Winning Lord West (Dashing Widows 3)

Helena’s confession left him speechless. And appalled.

That this glorious creature had never experienced sexual pleasure was too cruel to be borne. His liking for her drunken brute of a husband hadn’t much outlasted that ill-fated visit to Shelton Abbey when Crewe met his bride. But this went beyond all the evil he already knew of Gerald Wade.

“I won’t have you feeling sorry for me,” she snarled, staring up at him like a deer surrounded by hounds. Except even when she left herself vulnerable, Helena stayed fierce.

Not a deer. A lioness.

West studied her taut, troubled features, and did the only thing he could.

He kissed her.

Her confession called for gentleness. Kindness. Reassurance. But her fire had always lured him. The knowledge that her fire had never had a chance to blaze into magnificent conflagration made him seethe.

And crave.

So when he dragged her up from the chair into his arms, his touch was ruthless. The lips he pressed to hers were hungry, and made no concession to what remained an essential innocence.

She cried out in protest, and her hands clenched on his arms. When he’d caught her, she’d been too startled to resist. Now she went as rigid as a block of wood.

Not as rigid as he was. He’d wanted Helena for months. Years. Touching her, he went up in flames. As volatile as the idealistic, untried boy he’d once been.

More. Now he was a man. His desire was a man’s desire.

Her mouth was unresponsive. But her smoky scent, familiar yet strange, made his head swim. She fitted against him, created for his pleasure. She was a tall, slender woman, and that lissome body drove him mad.

Drowning in heat, he took too long to realize that she was pounding on his shoulders. “What the devil?” he gasped, wrenching free.

Since her marriage, she’d masked her ardent soul beneath intellectual detachment. Now she was incandescent with emotion. Unfortunately the emotion wasn’t passion. Rage set her black eyes glittering.

Her defiance only made him burn to kiss her again. Once, he’d feared that Crewe’s betrayals might crush her tempestuous soul.

Not in a million years.

“I begin to believe you,” he said in a drawl meant to stoke her fury. He didn’t want her taking refuge in defensive coolness. “Crewe didn’t teach you much about kissing. You were better at this when you were sixteen.”

Temper flared in Helena’s eyes like an exploding star. “I don’t want pity kisses,” she snapped. “You will not laugh at me.”

“Idiot girl,” he said with fond impatience, and swept her up, blatantly pressing her against him. “Does that feel like pity?”

“You—” she stammered, drawing back. Astonishment chased her anger away.

“Yes, I want you.” He answered the unfinished question. “I’ve always wanted you. Even when you were another man’s wife.”

Wonderingly she studied him. His candor didn’t seem to have offended her, which was a surprise. “I had no idea.”

“You’ve been locked away from life.” His grip on her arms tightened. “Let me show you what you’ve missed.”

When her dark gaze settled on his mouth, something sparked in those starry depths. Arousal jolted him. And the beginnings of hope.

“What if I don’t like it?”

“I’ll stop.” He hoped to Hades he wasn’t lying.

“I’m not sure I trust you.”

“If you shriek your head off, someone will save you.”

Ironic amusement curled her lips. “You’re convinced you can kiss any objections away, aren’t you?”