Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)

by Kathleen Ayers

  What had Adelia said? That Haddon had the look of a Viking marauder? Seeing him like this, a man against the elements, Marissa could well imagine him scaling the side of a castle with an axe clutched in one hand.

  Desire for Haddon burst over her, settling with a dull, insistent ache between her thighs. It was going to be very difficult to resist him after such a masculine display.

  A rumble of thunder shook the park followed by a quick flash of lightning.

  “Hurry!” Marissa glanced around, unsurprised to find they were the only ones still there, besides her driver who was leading the carriage in their direction. “I don’t care to be struck by lightning.” Nor have Haddon become injured. Because she’d wanted that stupid hat and he’d gone to get it. For her.

  Haddon was still hanging from the tree, cheeky grin in place, rain sluicing down his striking cheekbones. He deftly snagged her hat and waved it at her, clearly showing off.

  Marissa’s pulse skipped in an unbearable rhythm, her entire being aching with longing for him, along with something so much more complicated.

  Water dripped down the lean lines of his body as he jumped from the tree and jogged in her direction. Haddon was smiling, his teeth brilliant against the light tan of his skin, proud of himself for rescuing her hat.

  “Haddon,” she whispered, looking into his beautiful face. “You bloody idiot.”

  He stood before her, bowing in the rain, before holding out her very ruined hat. When she reached for the brim, he jerked the hat back, making her fall against him.

  And then he kissed her.

  10

  Trent hadn’t meant to kiss her.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  Marissa was so beautiful, waiting for him with raindrops caught on her lashes and in the dark curls of her hair. He’d just made himself promise to tread lightly with her. Allow her to set the pace to their courtship.

  Of course, she had no idea he was courting her. Marissa was far too busy being annoyed over Lady Christina Sykes. As if he would ever prefer any other woman to her.

  She shivered at the light touch of his mouth on hers but didn’t pull away. On the contrary, a growl of pleasure escaped Marissa, a wholly feminine sound of desire which only hardened the length of his cock now clearly outlined in his wet trousers. Her lips tasted of tea and lemon. A hint of ginger. Delicious and warm.

  He’d never wanted anyone or anything quite so badly in his entire life.

  Only their mouths touched, the hat crushed and ruined between them. When he pulled away, Marissa’s eyes fluttered open. The pools of sapphire shimmered in the rain like the depths of the deepest lake in the Peak District. There were tiny creases at the corners of her eyes which only made her more precious to him. Trent had the urge to press his lips to each groove but thought better of it.

  “I fear your hat is ruined, my lady.”

  She blinked, moisture dripping from her lashes, looking at Trent as if seeing him for the first time.

  “We should get out of the rain, Marissa.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Good Lord, what am I thinking?”

  He took her hand and ran with her across the slick grass to the carriage. Her skirts curled around his legs as he helped her inside before sliding in across from her.

  The carriage lurched forward as the rain began to increase, hammering the poor driver as well as the horses. The vehicle rocked as it fought with the wind outside.

  “My house is fairly close,” she said, her eyes fixed on the hollow of his throat. “Just on the other side of the park.”

  It was true. Trent’s own house lay a good distance away. “Yes, it is.”

  “You can’t,” Marissa hesitated, wiping a wet curl from her cheek, “return home soaked to the bone, Haddon.” Her voice held an undercurrent of something wicked. “You’ll catch a chill.”

  “No. I don’t suppose I can.” His trousers, already tight, became increasingly uncomfortable. Marissa’s dress, as wet as it was, left little to the imagination. Christ, he could see the points of her nipples. Unfortunately, her home was so close he’d not have enough time to ravish her in the coach. Which was what he wanted to do. Trent’s fingers drummed lightly on one knee. Truthfully, he was the furthest thing from being chilled.

  “The least I can do for the rescue of my hat is to offer you tea. You can warm yourself before the fire while your clothing dries.”

  “I think I’d prefer whisky.” And you naked beneath me.

  A blush rose up her cheeks despite the cold air. Trent found the way she flushed adorable. “I, too, prefer a good whisky. Much more than ratafia.”

  His cock twitched against his leg.

  They sat in silence on the short ride to Marissa’s town house, neither willing to interrupt the fragile acceptance of what was going to happen. Trent was afraid if he spoke, Marissa would change her mind, something the deep ache between his legs wanted to avoid at all costs.

  Once the carriage slowed, Trent ran up the steps, Marissa’s hand clutched firmly in his, not caring which one of her neighbors spied them out their parlor windows. Once inside, Marissa’s ruffled butler greeted them, nose pointed high in the air at the water dripping all over the floor.

  “Greenhouse, send word to Lord Haddon’s daughter we’ve arrived safely. He will be home after his clothes are no longer dripping wet, and he’s been warmed.”

  The wet trousers pulled tighter though he didn’t think she’d meant the words as an innuendo. Trent turned, pretending to observe the large vase of greenery and purple flowers to his left. Marissa still had his coat around her shoulders.

  “Have tea and something to eat brought to my parlor.”

  “Your private parlor?” Greenhouse looked appalled. He watched Trent with suspicion. “Are you certain, my lady?”

  “I did not stutter, Greenhouse, did I?”

  The butler’s lower lip pulled tight. “No, madam.”

  “Make sure the fire is roaring, Greenhouse. I’m freezing.”

  Greenhouse clapped his hands and a maid appeared. He whispered instructions to her before the girl sped off in what Haddon guessed was the direction of Marissa’s parlor.

  “Lord Haddon is soaked to the bone, as am I. My son left behind a dressing gown in the large armoire in the guestroom. Lord Haddon can avail himself of it while his clothes dry. Please retrieve it immediately. And send my maid to me.”

  The butler stared at her, eyes bugging out. “In the parlor?”

  “I’ll meet her upstairs, Greenhouse.” She clapped her hands. “Hurry.”

  Trent watched in bemusement as the butler fairly sprinted up the stairs, eager to do her bidding. His hand trailed down the line of Marissa’s back, gratified at the way she arched into his touch. “Marissa—”

  “Don’t speak, Haddon. Not yet.”

  Once Greenhouse returned with the robe, a silken thing with dragons embroidered on it, Marissa thrust it into Trent’s hands before gesturing him to follow her to another innately feminine room he felt too large to be stomping around in. He caught sight of a pair of discarded reading glasses and a book, tossed atop a blanket that looked as if a child had knit it. The thing was full of holes and loose yarn. The furniture, in contrast to her drawing room, was older. Worn. Comfortable.

  This was Marissa’s private domain.

  She took his discarded coat from her shoulders, shaking it out before the fire to dry, and turned to face him. Gone was the woman who’d ordered about her household staff with military precision. She was regarding him cautiously, the blush from earlier still staining her cheeks, as if undecided about what she should do.

  “I’ll leave you to dry yourself and make use of the robe. I’ll return momentarily.” A slight tremble lit her words.

  “You don’t wish to stay?” Trent stepped before the fire, stoked and roaring as she’d instructed. Before she could answer, a knock sounded at the door and a servant wheeled in a cart stacked with sandwiches and pastries along with a steaming pot of tea.

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nbsp; Once the door to the parlor was shut again, Marissa cautiously approached him, the dark strands of her hair slithering out of her coiffure to fall upon the peaks of her breasts.

  “Tea?”

  “I thought we were having whisky,” he said quietly.

  Marissa nodded and went to the sideboard. “I’ve only one glass.” The words were husky. “We’ll have to share.”

  The sound of the whisky splashing in a glass met his ears before she turned around and came back toward him. She held out the glass, tilting the whisky against his mouth for him to drink, then took a mouthful herself.

  Trent watched her swallow, wanting to taste the whisky on her lips.

  He shrugged out of his waistcoat before sliding the cravat from his throat. “You have good taste in whisky.”

  Marissa’s mouth parted slightly, the pink of her tongue flashing between her lips. “So I’ve been told. My nephew sent it to me.”

  Taking a seat on the ottoman before the fire, Trent relieved himself of his boots before his fingers slid to the buttons of his shirt. His eyes never left hers as he tossed the sodden garment over his head. Once everything was laid before the fire, Trent stood and faced her. He was nearly naked, and Marissa hadn’t yet objected.

  He undid his trousers, peeling the damp fabric down over his hips.

  “I—” Marissa blushed furiously again, something Trent found endlessly enchanting. She stared at his chest, her fingers fluttering as if she wished to touch him and was afraid to do so.

  “Marissa.”

  Taking a deep breath, she looked up to meet his eyes. The motion strained the fabric of her bodice, pushing the tops of her breasts against the modest neckline of her dress. Water dripped from the edge of her skirt to the floor, dampening the rug.

  “My dress,” she said, her breath hitching. “Is wet and—”

  Trent shucked off his trousers to stand naked before her. “Take it off.”

  11

  She was only human. And Haddon had just disrobed while she watched.

  Completely.

  And he was bloody magnificent. Every inch of him. A thrill ran through her, fingers twitching, remembering the feel of all that lovely muscle and warm skin pressed against hers.

  There was no doubt of Haddon’s intentions as he stood before her in the privacy of her small parlor, a place she had never brought any previous lover. Poor Enderly hadn’t made it past the drawing room.

  Her eyes flicked below Haddon’s waist where his intention jutted in her direction.

  Arousal snapped and curled between her legs, suffusing her entire body. There was no use any longer at pretending she didn’t desire him. Haddon would see through the lie in a matter of seconds. Dear Lord, her nipples were poking through the wet material of her chemise and gown, something he couldn’t fail to notice. Haddon wasn’t blind.

  Haddon was like a hurricane, whipping about Marissa with such intensity he left her dizzy and breathless. It pained her to know her feelings for Reggie paled dramatically compared to Haddon, as if she were betraying her late husband somehow.

  He’s just a dalliance.

  She tried to cling to her paltry dismissal of him, told herself that this was only a casual encounter brought on by the weather and his heroic exploits in the rescue of her hat. He’d been marvelous climbing up that tree. There wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t want him in her bed after such a display.

  Haddon crooked a finger in her direction. “Come here,” he purred.

  Drat.

  Marissa obeyed without thinking, taking a step toward Haddon, unable to take her eyes from his naked body, his skin painted gold from the flames licking up the supple lines of his hips and torso. She approached cautiously, determined to stay in full command of her wits. Laughable, under the circumstances.

  “Lift them.” He nodded to her skirts. “Petticoats and all.” The words rasped against her skin.

  “What—?”

  He waved his hand up. “Do it, Marissa. Lift them. Now.”

  Heat erupted again inside her. With shaking hands, she lifted the hem of her wet skirts, exposing a great deal of her silken-clad legs . . . among other things. The warmth of the fire glanced off her thighs as Haddon reached out to trail a finger from the side of her knee up her thigh and into the soft hair of her mound. His finger ran along her crevice, exploring the already moist flesh, gaze fixed firmly on her face, daring her to look away while he touched her.

  The caress of his finger was light, barely more than the pressure of a butterfly alighting on a flower.

  Moisture seeped between her thighs and she bit her lip. “I—”

  “Shh. Don’t move,” he whispered before pressing an openmouthed kiss to the slope of her neck.

  Marissa clutched the fabric of her skirts tighter. She couldn’t have moved even if she were on fire. Which, technically, she supposed, she was.

  His teeth grazed her neck while his finger slid back and forth against her in a languid manner, searching and teasing until a soft moan escaped her.

  “I can’t wait to taste you again, Marissa.” He took the whisky clutched in her hand.

  Honestly, Marissa couldn’t believe she hadn’t dropped the damn glass what with holding her skirts and—

  Her hips rocked forward as one of his fingers slipped inside her. Holding the glass of whisky in his other hand, he gave her a sip, making sure some spilled across her mouth. Haddon used his tongue to catch the drops of whisky before his mouth fell on hers.

  I will drown in him.

  The last bit of sense she still possessed fled as his lips trailed over hers. The kiss was gentle, unhurried, but spoke of months of hunger and longing. His fingers never stopped moving against her, stroking and teasing until she made a small sound in her throat.

  Haddon’s mouth left hers. “Is there something you wish to say, Marissa?”

  “No.” Her thoughts were a floating, jumbled mess. “Only that I’m—” Her words halted as his forefinger found a particularly sensitive spot and a soft moan left her. “Wet.”

  “Yes. You most certainly are.” His fingers cautiously circled the small pearl hidden in her folds. The hand holding the glass of whisky gently tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him as he toyed with her flesh. The thick length of him seared the skin of her thigh.

  Marissa swayed on her feet, skirts twisting in her fingers. “I was under the impression—you weren’t interested in—” Her breath caught as he sunk another finger inside her. “Me.”

  “I never said that, Marissa.” His thumb flicked against her until she whimpered with need. “You assumed I didn’t want you.” The pressure increased. “I only said your objections were exhausting.” Haddon nipped at her bottom lip. “Which they are.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve two questions.” His tongue returned to her mouth, running along her lower lip.

  “Yes?” she said in a shaky voice. Pleasure spiraled up inside her, tightening into a small knot. Unbearably close. She strained toward it, her legs trembling as she struggled to stay upright.

  “Are your servants discreet?”

  “What?” Oh, dear God, he was pressing a spot with his thumb and moving his fingers in and out, until she thought she might— “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good.” He loomed over her, sinking a third finger inside to join the others, tips grazing against a spot which sent bolts of sensation shooting out across her body.

  Haddon was very good at this. Seduction. Touching. Caressing. Dear God, no wonder half the women in the ton were chasing him.

  “What is the second question?” Her voice raised an octave on the last word as his fingers curled again. “Please,” she whispered.

  “Not yet, my love.” His lips brushed hers. “But soon. Is this dress a favorite?” He leaned over and set down the empty whisky glass.

  “No,” she said, too focused on what his fingers and thumb were doing to her. “I only chose the dress today because the color complimented the hat.”


  “Good.” His hands slowly fell away, stroking her lightly before he did so.

  Marissa panted softly. Haddon would drive her mad with want. “No. Please.” She was very close to begging him.

  A large, warm hand moved to cup the underside of one breast. He pressed a kiss to the exposed skin above her neckline before two knuckles sunk into the deep valley between them.

  A tearing sound cut through the air as he jerked his hand, ripping the dress down the front.

  “Oh, dear. I mean—” Marissa was aroused. Flustered. She’d never had a man want her so much he’d rip the clothes from her body.

  The ache between her thighs intensified.

  Pushing the wet dress from her shoulders, Haddon continued to tear at the poor garment until Marissa stood in nothing but her damp chemise and stays. He palmed one of her breasts, brushing his thumb against the tip of one hardened nipple. Then the heat of his mouth followed, sucking the small peak through the thin cotton of the chemise.

  “Oh.” Her hands sunk into the damp strands of his hair. Tiny bursts of sensation radiated out from her breast, her inner muscles clenching, begging for the release only Haddon could give her.

  His free hand took hold of her hip, teeth grazing over the taut bud of her nipple.

  A knock sounded at the door. “My lady?” The muffled voice of her maid came from the other side of the door.

  “Tell her to leave your dressing gown,” Haddon growled against her breast.

  “Leave it outside, Felice. I’m enjoying,” her voice raised again as Haddon’s hand cupped her mound, “the fire.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Footsteps moved away from the door.

  “Don’t move, Marissa,” he admonished her again.

  “I won’t,” she whispered, curling her fingers at her sides now that she was no longer holding her skirts. She refused to think of anything past this moment with Haddon.

  Her eyes closed as he left her and went to the door to retrieve the dressing gown, throwing the lock as he did so. Not that her servants would have dared come in here.

  Haddon tossed the dressing gown on the worn sofa. He hovered behind her, purring in satisfaction like the large panther she often imagined him to be. The length of him, hard and thick, teased her buttocks through the damp material of her chemise.