Never Kiss a Rake (Scandal at the House of Russell 1)

“No.” He moved around to the side, a cloth and a bar of sweet-smelling soap in his hand. “Let’s wash the rest of you.”

She sat up, so quickly her arm went into a painful spasm, so quickly the water slopped lower, exposing the tops of her breasts. “I can wash myself.”

“I’m sure you can. Are we going to have a wrestling match? Because I intend to win, and I don’t mind getting wet.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he said, and she felt the bar of soap brush against her collarbone. “Close your eyes, Bryony. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I know you don’t. But right now you’re injured and you have no choice.”

He was right. His hand was moving lower, over her stomach, and she realized he’d skipped her breasts entirely, thank heavens, except they were tight and aching and she wasn’t quite sure why as his soapy hand traced leisurely circles on her stomach. He moved closer, his other hand behind her back, supporting her, and she let herself lean into him, letting him touch her, giving in to the pleasure of his hands.

His hand slid lower, brushing against the soft hair between her thighs, and she jerked for a moment, then calmed. What could he do to her in a bathtub, for heaven’s sake? And why would he want to?

And then, to her horror, he moved his hand between her thighs, touching her intimately, and she let out a strangled cry, arching up.

“Hush, sweetheart. I know, it’s unfair. But the problem is, I can’t resist you. I’ve been trying very hard, but I’m not the kind of man who’s made for noble sacrifice, and I think I’ve about reached my limit.”

She opened her eyes to look at him, aroused and frightened and longing. “I don’t…” she began

, knowing she should protest, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “I don’t think…”

“Don’t think,” he said, and covered her mouth with his, swallowing her arguments, as his fingers delved deeper. She jerked against him, startled, and the water splashed up against them, but he simply held her still with one arm around her shoulders, cupping her neck with his hand, while he began to rub against her sex, sliding in the deep, warm water, slippery, seductive, moving inside her, and she arched her hips against his hand, reaching for him, wanting more of him, letting him do whatever he wished, as shameful as it was.

It didn’t feel shameful. She couldn’t understand the heat building inside her, the fierce, gnawing need that was taking over, filling her with raw wanting. She’d seen lust in Kilmartyn’s eyes, and she wondered what it would look like in her own. Because this was the only possible explanation for the powerful longings arching through her body, the only possible explanation why she slid her tongue against his when he kissed her, why she didn’t fight against him, but fought to get closer.

And then she stopped thinking, only felt, as she gripped the side of the copper tub with her one good hand and dissolved into sensation, a shiver, and then an explosion, and there was water everywhere and she didn’t care, she just hid her face against his damp shoulder and let the feelings ride her, a cataclysm of impure delight that stole her breath, her will, her heart.

“That’s my girl,” he said in a low, hypnotizing voice. He took his hand from between her legs, trailing it up her body in the warm water, moving it to brush against one tightly beaded breast, and she jerked again, squeezing her thighs together as still another explosion rocked her. He moved on, pushing her wet hair out of her face, cupping her chin as she hid against his shoulder and she made a sound of protest.

He laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll give your perfect little breasts the attention they deserve. I’m saving them for my mouth.” She made another sound again, a moan of mortification and desire. “Now I’m going to pick you up, wrap you in a towel, and carry you back to my bedroom. And then I’m going to do a proper job of taking the virginity you lied about, and you’re going to say yes. I told myself I wouldn’t, I’d be a gentleman, but I’m afraid I’m simply too weak to resist you.”

She tried to find her voice, her pride. “No, I won’t,” she managed to choke out.

He smiled at her, a smile of peculiar sweetness. “Yes, you will. Because you want me just as much as I want you. Your mouth may be full of lies but your body betrays you.”

“I don’t lie,” she said weakly.

“Of course you don’t,” he said softly, scooping his arms under her and picking her up, setting her on her feet.

“I’m making you wet,” she said, as he wrapped a towel around her.

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to be in these clothes for long.” He picked her up again, and she knew she should protest, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to go to his bed, she wanted him to take her, show her, love her, even if it was temporary, a physical lie. “And I have every intention of making you wet,” he said.

She knew what he meant—she’d read enough Italian to understand that part of his wicked book, the long list of elaborate techniques to ready a woman for the intimate act. She already felt hot, liquid inside, ready for him, and he carried her through the hallway, into his newly refurbished bedroom.

The gaslights were turned low, the wide bed turned down by one of the maids, and he put one knee on the mattress, lowering her down, pulling the covers over her before he took the towel away. “You’re going to catch a chill and we can’t have that,” he said. “Just lie there and get warm while I start a fire.”

She wanted to protest. She knew she should scramble out of the bed the moment he turned his back, and she knew she wouldn’t. For one thing, her legs wouldn’t hold her, not because of the gunshot wound, but the wicked thing he’d done in the bathing room, turning her every bone and muscle to jelly. For another, she didn’t want to. She wanted to finish this, her one chance at experiencing what most women took for granted. What most women avoided, if she were to believe the stories she’d heard. What women craved, if she were to believe her own body.

The fire had already been laid, and it was the work of a moment to turn it into a warming blaze. And then he turned to look at her. The white shirt was plastered against his chest, and he began to unbutton it in a leisurely fashion, his eyes never leaving hers. A moment later he’d pulled it over his head, and there was nothing but skin underneath, shocking in itself. He reached for the fastening of his trousers, and she turned her face away quickly, and he laughed softly.

“It’s not that terrifying, angel,” he murmured, and she heard the sound of fabric dropping to the floor, his footsteps coming closer to her. “Half the population possess one.” She felt his hand on the covers, lifting them. “Move over, precious. It’s chilly out here. Unless want me to…” She tried to scoot out of his reach, but her arm got in the way and she let out a cry of pain.

In a moment he was in the bed, pulling her gently into his arms, exquisitely careful of her wound. “Poor baby,” he murmured. “I’m a bastard and a half to even touch you while you’re still hurting. We should wait until you’re better.”