Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series)

by Sarah MacLean

  Lifted her chin, pressed her shoulders back, bold as brass. “Make me.”

  Something wicked flared in his beautiful brown eyes. “You think I cannot?”

  “I think you wish me to do your work for you.” She willed him forward. Willed him to touch her.

  Instead, he took a step back and sat in a leather chair that stood by the desk, leaning back, deceptively relaxed. Nervousness flared deep in her, but she resisted it.

  His gaze raked over her as he stretched out in the chair, his booted feet mere inches from her bare ones. “Open for me,” he repeated.

  She gave him a small smile. “It shan’t be so easy.”

  He raised a brow. “No. It shan’t.” He lingered on her breasts, and her skin heated at the regard as he moved his gaze down, toward the place she wanted him quite desperately. He watched her until she thought she might die from his attention. Just when she was about to give in to him, he said, “You are going to open for me, and when you do, you will regret not doing so when I asked.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is that a threat?”

  His lips curved in a slow, near-mercenary smile. “Not in the slightest.” He lifted one hand and set it to his jaw, assessing her with a long, leisurely look, his index finger stroking over his lower lip in a gesture a lesser woman might deem pensive.

  Georgiana was not a lesser woman. The movement of that finger was not pensive. It was predatory.

  And every inch it moved on his lips seemed to light a fire in her.

  “You will regret it, though,” he went on, “as every moment you are not open to me is a moment I do not touch you. A moment you do not feel my hands, and my mouth, and my tongue.”

  The words sent a shock through her as she imagined all those things, a repeat of the night in his swimming pool. The glorious feel of him against her.

  “A moment I do not stroke… or kiss… or lick.”

  She exhaled at the final word, at the way it seemed to deliver on its meaning, leaving a trail of fire straight through her to the place he asked for… to the place she wanted him.

  He understood. “You enjoy it when I lick you, don’t you, my lady?”

  Good God. She was not a prude; she’d spent the last six years surrounded by gamers and prostitutes. She ran London’s finest gaming hell, for heaven’s sake. But all that seemed entirely ordinary and acceptable compared to this man, who had turned into sin incarnate the moment they’d touched.

  It was broad daylight, and he spoke of licking as though it were the weather.

  “Georgiana,” he prompted, her name a slow promise. “Do you enjoy it?”

  That finger on his lips was driving her mad. She pressed her thighs together, reminding herself of their game. “I seem to recall it being quite pleasant.”

  Something flared in his eyes. Humor. Understanding of the part she played. “Only pleasant?”

  She smiled, small and soft. “As I remember.”

  “We have differing memories, then,” he said, “As I remember your hands in my hair, your cries in the darkness, your legs wrapped around me like sin.” His gaze fell to the apex of her thighs. “I remember the flood of you when you came, the way you arched toward the sky, everything forgotten except pleasure. Wrought by me. By my tongue in all the places you ached.”

  She forgot the game, her muscles going weak as he spoke.

  “I remember the taste of you, sweet and sex… and the feel of you, like decadent silk, soft and wet… and mine.”

  That word again. His.

  He was seducing her with nothing but words, promising her everything she’d ever wanted if only she gave in – if only she opened to him. She took a deep breath and matched him once more. “You speak of before,” she said, unable to keep the breathlessness from her words. “But what good is that to me now? Here?”

  His brows rose in surprise before he leaned forward, his words part danger and part play.

  And all desire.

  “Open for me and let’s find out.”

  She giggled. The sound shocking them both with its honesty. She was almost embarrassed – would have been if he hadn’t dropped his hand and leaned forward the instant the laugh escaped her lips. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He reached for her, then, one large, warm hand curving around her knee, the touch erasing the game they played.

  Her legs parted.

  “So goddamn beautiful,” he said, his gaze not leaving her face as he came off the chair, falling to his knees at the edge of the desk, between her thighs. “So goddamn perfect.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then her thigh. “So goddamn honest.”

  She stiffened at the last, even as his lips curved high at the crease of her thigh, where it met the part of her that ached for him. For this.

  Honesty.

  She hadn’t been honest with him. There was nothing honest about this. Nothing honest about her. And he deserved better.

  He sensed the change in her, lifting his lips, meeting her eyes across the long expanse of her torso. “Don’t think it.”

  She knew he did not understand, but replied nonetheless, shaking her head. “I cannot help it.”

  He pressed a kiss to the soft hair above the most secret part of her, the caress long and lingering and somehow sweet. “Tell me,” he said.

  There were a dozen things she should tell him. A hundred she wished to tell him. But only one that found its way out. And it was perhaps the truest thing she’d ever said.

  “I wish it could be like this. Forever.”

  Her words nearly killed him. The truth of them, the way they mirrored his own thoughts, here in this place that was not his. Was not hers. This place that would ruin them both without question.

  He wanted it forever, too, but, it was impossible. His past, her future, neither was conducive to forever. Those outside forces that loomed, they were barriers to forever.

  No, forever was for simpler people and simpler times.

  He leaned forward on his knees, keenly aware of the position, of the way he worshipped her, as though she were a goddess and he were her sacrifice. He pressed a kiss to the pretty soft curls that hid her secrets. Her position – the trust in it – the pleasure in it – made him harder than he’d ever been in his life.

  He wanted this woman.

  He might not be able to have her forever, but he could have this moment, this memory… This could last. It could stay with him on dark nights.

  And it could ruin her for every other man who came after him.

  “I’ve never tasted anything like you,” he whispered, letting his breath tease those curls as he parted her slowly, adoring the way she glistened, warm and pink for him. “Sweet and sinful and forbidden.” He ran one finger down the wet slit gently, and she lifted her hips toward him. She was so tender, so ready for him. “Slick and wet and perfect.”

  He ran one finger down the center of her, listening to her breathing, to the way her breath hitched and rattled as he explored. “And you know it, don’t you? You know your power.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He met her gaze, leaned in, let his tongue stroke once, long and lush along her. He reveled in the way she gasped, the way she closed her eyes against the pleasure. “No,” he said. “Don’t look away.”

  She opened her eyes, and he licked again, loving the way desire flooded her. “Tell me.”

  “It feels —”

  He repeated the movement, lingering at the top of the caress, where she wanted him most, and she cried out. He spoke there. “Go on.”

  “Glorious.”

  “More.”

  He swirled his tongue over the little, straining bud, and she sighed. “Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t if you tell me.”

  “It feels like… I’ve never…” He sucked, loving the way she lost her words. “Oh, God.”

  He smiled, letting his tongue play at her. “Not God.”

  “Duncan.” She sighed his name, and he thought he would die if
he wasn’t inside her soon.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Her hands found his hair, her fingers pressing him toward her as her hips rocked against him. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, and he was shocked by the words. And then she said something thoroughly unexpected. “It feels like… love.”

  And there, in that moment, with the word hovering in the air, he realized that that was precisely what he meant for it to feel like.

  He loved her.

  The realization should have terrified him, but instead, it washed over him with the warm pleasure that came from truth, finally revealed. And at the far edge of that pleasure was the edge of something unpleasant. Devastation. Denial.

  He ignored it, instead making love to her with slow, slick strokes. She moved against him, showing him what she liked, where she liked it, and he gave it to her without hesitation. She was manna, and he fed upon her, wanting to bring her pleasure only to give her pleasure. To give her the memory of this moment.

  Of his love – a love that could not be.

  Slow circles became fast, moving in time to her breath and her sighs and the feel of her fingers in his hair and the rise and fall of her glorious hips. And then she found her release, and he held her, stroking her, kissing her softly, guiding her through it, and back.

  As her last, pleased sigh echoed around them, he rose from his knees, desperate for her, adoring the way her gaze tracked him, eyes wide, lips parted. He stripped out of his coat and cravat, watching her watch him, wanting her as she wanted him. He pulled his shirt over his head, lowering his arms and resisting the urge to preen as her attention fell to his chest, to his stomach.

  She closed her mouth, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

  He wanted to roar his pleasure at her obvious approval.

  “Poseidon,” she whispered.

  He raised a brow in silent question, wondering if he would be able to wait for her answer before he took her in his arms and made her his. Forever.

  He could ignore the word and its insidious whisper in the dark recesses of his mind, because she answered. “At your home, in your swimming pool…” She reached for him, her fingertips running along his shoulder, down the curve of his arm, where his muscles were taut with the effort it took not to claim her. “You were Poseidon in the water, so strong…” The fingers moved to the muscles of his abdomen. “So perfectly made…” trailing up through the hair there, “so handsome…” sliding over the skin of his chest until they found the flat disc of his nipple and he nearly groaned his pleasure. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his chest in a lovely, lingering caress.

  She pulled away and met his gaze. “God of the sea.”

  “And you, my siren,” he said, reaching for her, letting his fingers slide into the soft hair at the nape of her neck, lifting her face to him.

  “I hope not,” she said, and he paused, waiting for her to explain. She smiled, and the expression was small and filled with sin. “Poseidon could resist the sirens.”

  He could not resist her. Not for all the world. He took her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss, even as her hands came to the fall of his trousers and he thought he might die from the wait as she worked at the buttons there. She fumbled with the fastenings and he moved to take over.

  “No,” she said, pulling back and meeting his gaze. “I want to do it.”

  He took a breath, steeled himself. “Do it, then.”

  And then there was a glorious release, and her hands were sliding into the placket of his trousers, finally, finally touching him. He swore, the word harsh and soft in the room as she freed him. He watched her, loving the way her gaze fell to him, the way her eyes widened and her lips parted, and he would have given his entire fortune to know what she thought of him. And then the tip of her pink tongue came out, sliding along her lower lip, and her hands moved, stroking, long and lush.

  Once. Twice.

  He placed his hand on hers, staying the movement. “Stop.”

  She froze, her gaze flying to his. “Am I…” She hesitated. Tried again. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He stilled at the words, at the expression in her wide eyes – concern, apprehension. He narrowed his gaze on hers, hating the falseness. He loved her. And still she lied to him. “No. Don’t play the innocent. I want the real you. Not the fantasy.” He put his hands to her cheeks, turning her up to him. “I don’t care about the past. Only about the present.”

  The future.

  No. He could not care about that.

  It was not for him.

  Something flashed in those beautiful amber eyes. Something like frustration. She looked away, then down at where their hands were entwined, wrapped about him. “Show me,” she whispered finally. “Show me what you like.”

  He leaned in, kissing her again, wanting to return them to the moment. He slid his lips to her ear. “I like it all, love. I like every bit of you on every bit of me. And I like your hands wrapped around me, tight and hot like a promise.” Her breathing was fast at his ear, and he guided her hands on him. “I like your beautiful eyes on me. I like you watching me. I like you watching yourself touch me.” He moved back enough to let her look down their bodies, at their hands, at the length of him, so close to her. So close to the place he wanted to be. “Shall I tell you what else I like?”

  She stroked him several times before she answered, the whisper filled with desire. “Yes.”

  I love you.

  No. It would only bring them both pain.

  He reached for her, sliding one finger into her, slick from his mouth and her desire. “I like your pretty pink lips.”

  She laughed at the words, breathless. He slid one finger deep into her tight, dark channel, and the laugh became a gasp. He looked up at her. “And I would like very much to be inside you.”

  She met his eyes. “I want that, too.”

  He kissed her, then set his forehead to hers as she placed him where she wanted him, at the entrance to her, and he bit back a curse at the sensation, so hot and wet – for him. He eased into her, so tight, and she sucked in a breath. He met her eyes, registering the discomfort there. “Georgiana?” he asked, something unsettling him even as he thought he might die from the pleasure of her.

  She shook her head. “It is fine.”

  Except it wasn’t. She was in pain. He eased back.

  She clamped her legs around his waist. “No. Please. Now.”

  If he didn’t know better…

  She pulled him closer, and he lost the thought until her breath hitched again. “Stop,” he said. “Let me…”

  He pulled back, then rocked in again, in short, gentle slides, each deeper than the last, until he was deep inside her, buried to the hilt. “Yes,” she whispered as he bent and placed a long, lingering kiss to the place where her neck met her shoulder. “Yes.”

  He could not have said it better himself.

  He pulled back, met her eyes. “Is it —?”

  She leaned up and kissed him, letting her tongue slide between his lips in a stunning kiss. When it was through, she said, “It is magnificent.” Then she pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him back enough to look down between them. “Look at us.”

  He did, following her gaze, and he felt himself grow even harder, deep inside her. She inhaled, then smiled. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, sir.”

  Christ. He loved her.

  He wanted her. Playful. Brilliant. Beautiful. Sinful.

  Forever.

  He matched her smile with his own. “I can think of ways I would enjoy myself more.”

  She placed her hands at the curve of his buttocks and squeezed. He groaned. “Show me.”

  And he did.

  He moved in deep, decadent strokes, and she matched him, lifting her long legs, his name on her lips like a mantra, first soft and barely there, and then a cry of pleasure, making him wish this moment would never end. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close as he thrust, and her hands
came to his shoulders, wrapping tightly around him as she cried out for him.

  As though he would leave her.

  As though it were possible for him to leave her.

  He would never leave her.

  She pulled back at the last moment, as he thrust fast and strong against her. She met his gaze. “Now,” she said, the word full of desire and wonder, hinting at something he would be able to grasp if his head weren’t so damn full of her. “Now.”

  Now, indeed.

  She fell into pleasure, tight and perfect around him, with such power that he thought he might not survive it. She called his name as he thrust once, twice, hard and fast and glorious until his release raced toward him, and he pulled out of her, coming hard and fast and like nothing he’d ever experienced.

  As one.

  And he knew, instantly, that he had not ruined her for other men.

  She had ruined him for other women. For life.

  He pulled away, and she sighed a protest at his departure, making him ache for her once more. He wasn’t ready to leave her, but he fastened his trousers loosely, and removed a handkerchief, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to one of the large chairs on the far side of the room before settling her into his lap and cleaning her.

  “You didn’t…” she trailed off.

  “I didn’t think you would want the risk.” Not that he didn’t secretly enjoy the idea – a collection of tiny blond children with their mother’s pretty amber eyes. “You did not choose the last time. You should choose the next.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and he pulled her close, wanting to keep her safe now. Forever.

  Christ. That word again.

  She curled into him as he stroked his hands over her beautiful, soft skin, replaying the event in his mind as their breathing returned to normal, turning over her words, her movements, her sounds.

  The moments of surprise. Of wonder. Of desire.

  Of discomfort.

  Realization dawned.

  She lifted her head when his hands stilled on her. “What is it?”

  He shook his head, not wanting to answer.

  Not wanting it to be true.

  She smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Tell me.”