The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“Royce?” she tried, finding it wasn't so hard to say his name after all.

“Hmm?” His smile told her he approved.

“Margaret wants you.” She blurted it out without preliminaries or warning—even to herself. “She asked me to put in a good word for her.” Pausing, Breanna's brow furrowed in thought. “I should do that.”

Another chuckle, this one husky. “Should you?”

“Yes. And quickly. Because Margaret has a great deal of competition. Apparently, dozens—scores of women—want you.” Even as she spoke, Breanna won­dered who in God's name was saying those things. “Are you one of them?”

Royce's question, uttered with a fierce but quiet in­tensity, penetrated her clouded mind, made it swim even more. Her head dropped back against the bench-top, and she stared blindly into the night, struggling to regain her senses. “Your eyes are that color,” she noted in a whisper. “That same midnight blue. Al­most black. Ebony with a sharp tinge of color—color that makes them all the more riveting. It's hard to look away from eyes like that”

“Breanna.” He was standing in front of her. He caught her arms, drew her to her feet, and tilted up her chin with his forefinger. “Answer my question.”

She wet her lips, felt the coat he'd enveloped her in slip from her shoulders, topple to the bench.

Odd, but she was no longer cold.

“If s not fair of you to ask me that,” she murmured. “Not when I'm foxed.”

“You'd never answer me if you weren't.”

She couldn't deny the truth of that. “You're right.” Stunned, she watched her own gloved fingers reach up, trace the hard curve of his jaw. “I wouldn't an­swer it I also wouldn't do this.” Her fingertips brushed his lips as she'd longed to do before, felt their warmth even through her glove. “Let me ask you the same question, my lord.”

“Royce,” he corrected her, his voice even huskier than it had been before. “A nd go ahead.”

“Royce. Do you want me?”

Sparks guttered in his midnight eyes. “Yes, I want you. You have no idea how badly. More than I real­ized. Much more than I should.” He turned his lips into her palm. “Does that answer your question?” Mutely she nodded.

He kissed the pulse at her wrist. “Then answer mine.”

Breanna felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the punch. “Yes, I want you,” she admitted, intentionally giving him the exact words he'd given her. “You have no idea how badly. More than I real­ized. Much more than I should.”

She saw the triumph flash across his face an instant before he gripped her arms, drew her to him.

“Good,” he said fiercely.

He paused only to lift each of his hands to his mouth, yank off his gloves with his teeth, and toss them to the ground—all the while staring at her, de­vouring her with his gaze.

Then, he crushed his mouth to hers.

If the impact of his gaze was stunning, the impact of his kiss was fatal.

Breanna gasped, clutching at his waistcoat as Royce's lips ravaged hers, possessing her in a series of deep, drugging kisses she felt to the depths of her soul. Their mouths fused, parted, fused again, and this time his tongue penetrated her, awakening her to an intimacy she'd never imagined. She followed his lead, opened her mouth to his, shiveringly accepting his tongue's caresses, then eagerly returning them in a way only the blissful effects of alcohol would allow.

Royce growled deep in his chest, and his arms closed around her with staggering force, pulling her flush against him. He kissed her again, more deeply still, cupping her head in his hands and angling his mouth to allow his tongue deeper penetration.

“Put your arms around me.” He breathed his com­mand into her lips, kissing her senseless while she complied.

Realizing she'd been clenching at his waistcoat to keep from collapsing, Breanna unknotted her fists, glided her palms up the hard planes of his chest, feel­ing his muscles contract beneath the fine material of his shirt. His shoulders flexed beneath her fingertips, and she stroked his neck lightly with her forefinger, lingering there to feel the warmth of his skin.

Royce must have sensed her need, or perhaps even shared it. Another harsh sound vibrated in his chest, and he dragged his mouth from hers long enough to capture her hands in his, yank off her gloves in a few quick tugs. “Now,” he muttered, flinging them aside and bringing her arms back around his neck. “Touch me. Let me feel your hands on my skin.”

Longing welled up inside her, and she gave in to it, brushing her fingers against Royce's neck, then letting her palms discover the corded muscles and smooth flesh.

A jolt of reaction shot through him, and his eyes darkened to near black. “God,” he rasped, stunned disbelief registering on his face. “My God.” He bent to take her mouth again, his arms contracting like bow strings, bringing her up and into him. The thin silk of Breanna's gown did nothing to hide the hardening contours of his body, but rather than freezing with horror and shame, she felt herself melt, soften as if to fit more snugly against him.

The world was spinning out of control, and Breanna never wanted it to stop. She explored his throat, slipped her fingers beneath his cravat to feel the heat of his flesh, then glided them through his hair, savored the silky texture. Her own hair had come undone, she real­ized absently, sighing with pleasure as Royce's hands captured the toppling auburn waves, savored their tex­ture before tangling in them, lifting them away so he could stroke the nape of her neck, the exposed skin of her back and shoulders. God, these sensations were too exciting to withstand—yet unthinkable to abandon.