A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

One eyebrow arched. “Ruin you?”

Her cheeks were on fire. “I’m not in the habit of negotiating—”

“Pleasure?”

“I can finish my sentences, thank you,” she snapped. “Over our acquaintance, I’ve come to realize that I’ve missed… experiences. Experiences that you’re uniquely placed to provide.”

This time she couldn’t mistake the unholy laughter in his eyes. “I feel like I’m applying for employment. Should I supply references?”

She didn’t smile. “I’ll never marry so no husband will begrudge me a few kisses from a handsome scoundrel. And I trust your discretion.”

For one aching moment, she wished she could trust more than his ability to keep his mouth shut. He kept his mouth shut now, just when she wanted the devil to speak. She’d blithely imagined she’d agree to kiss him and he’d leap like a frog to a mayfly.

“Mr. Evans, this is how a conversation works. I speak and you respond,” she said crossly.

That disconcertingly perceptive gaze focused on her. “I’m thinking.”

He refilled both glasses and started on his meal. Genevieve drank a little more champagne, hoping it might stop her stomach twisting into knots. It didn’t.

Eventually the suspense became too much. “God forbid I force you into anything distasteful,” she sniped.

He smiled faintly. “I can’t enter into a carnal arrangement with a woman who calls me Mr. Evans.”

“It’s not a carnal arrangement. It’s a few kisses.”

The smile intensified several degrees, as if he contemplated deeds beyond an innocent’s imagining. “Kisses can be carnal.”

Oh, dear Lord. A thrill shivered through her as she recalled his mouth ravaging hers. “Will you kiss me?”

“Will you call me Christopher?”

“Must I?” A sly smile lifted her lips. “It’s such fun watching you steam when I call you Mr. Evans.”

She’d been teasing him? Richard slammed down his glass, sloshing wine over the rim. “You little witch!”

Panic flared in Genevieve’s wide eyes as he surged forward, caging her between his arms and legs. “Be careful!” she cried as the boat rocked.

“What’s my name?” He snatched her champagne, spilling it over her bosom as he shoved the glass carelessly behind him.

“Mr. Evans,” she said defiantly, sliding up to sprawl against the cushions like some Oriental fantasy.

“Indeed?” He did what he’d wanted to do since she’d removed her deuced becoming coat. He kissed the slope of her breast. Champagne added exquisite piquancy.

“Mr. Evans!” She flattened one trembling hand on his chest. Through his shirt, her touch seared like a brand.

“For shame, Miss Barrett.” He resisted the thundering urge to rip away her bodice. Instead he ran his lips up her neck to the nerve that set her quaking with response. “Permitting such liberties to a man with whom you’re not on first-name terms.”

“Mr. Evans, you’re too demanding,” she gasped, arching into him.

He studied her from beneath lowered lids. “Shall I stop?”

“Stop?” She spoke the word as if it made no sense. Her eyes were hazy with sensual confusion.

He bared his teeth. He was too edgy to manage a smile. Which for the unflappable Richard Harmsworth said a great deal. “What’s my name?”

He wondered why the hell he was so set on this point. After all, Christopher wasn’t his real name. But in the war they waged, his Christian name signaled her surrender.

“You’re so stubborn.” Need darkened her eyes.