She squealed, curse him. Like a girl.
Gen found more ashes on the floor and tossed them in his direction, before trying to take shelter behind the remnants of a chair. He plucked the chair out of the way and tossed another dark cloud at her. She threw some back. Their efforts turned into a scrabble. They chased each other over the destroyed kitchens, fistfuls of ash being cast into the air.
At some point, Gen found herself laughing. It was ridiculous, a marquess chasing her about the rubble of her kitchens, hurling ashes at her. She landed a particularly fine shot at him, splattering ash on his snowy, elaborately tied cravat. He growled and charged for her.
With another embarrassingly feminine squeal, Gen turned to run.
Two hands clamped on her waist.
“I’ve got you now.” His low voice sent a shiver of anticipation through her, and it had nothing to do with fear.
He spun her about. Her sole defense was to smear her dirtied hands on his cheeks to stay him from his assault. Which she did, to the peril of her common sense.
Because the moment her hands were upon his skin, she couldn’t stop touching him. He was warm, and the connection between them sent a prickle of awareness up her arms, then blossoming, overtaking her. Those sensations landed low in her belly, sending a different heat, like warm honey, trickling to her core.
The levity slowly leached from his face. The dimples disappeared. The air between them burned hotter than any fire. He was going to kiss her. And she was going to welcome it.
Oh, bloody hell.
Who was she fooling?
She was going to kiss him first. And she was going to goddamn love it.
She pulled his face toward hers and rose on her toes. Their lips sealed, and she was lost. His mouth was nothing at all like what she had expected. Warmer, it seemed, than his flesh. Lips full and succulent. Lips she could kiss for days. His fingers tightened on her waist, biting into her tender skin.
And she loved it.
His tongue flicked over the seam of her lips, and she loved that too. So much that she opened for him. This kiss was nothing like any which had preceded it. He licked into her mouth, claiming her boldly. And he tasted of tea and sugar. The slide of his tongue stole a moan from her.
He moved them as one, guiding her until her back connected with plaster. And then, he settled a firm masculine thigh between her trouser-clad legs. She loved that, as well. Loved it so much, she arched into that intruding limb of his. His thigh was against her most private flesh, the place where she was aching and coming to life.
Aye, she loved it.
Loved it far too much.
She sucked on his tongue and kissed him harder whilst she rode that muscled thigh of his. Sparks began between her thighs and skittered up her spine. Her breasts were aching against their binding, the nipples hard and hungry so that each movement she made, leading to the slightest hint of friction, increased her need.
Of their own accord, her fingers moved, sliding into the thickness of his dark hair. How luxurious and silken-soft his mane was. For a wild moment, she wondered what it would feel like everywhere. On her breasts. Between her legs.
She wasn’t supposed to know of such sinful acts. Her brothers had done their damnedest to keep her innocent—first Gavin and then the rest, Dom, Devil, Blade, and Demon. But she was curious. She’d kissed plenty of coves. And she had spent the last few years in a gaming hell. She’d made friends with ladybirds aplenty.
She knew what pleasure a man could give a woman with his tongue. Not in her mouth alone.
But had she not been cured of the desire to experience such wickedness?
No, whispered a seditious voice inside her.You will never be cured. You’re a bastard Winter.
She should have told that voice to go to the devil, but instead, she kissed the Marquess of Sundenbury with renewed determination. She ran her tongue against his. And she rubbed herself shamelessly against his thigh. Rather in the fashion of a feline desperate to be bred.
An instant, shocking thought of the handsome marquess in her bed, atop her, flashed in her mind. He would kiss her everywhere with that mouth that had been made for sin. And she would love that, too. Very much.
He was a problem, the marquess.
She had always known it, before he had even arrived at her hell. But now he was here, and they were covered in soot, kissing each other frantically in what remained of her kitchens, and…
And she could not even be bothered to care about anything else. He was all there was. Sundenbury, his mouth, his tongue, his strength. Other men tried to intimidate with their size. She had known men who were brutes. Her mother’s last protector had been one of those vile sorts. But Sundenbury was simultaneously capable of charming, wooing with his strength, and making her feel wondrously alive.
The problem with the marquess was that she wanted him.
