The Last Hellion (Scoundrels 4)

“You wouldn’t have a prayer if you did,” he taunted.

She brought her arms up, holding them at strange angles, while her body began swaying side to side, like a cobra preparing to strike. Her hair was coming undone, tumbling about her shoulders. It was a glorious sight, and he ached to tangle his fingers in it. But he could not let his mind wander. She had any number of tricks in her repertoire, and she was devilish unpredictable. Not to mention quick.

He waited, bracing for the strike, wondering where it would come from, and aware she was playing with him, staying in motion to distract him while she waited for an opening.

He caught it half a pulsebeat before she moved: the merest flicker of a glance downward. Her skirts hitched up as her foot shot out, but he moved in the same instant, spinning to the side. The miss threw her off balance and she started to topple. Reflexively, he reached for her—and pulled back an instant before her outthrust elbow could connect with his groin.

“Sweet Jesus,” he gasped. He was not so much winded as stunned. If he’d been an eyeblink slower, she would have had him singing High C.

He waited, braced, not daring to relax his guard, even though she’d turned away and was working her way through the standard list of profanities.

“That’s three tries, Grenville,” he said. “My turn now.”

She swung about to face him. “What happens if you—when you fail?” she demanded.

“You get another three tries. Then I do. Until one of us wins. The winner gets what he wants.”

And I’ll make bloody damned sure you want what I want, he added silently.

She folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Very well. Do your worst.”

He eyed her up and down, assessing her as she’d done him. He began to circle her. She stayed where she was, only her head turning as her wary gaze followed him. He paused close behind her.

For a long moment he simply stood there, making her wait, building tension. Then he bent and lightly traced with his parted lips a meandering path from her ear to her creamy cheek. “So soft,” he murmured while he let his fingers skim down her arms, drawing them away from her chest and down to her sides. “Your skin is like rose petals.”

She inhaled sharply. “That’s one,” she said, her voice strained.

He brushed his cheek against hers. “I love the scent of your skin.” He drew his outspread hands ever so lightly—barely touching the fabric—and slowly down over her lavish bosom to her waist and lower still, to gently press her belly, drawing her back against him, her lush derriere just touching his trousers front, under which his rod eagerly swelled for business.

Her eyes closed and she swallowed. “That’s t-two.”

He did nothing, letting the moment stretch out while he remained still, his cheek to hers, his hands resting on her belly. His touch remained light, only enough to keep her in place and inescapably aware of his aroused masculinity and its heat.

A tremor went through her.

Still he waited. It was killing him, but the hot tension was working on her as well. He could feel it, the struggle within her, intellect warring with feeling, abstract principle fighting for supremacy in a nature fiercely physical and sensual.

She squirmed, ever so little, pressing just a fraction nearer.

He brushed his mouth at the corner of hers.

With a little moan, she sank back against him, turning her head for the kiss he teased her with.

He teased her still, letting his lips play lightly and lazily over the soft fullness of her mouth.

Her hands covered his, holding him to her.

“That’s three,” he said thickly. “Your turn now.”

“You beast,” she hissed. “You know I can’t fight you.” She tried to turn to him, but he held her where she was, letting her sweet rump torment his loins.

“Ah, no, not so quickly, dragoness.” He nipped her ear and crushed her closer. “I had planned to go easy on you—this being your first time and all—but that would be patronizing, wouldn’t it? You’re not afraid to fight me—and not shy about where you aim, I noticed. Delicacy would be wasted on you.”

He lashed one arm ’round her waist to keep her against him while with his free hand he undid the long parade of buttons.

He pulled the frock down to her waist. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, trapping her arms.

Soft, creamy flesh beckoned from the borders of petticoat and corset. He made a carpet of hurried kisses over the fragrant skin behind her ear and down to the nape of her neck and over her shoulders. She shivered.

He undid tapes and hooks, released her arms from the sleeves, and pushed the frock down over her hips. It slid to the floor, making a rumpled heap at her feet. He nudged her to step out of its tangle and went immediately to the corset, his fingers working swiftly at the lacings. The stiff garment at last gave way, sagging to her hips. He drew it away and tossed it aside.

He swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He let go, dropping her on the mattress. She swore, but before she could scramble up and strike him, he fell upon her. He dragged his fingers through her hair and held her while he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, fiercely.

She struggled but a moment before yielding, as she always did, as she ought to understand by now she must do.

“No annulment,” he growled when at last he freed her mouth. “No someone else. Ever. So put it out of your mind.”

“You idiot.” Her voice was husky. She grasped his shirt front and pulled him back to her. She took her revenge, her ripe lips smoldering against his, her tongue stirring a devil’s brew inside him.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, his mouth clinging hungrily to hers, his legs tangling in her petticoats.

He pulled up the skirts of the frothy garments and groaned as his fingers touched stocking and traced the sleek outline of her thigh. Inches above the garter, there was only warm, silken skin…all the curving way up to the wicked arc of her rump.

Her utterly bare naked rump.

“Sweet Jesus.” His voice was a thick whisper. “Where are your drawers, you hussy?”

“I forgot to pack them,” she said in suffocated tones.

“Forgot.” It was the last articulate word he uttered, the last clear thought he had.

With a low, animal growl, he pushed her off him and onto her back. It took him but a few feverish seconds to tear off the last of his garments. Before they reached the floor, he was untying the ribbons of her petticoat’s bodice.

The neckline gathe

rings loosened and he pushed the fabric down. Her skin was as pale as moonglow, a miracle of softness and lavish curves. He drew his hands down over the creamy swell of her breasts, let his thumbs play over the pink buds, taut even before he touched them.

With a soft cry, she arched up, pushing against his hands, reaching for his shoulders, even as he bent to take one rosy pearl into his mouth.

Her fingers tangled in his hair to hold him to her while he suckled, drawing helpless little cries from her that made his heart drum and his insides tighten and ache.

He stroked down over her belly, felt it tighten under his touch. But the petticoat’s fabric tickled his skin. Impatient, he pulled it off and flung it away. He made himself pause to drink in the sight of her, so perfectly formed, his beautiful amazon. Then he let his hands and mouth touch and taste boldly, and reveled in her hot answering caresses, in the soft sounds she uttered, of surprise and pleasure.

She’d been made and meant for him, every velvet-smooth, dragon-scented inch of her. And, as his fingers stole into the soft mound of curls between her legs and he felt the tiny recoil, he found her ready for him.

She was already damp, passionate dragoness, and his first gentle caresses in that intimate place had her squirming against his hand.

In his power. Under his control. At last.

He’d wanted to bide his time, pleasure her into madness before he pleasured himself. He’d wanted to make her wild and helpless. He’d promised himself that he would, that he’d make her beg, and he had more reason now, after what she’d put him through this hellish day.

Her quick, hot answer to his touch burned up all those promises and wishes.