"I know you were searching for something." Ambrose swallowed as she walked past him, her hair a rippling platinum river to her waist. "What were you after?" he persisted. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Because if you are, I will find a way to help—"
Her husky laugh sizzled down his spine. Heat flooded his groin, his stones throbbing with pressure close to pain. "You wish to help me, Ambrose?"
God, even his sturdy name sounded like a siren's song from her lips.
"First you must trust me with the truth." His brain raced through the theories he'd been contemplating. Explanations other than her being involved with a band of anti-establishment lunatics. "This Leach—does he have some information that you're after? Or mayhap this is about extortion. Is he trying to blackmail you?"
Something flickered in her eyes; he knew he'd hit a nerve. The solicitor knows something: either she wants that knowledge or he's holding it against her. What secret is she hiding?
His frustration mounted when, instead of replying, Marianne selected a plump strawberry and slipped the fruit between even riper lips. "Are you always this persistent when it comes to matters that do not concern you?"
"It concerns me when you put yourself in jeopardy. It concerns me when I have to save your bloody neck time and again." He raked his hands through his hair. "Goddamnit, woman, I am a policeman, and yet tonight I helped you evade the law. And I will have an explanation of your actions or so help me God—"
"Or you'll what? Report me to the magistrate?" She came toward him, her eyes wild as a summer storm. "Does that make you different from any other man who has tried to manipulate me?"
"I'm not trying to manipulate you, you little fool," he bit out, "I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't want your protection." Her chin angled upward, and her gaze was hard and glittering. "If you're wise, you'll stay out of my way from now on. Or you will regret it."
"Are you threatening me?" he said incredulously.
"Not a threat. A promise." As if it wasn't enough that she slapped him with his own words, she said, "And let us not forget the differences between us. Let's face it, Kent"—her brow rose—"you haven't got what it takes to stop me."
The reins of self-discipline snapped. His vision darkened. He hardly recognized the voice that growled, "Haven't got what it takes?" Before he knew what he intended, his hands hauled her against him, his lips descending to show the maddening wench how wrong she was.
SIXTEEN
Marianne knew her ploy to seduce Kent was a risky one. She'd gone about it in the most expedient manner possible: by pushing him past his limits. At the instant of contact between his lips and her own, the sparking attraction between them exploded into flames. As she'd known it would. She'd banked on the fact because she needed to throw him off the scent. Obviously, Kent did not yet know that Leach was dead. The last thing she needed was for him to start asking questions and pin her as the culprit.
Her gambit to distract Kent, however, now raged into a conflagration that threatened her own self-control. His male heat melted her resolve, turned her insides molten. Hunger unfurled as his tongue thrust against hers. She gave in a little, winding her arms around his neck to get closer to his virile length. So strong. Solid. Even as pleasure buzzed through her blood, she told herself that this was just all part of her stratagem ...
Don't be a fool. You've never lied to yourself, so why start now? You want Kent—you've wanted him since that first time he saved you.
With the triumphs and horrors of the night still buzzing in her veins, she experienced a sharp need to give into mindlessness. Just this once. To have respite from her demons for just one night. The ever-present anguish surged, yet Marianne knew she could do nothing for her daughter at this moment. Not with her mind and body dulled with fatigue. Not with long-suppressed needs battering her will …
Her mind grew hazier as the kiss deepened. Kent had a way with kissing—a man who truly seemed to enjoy a woman's mouth. His lips were firm, delicious as they roved over her jaw, her ear.
"This is madness, but I don't give a damn. Tell me you want this." His husky growl sent a quiver through her knees. "By God, tell me you want me as much as I want you."
She found she hadn't the wherewithal to lie any longer—to him or herself.
Tomorrow, I'll begin anew, she vowed. I'll investigate Boyer, Ashcroft, Pendleton—and I won't stop until Rosie is safe in my arms once more.
"I want you," she whispered.
"Good girl." Her neck arched at the hot praise uttered against her throat. "Now tell me what you were doing in Leach's office."
She stiffened. Pushed him away. "I can't."
"Can't or won't?" The rim around his irises darkened, making his gaze even more penetrating.
Despite the desire pounding in her blood, she lifted her chin. "It's my private business, Kent. If that's the point of this seduction, you might as well stop now."
"Who's seducing whom?" he said, making her flush. Before she could turn away, he grasped her jaw in one big hand. "If you won't tell me the specifics, then at least give me this: do you have a personal reason for searching Leach's office?"
What good would it do to deny what he'd already guessed? "Yes," she said.
"What does he have that you want?"
She struggled to find some part of the truth to give. "Information."
"Does this information involve crown and country?"
She blinked at the odd question. "No," she said, frowning. "It's of a personal nature."
He stared at her intently, his bright eyes inscrutable.
She shivered. Could he guess her secret? Unfulfilled passion and the night's excitement battered at her self-possession, and she clung to her last shred of good sense.
"It's late," she managed. "It's best you leave—"
The next instant, Kent swung her off of her feet, his mouth so hot and hungry that she could have wept with relief. Instead, she kissed him back with all the desperate need climbing inside her. Her senses spun as he carried her over to the bed, his hard body pressing her into the silken coverlet. He caressed her neck, her shoulders, the rasp of his calluses strangely exciting.
"So beautiful," he murmured. "Selkie, too beautiful to be real."
Her neck arched as he traced her collarbones. "What's a silky?" she said breathlessly.
"Selkie. An enchanted creature from the sea. She enthralls men in the form of a beautiful woman,"—he bent to taste the path he'd traced—"then flees into the sea in the magical skin of a seal."
"A woman with options. I like that," she said, her lips curving. "I believe that is the best compliment I have ever received."
Kent drew a fingertip beneath the edge of her bodice, and her breathing quickened. An inch further and he could reach her nipples, which stood stiff and aching for his touch. As if he knew her desire, his lips quirked, and perversely he withdrew his finger, running it instead over the strings of her front-lacing stays.
"There are ways of keeping a selkie, you know," he said, testing one of the knots.
Quelle surprise. When it came to subjugating women, men always had their ways.
"Let me guess," she said derisively. "You steal her skin. Keep it hidden, locked away."
"That is one method," he agreed. "Not the one I would use, however."
"Oh? Pray tell what your scheme would be."
He withdrew, bending to reach for something ... in his boot? Her breath halted at the sight of the blade in his hand. His eyes steady on hers, he lifted a corset string and slid the blade gently beneath. One cut and the laces unraveled. Her breath returned in a heady, unrestricted rush.
"I say if you want a wild thing, you must set it free." Beneath his penetrating gaze, she once again felt laid bare, vulnerable—only it didn't elicit fear this time, but yearning and arousal.
Could it be? A man who might actually understand me ...
"What if she doesn't come back?" she said.
He tossed aside the corset. Grasping th
e straps at her shoulders, he lowered them down her arms, and her bodice followed. Her spine arched as the fine muslin raked over her nipples, baring the taut peaks to his heated gaze.
"I'd give her a reason to," he said and lowered his head.
She gasped when he drew one sensitive bud into his mouth. When his tongue curled, the sensation shot all the way between her thighs. During her searches through brothels, she'd seen men suckle women—seen much more than that—yet she'd not known the pleasure herself. Indeed, her understanding of sexual matters far outweighed her actual experience. Thomas had been a virgin; in the three times they'd made love, they'd only begun to discover what their bodies could do.
Clearly, Kent had a man's knowledge. A moan tore from her throat as he titillated her nipple with wet flicks. He kept an accompanying rhythm on her other breast, his fingers circling, pinching with just enough pressure to drive her mad. Her spine bowed, her hands clenching in his thick hair as desire swamped her. Years of pent-up longing washed away the remaining vestiges of her self-restraint.
"Don't stop." The words emerged from nowhere, in a panting voice she did not recognize. "Just ... don't stop."
"Easy, sweeting. I'm not going anywhere." Even his voice aroused her, the shape of his words pressed against her taut, throbbing peak. "One day, you're going to trust me, to know that I'd never leave you wanting."
She would have argued, but his lips fixed onto her other nipple, and the wildness in her grew to a feverish pitch. Her skin seemed afire, wet heat blazing from her core as he kissed his way down the path between her ribcage. His tongue dipped into her navel, and her hands fisted in the coverlet at the intense, unfamiliar sensation. A tug dragged her petticoat past her hips, baring her most intimate place. Her lungs struggled for air. She told herself to be calm, to just lie back and … His lips touched the inside of her thigh, and the branding kiss drove a gasp from her lips.
"Don't like that?" he said, raising his head to look at her.
"I don't know. It feels a bit strange," she managed.
That line deepened between his brows. "Haven't you been kissed there before?"
She wanted to lie; for some dashed reason, her head shook of its own accord. Confusion clouded his gaze, and she knew what he was thinking. The wicked Baroness Draven has never had a man's mouth between her legs? He'd probably laugh if he knew the truth—or worse yet think that she was an innocent just because she'd not tried the things she knew so much about.
"The fancy has never struck me." Her tone came out as lofty as she could manage given that his thumbs were making mind-melting circles on either side of her quivering sex. "If you wish, however, I give you leave to … gamahuche me."
His eyes flared at her use of the naughty word. Excellent. Let him know she was no naïf.
Then his lips quirked.
"By your leave, then," he said.
She bit back a sound as he parted her aching flesh. Her cheeks burned when he did nothing but study her for long moments. The look of dark hunger on his features titillated her beyond bearing, and her sex grew even wetter.
"Well, are you or aren't you?" she said when she couldn't take the anticipation any longer.
Kent's hooded eyes met hers. In that bright, erotic gaze, there was a hint of … laughter? She began to struggle, but his hands clamped her thighs. Held her open.
His husky words stirred her dampened curls, feeding the fire in her blood. "A man likes to look his fill before he feasts," he said. "Especially when the offering is so decadent."
"You best hurry before the feast gets cold," she said.
"Cold?" His eyes crinkled at the edges. "I don't think so, sweeting. You are all heat …"
The first swipe of his tongue made her gasp with shock. The second had her spine arching off the mattress. Dear God, she'd never felt anything like … Her mind blanked as pure sensation swamped her. She became nothing but the tides of pleasure rolling over her senses. His plain-spoken praise and wicked caresses lifted her higher and higher.
"I love the way you taste. Salty and sweet. You whet my appetite."
As if to prove his assertion, he tongued her slit, thrusting deeply inside her throbbing folds. Her hips bucked, bliss stealing her breath. Her vision wavered as the sensations mounted. She was close, so close …
"Kent," she gasped, "I'm going to … to …"
"Yes, you are." His savage look pushed her right to the precipice. "Spend for me. Right now, with your sweet quim against my mouth—let me taste your pleasure."
His tongue angled upward, to the little knot that throbbed with her heartbeat. His lips fastened, sucking gently. Her head flung back as the crisis hit. Pulse after pulse of pure delight, like nothing she'd known before. Before she could recover, she felt a shocking stretch ... his finger. He pushed gently past the initial resistance of her entrance. They both groaned as her muscles softened, then clutched the exciting penetration.
"You're so tight," he rasped. His forehead had a sheen of sweat. "Devil and damn, you're pulling me in deeper. So sweet." His chest heaved, the primal look in his eyes inciting her more, making her passage slicker. "You can take more, can't you?"
"Yes, more ..."
She moaned as he began to pump with a firm, steady motion. Her pelvis lifted to greet each thrust. He went deeper and deeper with each pass, his rhythm and pressure driving her frantic with need. As his fingers played inside her, his palm slapped wetly against the sensitive peak of her mound, sending sparks across her vision. Just when she thought she could endure no more, he lowered his head once more.
"Again," he said.
She screamed as waves of shocking heat passed over her, through her. Too much, never like this … Tides of bone-melting sweetness carried her away.
*****
Heart thundering, Ambrose wiped a damp tendril from Marianne's love-flushed cheek. She drowsed, worn out by the climaxes he'd given her. His chest inflated with pride. By God, her pleasure had been magnificent … and he had the damp smalls to prove it. Damn, that had never happened to him before, but the way her passage had squeezed his fingers, her juices raining so sweetly upon his tongue … he exhaled as his cock hardened once more.
Her passion had been mind-blowing in more ways than one. He could scarcely credit what he'd discovered. What she'd kept carefully hidden beneath that jaded facade of hers.
The infamous Baroness Draven was a relative novice to lovemaking.
Her past lovers had done a shoddy job of things. In retrospect, Ambrose didn't think there could have been all that many, given her dazed response to her own pleasure as well as the tightness of her heat around his fingers. Even as his blood thickened with arousal, his jaw tautened at the thought of other men touching Marianne. She deserved better than careless intercourse. She deserved a man who would take care of her needs, who had the patience to chip through those layers of ice to reach the hot-blooded and vulnerable woman within.
What Marianne needed was a lover she could trust.
His breath came harshly into his lungs as she mumbled in her sleep, her lips burrowing into his open collar. Lust climbed in his veins, and he couldn't keep his hand from cupping the sweet curve of her breast. Even in sleep, she responded to him, her rosy nipple puckering, her soft sigh heating his skin. The instinct to take her, to free his erection from his trousers and bury himself in her lush pussy was nearly overwhelming.
But he didn't. Because as of this moment, he wasn't deserving of her trust.
Her earlier words rang in his head. Does that make you different from any other man who has tried to manipulate me? Who had tried to hurt her? What travails had she suffered? Despite all he didn't know about her, he knew this: Marianne Draven was not the scandalous, heartless sophisticate she appeared to be. She had secrets for certain, but she was no bloody anarchist. When Ambrose had asked her about her involvement in matters of crown and country, he'd seen the honest confusion in her eyes. She hadn't been lying when she said her interest in Leach was personal.
; Early on, he'd sensed her hidden pain. It had called to him, and now he could no longer deny his desire to protect her. He would help her with her troubles—which meant he must take care of another matter first.
With self-control he didn't know he possessed, he extricated himself from her silken limbs. He tucked the coverlet over her glorious form. After one last look, he gathered his things and left.
SEVENTEEN
Marianne awakened, blinking groggily as the peach walls of her bedchamber came into focus. Lud, she must have had a deep slumber for she felt better rested than she had for years. Yawning, she stretched, and the movement elicited an unfamiliar twinge between her thighs. Memory jolted through her, her lungs emptying in a whoosh as several facts hit her at once.
Good God. Leach is dead, and I have three suspects for Rosie's kidnapping.
And last night I let Kent …
The intimacies that she'd allowed brought a rush of heat to her cheeks and her belly. She'd never done such things with Thomas. Yet Kent had a way of laying waste to her defenses, to culling forth her deepest desires. She ought to know better than to trust any man, and yet there was something so damnably trustworthy about him. He'd saved her twice. Took a bullet the first time and risked his neck hauling her over the rooftops the second.
Why had he protected her time and again?
Her face grew hotter as another fact struck her: after Kent had pleasured her, he hadn't … taken anything in return. She believed in even exchanges, and given the sum of what had passed between them, he'd had every right to demand some form of quid pro quo. Yet after his heroics—not to mention the two mind-melting climaxes he'd given her—he'd disappeared ... without so much as a by your leave?
What in blazes was the matter with the man?
Frowning, she tossed aside the covers and pulled on a silk wrapper. She went to examine herself in the Cheval looking glass. She looked the same as ever—perhaps better, with a new glow upon her cheekbones and her eyes bright and rested. All her adult life, she'd never questioned her physical desirability to the male sex. Surely Kent was no different from other men in this respect. Surely he had wanted to make love to her. Surely he had found her desirable … hadn't he?
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 12
