Her soft little moan together with the erotic, wet sounds of sucking threatened his iron-clad restraint.
She is a bloody McQuoid. His enemy. She and all her traitorous family.
He’d be damned to allow her any power over him.
“Au-August, please.”
The minute she begged, Culross came off the digit with a loud pop.
She jerked like she’d been struck.
Culross touched his nose to the right corner of neck. “Why are you here, sweetheart?”
The frantic flutter at the hollow of her throat called to his mouth, a silent plea he fully intended to answer. “Because…I…because…”
He saved her from further stammering. “Not with me. I’m all too happy to entertain you.”
As long as it pleased him.
“I referred to Rutland’s.”
The lady stayed dug in.
“Hiding from your betrothed, Miss Smith? Not that I blame you.”
She stayed tight-lipped.
What would it take to break her control this time?
Chuckling wryly, Culross fetched a cheroot from inside his jacket.
As he made a deliberate walk to the metal brazier, Meghan’s gaze followed him.
“I thought McQuoids married for love.” He touched his rolled paper to the flame. “And yetyou, MissMcQuoidSmith”—he raised his cheroot to his lips—“sneaking here on your own, and Hartwell tupping a pair of wenches doesn’t strike me as a love match.” Culross took a draw and exhaled a smooth cloud of white from the side of his mouth. “If you’re this miserable before you take the wedding march, love, it promises to be a very,verylong, miserable life in front of you.”
She pursed her lips; her fuller lower one jutted slightly out. How good it would feel to have the mischievous minx with her delectable mouth wrapped around his length.
At her silence, Culross arched a brow. “Nothing to say, hmm?” He took another pull.
A rush of color flooded the lower portion of her face. “I didn’t detect a question in any of that,” she said tightly.
“No.” Culross finished off his cheroot. “I suppose none was needed.”
Tired of her restraint, he tossed the folded scrap on the floor and stamped it with the heel of his boot. The lady was unflappable.
And she’d soon belong to Hartwell. He stiffened. The bloody pompous duke would have her. The bloody Tremaines.
Desire roiled with hate.
Culross trailed the tip of his index finger along the underside of her jeweled mask. He followed the line of her cheek to the tip of her pert nose, then lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path to the edge of her lush lower lip. He lingered there.
With measured precision, he ran the pad of his finger along the pillowy-soft flesh.
“You want me, Meghan,” he taunted softly.
The lady’s body yielded. The fight left her and a tell-tale sigh caressed his hand. “M-my, what an inflated opinion you have of yourself, my lord.”
Culross leaned in closer, until their lips nearly touched.
