A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"Coin?" she suggested.

Her smirk coaxed fury into his blood. That little smirk of self-righteousness. He hadn't seen it for a long while, but it had graced the faces of many of his peers ten years before. "I don't need coin to have you," he snapped. "You can claim modesty, or whatever the hell reason you want, but we both know I don't need coin. You want this, Lady Denmore, just as much as I do."

Blood rushed to her face. She started to speak, but Hart cut the air with his hand. "You may mock all you like, but your words are nothing more than a shield, and a paltry one at that."

"Wanting something doesn't make it—"

"Oh, but it does for someone like you. You are not in the business of restraining yourself. You do what you like, and you will do this too."

"I won't." Her jaw trembled, but there were no tears in her eyes.

Hart moved toward her and watched her back away. Her hips hit the carved edge of the heavy mahogany table; sev­eral coins slid from her pile and clanked into each other.

"Why do all this?" He eased closer. Her fingers gripped the wood. "Just for money? Why not simply marry?"

"I-I won't marry." Her knuckles turned white as her lips flushed a deeper shade of pink.

"Why not? You already married for money once, though it doesn't seemed to have helped much. Or did you lose his fortune at the tables?"

She shook her head. He'd reached her full skirts now; the pretty fabric pressed against his black trousers. Hart stood stock-still and looked her over. She looked so clean and fresh, completely out of place in this room that smelled of whisky and stale cigars. She looked like morning, like innocence stolen from a garden and set down in hell. He was over­whelmed with the urge to make her match her surroundings.

"Lady Denmore," he whispered, listening to the way her breath rushed from her throat. Her breasts pressed high with every pant. She wasn't frightened. She was aroused, nearly as much as he, thrilled with the heat of his anger.

"Lift your skirts," Hart rasped.

"What? No. I—"

"Do as I say. Lift your skirts."

She shook her head again, but she could hardly breathe now, her panting was shallow and far too fast.

"Your dress," he ordered, and her hands sank slowly to the soft muslin at her thighs. She grasped the fabric and pulled her skirt up to her calves, and Hart's cock swelled to a glori­ous ache. Blood rushed low to bring all his nerves to scream­ing life.

"More."

She jumped a little at the harsh word, but her hands obeyed. She lifted the skirt higher, then shifted her grip to pull it higher still. Hart saw the plain tops of her pink stock­ings, and then the smooth skin at the inside of her knees. Then her thighs. By the time he saw the lace edge of her drawers, Hart's legs were weak.

He reached for her waist and lifted her gently onto the table.

"I won't be your lover," she protested, but her hands clutched the lapels of his gray jacket.

"Oh, I'd never take you here, like this." He curled one hand around the back of her cool neck and pulled her closer. "Actually, I would. But not the first time. The first time I won't risk being interrupted. Spread your knees," he added, deliberately echoing her own scornful words.

She spread her knees wider and Hart moved between them.

"Somerhart. . ."

"Call me Hart. And I. . ." He lowered his mouth to hers. "I will call you Emma." Her mouth opened, her tongue licked out to meet his. Lust burned through him, sensitizing his skin. He kissed her deep and hard until her knees clutched at his hips. She kissed him even harder, worked her hands under his coat to dig her nails into his ribs.

The woman was fighting a rough battle with herself and knew that she would lose. Hart recognized denial. He'd lived with it for a decade, and he could just as easily recognize the fissure

s and cracks of weakness in her will. He was here, after all, despite his bitter words about scandal and pride. He'd fought himself and lost, and he'd be damned if he'd grant any mercy now.

He took a handful of her skirts in his hand and pulled them higher. When he touched her thigh, she was already trembling, shaking in anticipation of his touch. Hart let his fingers spread, let them experience the texture he'd won­dered at. Oh, yes, her muscles were tight beneath that soft skin, straining. He bit her bottom lip gently before he broke the kiss. "Tell me what you want." He stroked higher, ran his thumb back and forth at the edge of her drawers.

"No," she sighed.

He slipped his hand beneath the warm fabric and rubbed over the softest skin he'd ever felt. . . surely the softest. His fingers brushed damp curls. Emma gasped.