All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue(82)

            She folded her hands in front of her. “Then we are at an impasse, I fear.”

            His hands opened and closed at his sides as though he were restraining himself. She watched in bemusement. She knew he would never harm her. It wasn’t in him to be cruel or violent.

            He made a low growl of frustration and swung away from her, marching toward the door, stopping and turning back for her, and then stopping again, his hands still working at his sides as though he were tempted to grab something—her—and shake it.

            She watched him at war with himself. He couldn’t control her and it was gnawing at him. She smiled, feeling inordinately pleased with standing her ground as he unraveled. All because he could not get his way. It was gratifying.

            And then he caught her expression.

            He stilled, looking suddenly dangerous. And that made her nervous. She knew that expression . . . knew what came after it.

            Her smug smile slipped, uncertain whether she should run. She held out a hand as if that could ward him off . . . even as a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. What are you running away from? You want him. You’ve always wanted him . . .

            Three strides and he caught her up in his arms. His mouth smothered her cry, hard and punishing, but so delicious. She had longed for this. Every night as she lay in her bed, listening for his tread, she had yearned for this. She couldn’t lie to herself anymore. Not with his mouth fused to hers. Not with his solid length molded to her.

            His hands held her face and then traveled, touching her everywhere. Her hands had minds of their own as well, brushing his cheeks, his shoulders, dragging down the front of his jacket, and then dipping inside, desperate to feel him better.

            He did not break his kiss even as he shrugged out of his jacket with anxious, jerky moves. Then his arms went around her, sweeping her against him and lifting her off her feet, carrying her to the bed as if she weighed a feather.

            They didn’t say anything. They were just mouths and tongues and hands. On the bed, he flipped her over. Face pressed to the counterpane, her breath escaped in noisy pants as he ran a hand slowly down her spine, squeezing her bottom through the folds of her gown. She groaned, arching shamelessly into his touch.

            He seized her hem and tossed her skirts up around her waist. Cooler air caressed her stocking-clad legs and seeped inside her drawers. He circled her ankles in strong fingers and guided her legs apart. Breathing heavily, she looked over her shoulder, her breasts heaving against her bodice, the fabric chafing and abrading against her over-sensitized flesh.

            Max looked wild and rakish, his brown hair falling over his brow, his shirt bare at the throat, a hungry gleam in his eyes as he surveyed her like a feast to be devoured. His hands roamed over her hips and thighs, and then glided between those thighs. He touched her the way he knew would get a response, rubbing against the damp crotch of her drawers, finding that spot that drove her out of her skin. The friction was unbearable and she pushed back against him.

            Suddenly his hands left her. She whimpered, bereft and aching at the loss. He unbuttoned her gown, shrugging it up her torso and over her head with quick efficiency. Her undergarments followed.

            Then he was rolling her over again, his big hands on her breasts. She cried out, surging into his palms. His gaze scorched her, assessing every exposed inch of her as his thumb rolled her nipples. If his hands weren’t driving her out of her mind, she would have felt self-conscious.

            And then there was his mouth again. That splendid, brilliant mouth of his could kiss a nun into submission. When his lips covered hers there was nothing gentle or easy about it. It was fire and need . . . as hot and heavy as lava pumping through her veins.

            His hands moved over her quickly, roughly, callused palms rasping her sensitive flesh, and she reveled in it. In the way his cobalt-dark eyes tracked over her hungrily as he stripped off the rest of his garments until they were both naked. His hands and mouth followed the path of his eyes, burning caresses, stroking and tasting with his lips, tongue, and teeth until she was arching and moaning, her fingers spearing through his hair and hanging on like he was her lifeline.