A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

Brazenly, she leaned into him and wantonly kissed him back-trying this, then that, to see what might best weaken him. Closing her lips about his tongue and sucking was her first success-his attention abruptly focused; his resistance weakened accordingly. Sliding her hands around his neck, locking her fingers at his nape and stretching, sliding, upward against him, worked, too, but-

Abruptly he lifted his head and dragged in a huge breath. He blinked down at her. "Did the innkeeper see your face?" His voice was not entirely steady; he looked a little dazed.

"No." She sank deeper into his arms, sliding her fingertips into his hair. "I was hidden behind my veil the whole time."

"Hmm." He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. "I'll go down and pay your shot later. When all's quiet, and there's no one about to hear. There'll be someone at the desk all night tonight. Then we'll leave."

She didn't bother nodding. Her hands fell to his shoulders as he recaptured her lips, and she met his tongue with hers. She could, she decided, happily spend all night kissing him. Pressing herself to him. The thought prompted the deed, but she couldn't get any closer-she was already locked tight, breast to chest, hips to thighs. But…

He hesitated, then his lips shifted on hers. The whirlpool of their kiss dragged her deeper, into a vortex of heady sensations-all

beckoning, enticing.

The need to get closer welled, swelled-

His resistance irked. If she wanted to marry him-if he wanted to marry her-then she wanted to know more. Deliberately, she stretched upward, flagrantly inciting, kissing him urgently, as evocatively as she knew how-

His arms shifted, then his hands were on her back-large and strong, they slid down, smoothly sweeping down to her waist, to her hips, then down, over the swells of her bottom. He cupped her, held her tight, her curves filling his hands, then he lifted her.

Up and against him-molding her to him so her soft belly cradled the hard ridge of his erection. She would have gasped-not with shock, but delight, a delight wholly new to her-but with lips suddenly ruthless and a demand she felt to her toes, he ravaged her mouth, took all she offered and searched for more.

There was suddenly hunger enough for two, swirling hotly about them.

Flick sank her fingers into his shoulders and hung on-thrilled to her bones as hot became hotter and hard that much harder. Need, want and desire swam through her-passion swept in in their wake. And caught her.

Excitement-even better than the rush of a winning ride-and an anticipation so keen it hurt flooded her, buoyed her-

Tap! Rat-a-tat-tat!

The sharp tattoo startled them both, ending their kiss. Breathing shallowly, they both stared at the door.

Demon straightened, softly cursing. Whoever it was, he would have to find out. It might be about Bletchley. Sliding Flick down until her feet touched the floor, he reluctantly released her luscious bottom and closed his hands about her waist. He seriously doubted she could stand unsupported.

Glancing around, his gaze fell on the solid dressing table against the wall between the mantelpiece and the bed. He glanced at the door, then steered Flick back so she could lean against the dressing table. "Stay there-don't move."

Placed as she was, she couldn't be seen from the door.

She blinked blankly at him, then looked dazedly across the room.

Demon released her; turning, he strode toward the door. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside the door, he swallowed another curse and slowed, tugging his waistcoat down, resettling his coat and cuffs, then raking his fingers through his hair before reaching for the latch.

He assumed it was Gillies, or one of the inn staff. Whoever it was, he intended getting rid of them fast. Turning the key, he opened the door.

The elegant gentleman who stood on the threshold, an urbane smile rapidly fading, was not a member of the inn's staff. Unfortunately, he was familiar.

Inwardly, Demon cursed, wishing he'd snuffed some of the candles Flick had scattered about the room. At least she was out of sight. Holding the door less than half open, he raised an arrogantly weary brow. "Evening, Selbourne."

"Cynster." Disappointment rang in Lord Selbourne's tone; disgruntlement filled his eyes. His expression, however, remained urbane. "I-" Abruptly, Selbourne's gaze shifted, going past Demon's shoulder. His lordship's eyes widened.

Demon stiffened, his jaw clenching so hard that he thought it would crack. He didn't, however, turn around.

Lord Selbourne's brows rose, coolly, appraisingly, then he glanced consideringly at Demon. And smiled. "-see."

The single word carried a wealth of meaning; Demon comprehended its portent only too well. Face set, he nodded curtly. "Precisely. I fear you'll need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight."

Selbourne sighed. "To the victor, the spoils." With an arch glance directed once again beyond Demon, he turned away. "I'll leave you, dear boy, to get what rest you may."

Biting back an oath-an exceedingly virulent one-Demon managed to shut the door without slamming it. Hands rising to his hips, he stared at the wooden panels; after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. Shifted. He blinked, then slowly reached out and turned the key.