Breathless (The House of Rohan 3)

“Get. Out. Of. The. Tub. ”

He was very angry indeed, and she wanted to chortle with glee. Lucien de Malheur, Earl of Rochdale, the Scorpion, the untouchable, who never showed any emotion, was furious.

“Would you perhaps prefer a baby blue?”

She knew the moment she said it that she’d gone too far. He came up to the tub, reached down into the water, up to his elbows in his elegant coat of superfine and hauled her out of the tub with such force that water sloshed everywhere.

Instinctively she fought him, but he was very strong. He simply picked her up, carried her into her dressing room and dropped her on the floor. A moment later the door slammed, plunging her into darkness.

She’d ended up on the rug, and she quickly pulled herself into a sitting position, huddling on the floor in the darkness, hugging herself in the rapidly chilling air as she waited for the sound of the lock.

It didn’t come, and she started to get to her feet. Why did he toss her into her dressing room if she could simply walk out?

And then she heard the sound of a coat being tugged off and tossed on the floor, and she knew she wasn’t alone in the darkness.

“Lucien,” she said in a conciliatory tone from the ink-dark shadows. “I’m sorry I annoyed you. Really, my darling, you have no sense of humor. ” She ended with a little shriek, as he hauled her up, pushing her wet body against the wall, his own pressing her there.

He said nothing, and she could feel his heart beating through the thin cloth of the shirt he wore. His long legs were against hers in the darkness, breeches against bare legs, and she squirmed, accidentally allowing him to move one leg between hers, pinning her there.

He slid his hands behind her head, moving her face forward to his. “Vixen,” he said pleasantly. “You’re lucky I don’t beat you. ”

She held herself very still. She was awash in the feel of him up against her body, between her legs, his mouth so close. She was frightened of feeling that depth of reaction again. She wanted him. She was terrified of the way he made her feel.

“You wouldn’t beat me,” she said in a hushed voice, trying to keep it light. “You know you adore me. ”

“Vixen,” he said again. And kissed her.

She knew he would. Knew this was going to happen, no matter what she said or did. If she pretended she wanted it he would do it anyway. If she pretended she hated it he could still continue. Because he told her he knew her body better than she did, and her body couldn’t lie.

His mouth was hard, angry, and for a moment it hurt. She put her hands on the wall behind her, bracing herself as he kissed her, wanting his hard mouth on hers despite the pain. And then it softened, opened, and his tongue touched hers, and it felt as if all the anger had drained away, and she lifted her hands to his shoulders, clinging to him.

He kissed like an angel; he kissed like the very devil. His mouth was dark and sweet, a memory that roused her in ways that should have shamed her. She didn’t care. His long sleeves were wet against her body, and she reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it free from his breeches.

He pulled it over his head, and then it was his bare chest against hers, for the first time, her breasts pressed against hard muscle and wiry hair. In the darkness he was all around her, and he kissed her again, pushing her back against the wall, and she slid her arms around him.

She could feel the ridges on his back, the cording of scar tissue, and for a moment he froze, his mouth just above hers, and she was afraid, so afraid that he would pull away, that he would leave her.

And then he moved. “I’m a scarred monster,” he whispered in her ear. “And you’re trapped. ”

She pulled her arms from around him, and he stayed very still, waiting, she knew not for what. For her to push him away in horror?

She found his face in the darkness, cradling it with her hands. “You aren’t a monster,” she whispered against his lips. “And you’re trapped, as well. ” She kissed him, on his mouth, his jaw, his neck.

He claimed the kiss then, holding her still for it, pushing her mouth open once more, and she kissed him back, inexpertly, to be sure, but with her whole heart.

He moved his hand down, between her legs, and she could feel the dampness there that hadn’t come from the bath, a dampness he spread around, sliding his fingers inside her, moving up to circle her with the moisture, rubbing, sliding. She wanted him to keep on touching her, and she spread her legs, giving him better access, her hands on his shoulders now, clinging to him.

He made a low, growling sound in the back of his throat, a sound of pure animal need. He reached up and took one of her hands, sliding it down his chest to the front of his breeches.

She hadn’t touched him the other night, had only felt his invasion. He placed her hand on his erection, and she let her fingers move along its length, astonished by how hard, how thick, how big he was.

“Release me,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Unfasten my breeches. ”

She wanted to. The more his hand slid and touched and danced between her legs the more she wanted him there, the hardness that was maddeningly out of reach, and she slid her hands around the waist of the breeches, looking for some kind of fastening, buttons, whatever, but her hands were shaking, and she felt like a clumsy idiot.

“I don’t know how,” she finally confessed, trying to drop her hand.

He caught it, moved it to the side where she felt hidden buttons, and with his hand guiding h