hold a simple conversation?” he asked.
“I taught myself to play,” she said, raising her chin. His hands followed. “I can’t say I derive much pleasure from Carambole.”
“How odd.” His hum came from his groin. “I just discovered a great deal of pleasure I never knew in the game.”
She blushed and looked away.
“Red,” he said, lifting her lock of hair, “in the right pocket.” He tucked the strands back under her cap. “Three points for me.”
He rubbed his cheek against hers. The sensual slide of skin against skin felt depraved, more so than anything she’d ever experienced. The hardness against her belly was nothing less than sin.
Primal seduction, on whole, executed by a man who admitted he had not, and likely could never, love.
“Lord Bromton,” her voice cracked, “my life is not a game.”
He conceded a paltry inch of space. “All of life is a game,” he replied. “A game you have ceased to play.”
“I play.” She ignored the fiery sensations racing through her chest. “I play by the rules.”
