Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

“Merely saying they could be even better.”

Anna tried to spear him with a daggered look, but feared that amusement was dulling its edge. “Really, sir. No novelist likes to hear that her prose leaves something to be desired.”

“Your prose is delightful. I am simply trying to expand your knowledge of the subtle details of lovemaking.”

“I suppose I must defer to your greater experience in the matter.” Anna slanted a glance at the door. “However, what you suggest is too…dangerous.”

“I distinctly remember you saying that a lady ought to be a little dangerous.” Devlin leaned in again, this time to feather a kiss down to the base of her throat. “Besides, Emmalina is more than a little dangerous.”

“I’m not Emmalina.” Her hands, however, seemed to disagree. They crept up the front of his coat and set on the slope of his shoulders. “Well, not really.”

“You don’t sound very certain. I think, perhaps, we ought to engage in a spot of character development. Isn’t that what authors do?”

“But—”

Devlin pulled away and in the space of several heartbeats he rebolted the door and returned to her side. “I doubt that any of the castle servants are as proficient as we are in lock picking,” he murmured as he gathered her into a more intimate embrace. “Now, what page were we on?”

“I—I don’t know. I seem to have lost my place.” Anna swallowed hard. “I think we must start a new chapter.”

“Ah, an excellent suggestion.”

Do I dare?

The Inner Saint was warning that nothing but trouble could come from unleashing untamed passions. While the Inner Sinner was urging that caution—along with all the cursedly confining rules of Society—be cast to the wind.

“I’m not Emmalina,” she whispered again, hoping that voicing the reminder aloud would help her resolve just who she really was.

Devlin pressed a kiss to her brow. “The Creative Muse might have an argument about that.”

“I—I can’t think straight when you do that,” protested Anna.

“Sometimes it’s best not to think, but to simply trust your feelings.”

“But primal passions can be so very dangerous.”

She felt his mouth quirk against her skin. “Ah, that word again.” A note of humor shaded his voice, along with a softer undertone she couldn’t quite define. “You must decide for yourself how much risk you are willing to take.”

For a ruthless rake, he was acting with surprising gentleness. As if, in spite of all his predatory wiles, he was just as uncertain as she was about what scene ought to be written on the page.

Passion—their actions would be inscribed in indelible ink. There would be no chance for revisions, no crumpling of the paper and starting from scratch.

“Lord Davenport…”

“Devlin,” he murmured. “Given the fact that we know each other’s intimate secrets, formality seems a little silly.”

“Devlin.” His name, like his kisses, felt nice on her lips. Anna slipped her hands beneath the lapels of his coat and let her fingers explore the muscled contours of his shoulders. “For an indolent idler, you are surprisingly strong.”

“I have my weaknesses. They are what most of Society sees.”

“Why is it that you hide your talents under a haze of brandy and reckless behavior?”

“You, of all people, ought to know the myriad reasons for that, Anna,” he answered.

“Yes, but I’ve always thought that for a man, it’s different.” She liked the way he felt. The hard chiseling of his shape was softened by a pulsing warmth. Drat the thin linen of his shirt—she itched to feel his skin against hers. “You are allowed to pursue your passions in every form.”

“Only lowly peasants work with their hands,” said Devlin in reply. “That I wish to refill the family coffers through the sweat of my own labors would be even more shocking to the ton than your plying the pen of a published author.”

They locked eyes.