A Rogue by Any Other Name
He kept coming, watching as her eyes widened, as their blue darkened with fear or nervousness or something more, but he couldn’t stop himself. “There hasn’t been a single valuable thing in my life that I haven’t ruined when I touched it, Penelope. And I will be damned if I allow the same to happen to you.”
She shook her head. “You won’t ruin me. You wouldn’t.”
He lifted his hand to her cheek, running his thumb across the impossibly smooth skin there, knowing even as he did that he was making it harder to let her go. He shook his head. “Don’t you see, Sixpence? I already have. I’ve already brought you here, exposed you to this world.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t! I brought myself here. I made this choice.”
“But you wouldn’t have if not for me. And the worst part is—”
He stopped, not wanting to say any more, but she lifted her hand and covered his, holding him to her cheek. “What is it, Michael? What is the worst part?”
He closed his eyes at the touch, at the way she made him burn.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
She wasn’t supposed to affect him like this.
He wasn’t supposed to want her so very much.
He wasn’t supposed to be so very drawn to this adventurous, exciting woman who had evolved from the woman he’d married.
And yet he was.
He pressed his forehead to hers, aching to kiss her, to touch her, to throw her down and make love to her. “The worst part is that if I don’t send you back, I’m going to want to keep you here.”
Her eyes were so blue, so lovely, framed with full, golden lashes the color of autumn wheat, and he could see desire in them. She wanted him.
Her hand moved to his chest, settling for a long moment before it slid up and around to the nape of his neck, her fingers twining in his hair with a beautiful, unbearable touch. Time slowed as he savored the feel of her against him, the warmth of her in his arms, the scent of her trapping his thoughts, the knowledge that she was soft and flawless and his for that moment.
“And you’ll hate me for it.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “You deserve better.”
So much better than me.
“Michael,” she said softly, “there’s no one better. Not for me.”
The words crashed through him, and she tilted her head, came up on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his lips.
It was the most perfect kiss he’d ever experienced, her lips firmly on his, soft and sweet and utterly mesmerizing. He’d ached for her for days and she laid claim to him with the caress, taking his lower lip between hers and stroking once, twice, until he opened for her, and she stole his breath with the tentative exploration of her tongue—a silken slide against his. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tightly against him, loving the way she felt, soft where he was hard, silk where he was steel.
When she finally pulled back from the kiss, her lips were swollen and pink, and he could not keep his gaze from them, parted sweetly before they curved around her words. “I do not wish to learn about billiards tonight, Michael.”
His gaze flickered up from those lips, meeting her gaze. “No?”
She shook her head slowly, the movement a sinful promise. “I should much rather learn about you.”
She kissed him again, and he could not resist her. There wasn’t a man alive who could. His hands were on her, pulling her tightly against him.
He was lost.
His wife stood before him like temptation incarnate, asking him to make love to her—risking her reputation and everything for which he’d been working.
And he found he didn’t care.
He reached past her, throwing a hidden switch and swinging the wall away to reveal a staircase beyond, steps stretching up into a great, yawning darkness. He extended his hand to her, palm up, allowing her to make the choice to ascend with him. He did not want her to ever think that he had forced her into this moment. Into this experience. Indeed, it felt just the opposite, as though this courageous, female explorer were calling to him.
And when she settled her hand in his without hesitation, without remorse, desire shot through him, quick and nearly unbearable.
He pulled her to him, kissing her thoroughly before leading her into the dark stairwell, closing the door behind them, plunging them into blackness.
“Michael?”
She whispered his name, and the sound, soft and decadent, was a siren’s call. He turned toward her, his hand squeezing hers, pulling her to stand on the first step with him, feeling his way to her waist, loving the way her body felt beneath his hands, the roundness of her hips, the soft swell of her stomach.
Her breath hitched as he lifted her to stand on the step above him. Her lips were even with hers now, and he stole a kiss, stroking deep, loving the taste of her, a drug of which he could never have enough.
He pulled away, just barely, and she sighed, the sound of her pleasure making him want her more than he’d ever imagined. He took her mouth again, and her hands came to his hair, her fingers tangling in his curls, tugging at them, making him wish they were naked, and she was guiding his mouth to where she wanted it most.
He growled at the fantasy and pulled away, grasping her hand in his and saying, “Not here. Not in the darkness. I want to see you.”
She kissed him, pressing her br**sts to his chest, robbing his breath, making him desperate for her, for her skin, her touch, the little cries that made him harder than stone. When she released him from the intoxicating caress, he found he’d lost his patience.
He wanted her that moment.
Immediately.