“…You know I’m not good, August…”
But it should have been her use of his given name. Only two women had referred to him so. One whom he’d had to insist upon, the other who did so with the same ease she breathed.
The exquisitely disguised temptress he’d been lusting after this night was a bloody McQuoid.
Oh, irony was alive and well.
“It occurs to me,” he said silkily, “that you either came this evening for a tryst with your husband-to-be, or for one last thrill before you find yourself the most envied duchess of all.” His gaze never left Meghan’s face. “Or you came knowing your life was about to become even duller and more predictable than ever before and wanted a real man between your sweet thighs.”
Culross caught her delicate wrist mid-slap.
A berry-red blush stole across the swells of her bosom. Her chest rose and fell fast for his viewing pleasure. Her eyes blazed with righteous fury. He noted it the same way he noted a storm cresting at sea—impressive, inevitable, and ultimately manageable.
Keeping his grip firm but unhurried, he lowered her suddenly limp hand. “Uh-uh. Have a care.”
Meghan’s body shook. Fear lay plainly beneath a defiance braided tightly with desire. “Forgive me,” she said. “That was in bad f—”
He turned her wrist inward and pressed a measured kiss to the delicate flesh. Without breaking eye contact, he traced the faintest sweep of his tongue over the place her pulse betrayed her—and then, he gave her a small suck.
Meghan’s breathing faltered. Her lashes dipped, slow.
Ah, how nicely she responds to me.
Culross closed his teeth briefly over that same spot, a restrained reminder, nothing more. At least it wasn’t intended as more. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He released her at once.
Meghan backed away even faster. She snatched her hand to her heaving chest, inadvertently drawing his gaze lower—and holding it there, where it had never lingered before. On the delicate swells of her breasts.
That oversight he corrected now.
He inhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
Her low, heart-shaped bodice framed olive skin from a summer tan long since faded. Miss Meghan McQuoid-Smith bared her skin to the sun.
The sheer silk netting, drawn taut, revealed the tempting hollow between her breasts. He wanted to shred that silk with his teeth. Tear the inconvenient fabric free so he could have his hands on her silken flesh.
He exhaled once, hard. It didn’t help. His cock responded better than his judgement.
He skimmed his gaze over the generous scattering of freckles.
Where else did she wear those tiny flecks? A decadent thought rose of licking, kissing, and nipping the path they made over her body.
His jaw tightened.
His body hardened with shocking—and irritating—immediacy.
Culross clasped his hands at his back. “I had thought you could not be improved upon.” He passed another—this time quick—once over. “I stand corrected.”
“A compliment from you, other than how well I throw or how fast I run?” She sank into an insolent curtsy. “I amtouched, August.”
“You know nothing about being touched, love.” He chose his endearment with precision, one he’d never used.
A mysterious smile danced at the edge of her lips.
Culross narrowed his eyes. He was not the fool to take her hook. On the other hand, he was enough of a blackguard to let her believe she held the upper hand.
Meghan sidled closer, her lavender scent curling through him.
