Another flick, then another, until her arse was a beautiful shade of pink.
Tossing the crop aside, he found the heat of her sex, and slid a finger through her hot, slick folds. He leaned in and licked a path up the length of her nape, to the lobe of her ear, then nipped. She drew in a tight breath and shifted, inching her thighs wider, giving him better access.
“That’s it, love. Give yourself up to it.”
He didn’t know what his plan had been precisely—he’d mean to torment her, to make her pant and moan with the promise of pleasure—then walk away, never truly taking her virtue. Now, he wondered if he could walk away. Her little breaths, the way she subtly arched her body into his, heated his blood, made his cock swell painfully.
He wanted her. Christ, he needed her.
She tilted her head back, exposing the smooth, creamy column of her neck. “You intend to claim your prize here, now?”
It would be so easy. She was ready, her core slick with desire. He could free his cock and be inside her in three breaths, pumping his seed into her sweet, lush body. For two years he’d dreamed about it, and now here she was—wet, ready for him.
He took a step back, reluctantly allowing his hand to fall way. Her skirts fell back into place, drawing a veil over those glorious thighs. She turned to face him. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides—resisting the urge to pull her back into his arms and kiss that shocked and slightly desperate look off her beautiful face.
Two long years ago, she’d played him for a fool. Now it was his turn to walk away.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and mounted his horse.
“Good day, Miss Dewhurst.”
* * *
Olivia watched in a sort of haze as Adam mounted and galloped away. She blinked several times, her blood still humming from the spark of his touch. What in heaven’s name had she allowed him to do?
Now, away from the heat of the moment, she was appalled by her own depraved behavior. One touch and she’d melted in his arms. She might be poor, destitution taking what few shreds of dignity she had left, but she was still a lady of breeding.
With a steadying breath, she righted her bodice and smoothed her hands down her skirt. She swallowed. She could still feel his big hand gripping her breast as his crop cracked against her backside, leaving behind a delicious sting that had vibrated through her entire body.
She glanced at Chocolate, grazing on a patch of grass at her feet. “You treacherous beast. Thanks to you, my virtue now belongs to the most devilish man this side of London.”
But he wouldn’t collect his prize, surely. He’d come very close just minutes ago, and the more she considered the situation, the more she was convinced he’d only meant to tease her, punish her for jilting him two years prior.
Yes, that’s certainly what it was.
She had nothing to fear from Adam Rycroft. Nothing in the least.
Chapter Three
You look positively wretched, my man.”
Adam lowered himself into the chair across from his friend and host, James Leventhorpe, and scowled. Since leaving Olivia earlier, he’d been in a vile mood. Revenge should feel more victorious. Instead, he felt like a cad. That confused, slightly wounded look on her face had done something to him—affected him on a level he couldn’t quite identify. His desire for revenge, his resentment, had melted away the moment she’d turned those wide green eyes in his direction.
“I am quite well; rest assured.”
James took a sip of his brandy and quirked a brow. “Who’s the lady?”
Adam stared into the fire, watching the red-hot flames lick the air. “Am I that easily read?”
“I’m married, Huntington. I know the look of a tormented man. The scowl, the rigid posture, the distinct air of defeat.” He nodded. “A woman’s work, most certainly.”
There was little he could conceal from James. Perhaps it was his utter lack of civility, but the man had an unnatural gift for ferreting out the truth. He could press an issue until his target was damn near suicidal. It was a gift, surely. The War Office could use a man like him.
“Miss Wood has been trailing me all evening, if you must know.” It was a half-truth, at least. Annabelle Wood was the reason he’d escaped the parlor for the sanctuary of James’s study. She’d pestered him all evening, to the point of unveiled aggression. “She insists upon boring me with a list of her wide and varied accomplishments.”
“Take care, my man. That one’s been on the high ropes for you all season. And when a woman has her eye on a target, there’s little God or man can do to persuade her otherwise.”