Page 38 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

So he kissed her.

He pulled her into his arms and put his mouth on hers. He wrapped her tight against his chest, knew the glorious feel of her breasts flush against his torso, and when her mouth opened, he thrust his tongue inside.

He would have stopped if she’d fought him. If she resisted, he would have stepped back. Thankfully, he didn’t need to. The moment his mouth slanted across hers, she turned sweet.

Her arms, which had been caught spread open, slid up to his shoulders. Her hips, that perfect cradle of womanhood, pressed pillow-soft against his thickness. And her tongue thrust and parried with his.

He groaned as his tongue danced faster. She matched him. He knew she would. And when he would have eased back, she gripped his head and pulled him to the angle she wanted. Their mouths were sealed together, and her tongue pushed at his. She might even be biting down just a bit, enough to add spice as her leg rose against his thigh.

Hot. Hungry.

Lust slammed through him, and his hands dropped to her hips. He hauled her against his groin while throbbing delight rolled through his body. For a glorious time, he lost himself in her. It was the most magnificent kiss, beyond even his fantasies. Except that they were in public. And someone was tugging on his arm. Something was pushing her away, and that someone was a man.

Then he felt it: a sharp whip across his backside. A crop hitting hard and painfully on his flesh.

He pushed Mari behind him as he rounded on the danger. His left hand became a fist while his right drew his knife with a reassuring hiss. He was well into his throwing position, a split second from releasing his blade, when his mind came back to him.

The interloper was not a man at all. He was a boy. Miss Powel’s young groom, not out of his teens, and he had been protecting his mistress, as all good servants did. The boy’s face blanched, but he did not give ground.

“There are people coming!” he said in a squeak. That underscored that this child was not a threat. Neither were the pair of well-dressed gentlemen walking their horses a bare hundred yards away.

Except, of course, they were. They were members of the ton, turning to look at him now with sharp eyes and curling lips. And him, standing there with his fist raised and his blade out. So he threw the dagger.

It flashed in the sunlight as it tumbled through the air. And then it landed—thunk—in the trunk of a tree a few feet beyond their horses’ noses.

“I say!” one of the gentlemen gasped. The other said nothing as he was settling his mount.

“And that, Miss Powel,” Peter said loudly, “is how one throws a dagger.”

He looked back at her, afraid that she would be mussed beyond recognition. Her eyes were gratifyingly dazed, but they cleared quickly enough. Her riding habit was no more out of sorts than expected, given that she’d tumbled into the dirt some minutes ago. And her hair…well, that too could be explained by her fall, though he longed to pull the remaining pins from her curls.

“G-goodness,” she said, her voice wobbling but growing rapidly stronger. “That’s quite impressive.”

He held her gaze and silently asked if she was well. She dipped her chin in a barely perceptible acknowledgment.

Then he turned to the tree and his blade, pretending to be startled when he saw the horses and their riders. “What ho,” he called. “You came out of nowhere.”

“You should be careful where you throw that thing. You could have impaled one of us.”

“Stuck us like a pig,” the other whined. “And then what would we do?”

“Squeal like one, most like,” he muttered under his breath.

He heard a muffled snort and was startled enough to turn. It was Miss Powel, her lips pressed tightly together but still twitching at the corners. Was she laughing? He wanted to see her release her joy, but they were still in public. So he retrieved his knife while giving an apologetic smile to the gents.

“Sorry, what,” he said in his most jolly idiot tone. “I’ll be more careful next time.” Then he waved and returned to her side. Except when he reached for her, she shrank back.

That hurt. After that kiss, to have her pull away was a visceral wound.

“If you are ready, we should mount up again,” he said. Then he held out his hand to her.

She looked at him for a long moment. Was she angry? Resigned? Inflamed? He was all of those things, and a thousand more, all jumbled together with a still-throbbing lust.

“Miss Powel?” he pressed, his jaw clenching against the tide of his emotions.

“Yes. Um, of course. Th-thank you.”

She took his hand. Small, delicate bones engulfed by his palm. He wrapped his fingers around hers and lent her his strength as she mounted. She was trembling, and he ached to soothe her with a caress. A slow draw of his fingers down her flanks, and then, in time, between her thighs.