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

“I hate you,” she growled, straining against the hands holding her away.

This close, his features were out of focus, making it impossible to read his expression. But she could smell his arousal. Before last night, she couldn’t have identified that hot scent, but now, she recognized that his hunger matched hers.

His voice was hoarse. “I’m that odious rascal Richard Harmsworth. I’m the man you wished to Hades last night.”

“I still wish you to Hades.” She did, as long as he took her with him.

“Then why are you touching me?” His voice vibrated with wild despair as his hands kneaded her arms.

“Don’t you want me to touch you?”

“I don’t want you to hate me more than you do.”

He’d resisted last night—at least at first. Then, as now, he’d struggled to act with honor. The thought shuddered through her, made her realize that he wasn’t a complete swine. Of course he wasn’t. He’d saved her from Lord Neville, and she was almost sure he’d done it with no ulterior motive. Then he’d tried to return her safely to the vicarage.

The chink of light in his dark, dark soul made her more determined than ever. “You talk too much.”

Triumph surged as his resistance faltered. Not that he’d pushed back very hard. He groaned, then kissed her as if he’d die if he stopped. His mouth was searing, heavy, ruthless. None of last night’s control. He seized her in his arms and rolled her over into the soft hay. Dust flew around them, catching shafts of sunlight until it was like being trapped inside the Harmsworth Jewel.

She closed her eyes in elation. How heady to have this powerful, sophisticated man mad for her. His weight anchored her, placed her in the world as nothing else did. Her misery receded. Her anger too. With Richard, with Lord Neville, with her father.

His shaking hands brushed aside her bodice. He plucked at her nipples, shooting hot arousal to her belly, making her moan. He rose above her, shoving her skirts up and stroking her thighs.

Her hands were busy too. Rediscovering the hard pads of muscle on his back, the ladder of his spine, the sinewy shoulders. Thank heaven he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She thought she’d etched every detail into her mind, but each touch felt like exploring a new country. She bowed toward him, kissing his chest, tasting him, lingering over his nipples when he hissed in pleasure.

Daringly she ran her hand across the hard plain of his stomach to where he swelled against his trousers. Automatically her hand cupped his thickness. His response was a shuddering groan.

She opened her eyes. He angled above her, leaning to one side to keep his weight off her. His face was stark with desire. His jaw clenched hard and his eyes were black with need. Without conscious decision, she rubbed him, marveling at his heat.

He felt so large. How on earth had he fit inside her?

The memory of him pressing into her built anticipation. Clumsily she tugged at his trousers. A button ripped and rolled into the hay. Finally she found his pulsing rod. He groaned again and jerked his hips forward.

“Show me what to do,” she said in a strained voice.

His hand covered hers to demonstrate the action. He felt marvelous. Satiny skin over iron. Hot. Vital. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. With breathtaking deftness, he untied her drawers. She wriggled to help him. What point coyness? She wanted him more than she had last night.

Finally, finally, he touched her sex. She gasped at the liquid surge of need. The wild ride began. As she tilted her hips toward his hand, he withdrew.

“Richard?” she asked uncertainly.

The skin stretched tight over his face. His hair flopped across his forehead, lending him an uncharacteristically vulnerable air. “I can’t wait,” he gritted out.

“I don’t want you to.” Right now, she felt like his equal, not his dupe.

“You deserve better.” Beneath desire, she heard anguish. As though he hated himself for what he did.

“Probably.” Despite her urgency, a tremulous smile curved her lips. He was a better man than she gave him credit for. Better than he gave himself credit for, she came to understand. She ran one hand down his face, his beard bristling beneath her palm. She hoped he wouldn’t recognize the gesture’s poignant tenderness. His eyes changed, focused, lost their blind black sheen. She suspected something in him responded to her yearning.

She opened to him. “But the unfortunate truth is that you’re the one I want.”

“I won’t let you down,” he groaned, moving over her.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she taunted, trailing her hands down his bare back. She dug her fingers hard into his firm buttocks, coaxing him to initiate that dazzling dialogue of pressure and power.

Genevieve was wet and hot. Richard glided into her with delicious ease. Last night, he’d feared hurting her. Now they moved together as if created for this dance. Her muscles tightened and she arched up with a sigh that sounded like perfect happiness. That soft huff of surrender wrote itself on his heart like an inscription in stone. Last night, she’d been miraculous. Right now, as he plunged deep, love transformed him. He’d never be the same again.

He retreated, relishing how she clung. He thrust again. Her gasps of pleasure set his blood swirling. A wave of need overwhelmed what shreds of control he retained. He closed his eyes, rose on his hands, and drove her hard. He knew he was a barbarian. But the compulsion to claim this woman in the most primitive way soared beyond kindness or consideration.