The Rogue Not Taken
As though she heard the thoughts, Sophie moved again, leaning forward, her hand coming to his knee in a thoroughly inappropriate gesture. Inappropriate, and desperately welcome, as it chased the thoughts away.
He wanted her to chase everything away.
Everything but this moment. Her. Them.
He moved, crossing the dark carriage, filling the bench next to her and threading his fingers through hers, something about the simple touch tempting him more than anything had ever tempted him.
Something about her tempting him.
Her breath caught in her throat at the touch, and pleasure shot through him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. “Sophie,” he whispered, her name echoing around them.
“Yes?” she asked, so quietly he barely heard her.
“You said you wished to experience the bits and pieces of it.” He spoke close to her ear, where she smelled of honey and spice.
“The bits and pieces of love.”
One of his hands slid up to her jaw, his fingers threading into her hair. “Would you like me to show you this bit?” He nipped at the skin on her opposite jaw, scraping his teeth there until she gasped at the pleasure of it. “This piece?”
The darkness made it all better.
His lips found hers, stealing a heartbeat of a kiss before he moved to worship at her throat. “We aren’t supposed to like each other.” Her words came on a sigh.
“Don’t worry. We don’t.”
What a lie that was.
Chapter 12
ROGUE’S REIGN
OF RAVISHMENT RESURGES
She shouldn’t allow it.
The man was a legendary scoundrel. An expert ruiner of young ladies. And he’d never once been punished for it. Perhaps because he was so very good at it. It seemed a shame to punish someone for what was clearly a remarkable skill.
But still, she shouldn’t allow it. She should tell him to stop . . . stop the way his fingers threaded through her hair . . . the way they played gently over her skin and the too-tight fabric of her dress . . . the way his lips pressed soft, lingering kisses along her neck as he made his wicked promises to show her the bits and pieces of love.
Of course, it wasn’t love he promised. It was the rest—the unsettling, carnal bit. The bit she’d been imagining since the night of her bath, when he’d stood mere feet away from her, his back turned, his shoulders wide, and she’d washed herself, wishing, strangely, that it had been he washing her.
The bit she’d wanted even more once he’d kissed her in false passion in the Warbling Wren. She’d wanted that kiss to last forever and ever.
But he’d never indicated that he desired such a thing—not until tonight, when darkness had fallen and their conversation had become somehow more honest and clandestine. And he’d told her his secrets and she’d accidentally touched him.
It hadn’t been an accident, though.
She’d wanted to touch him. She’d wanted him to touch her.
And then he had, and it was glorious.
She didn’t care that she shouldn’t allow it.
He lifted his lips from where they played at the place where her neck met her shoulder and placed them at her ear, speaking, the words low and dark and full of wicked intent. “Tell me.”
He sucked the lobe of her ear and made everything worse. Or better. She wasn’t sure. It was difficult to form thought. “Tell you?”
“Would you like me to show you this bit?”
Yes. Yes yes yes.
She swallowed, knowing instinctively that if she said no, he would stop. But she did not wish to say no. She wished to say yes. Most definitely. Without question. If ever there were a time when she wanted something, it was now. He scraped his teeth over her skin, sending a shiver of delight through her. She gasped her answer, “Please.”
She could hear the grin in his reply. “So polite.”
She pulled away from him. “I’m grateful for the offer.”
He laughed then, the sound a promise of something wonderful and wicked. “It is I who should be grateful, my lady.” And then his lips were on hers once more, and she was lost, the darkness making everything more illicit and somehow more acceptable, as though no one would ever discover their actions. As though this place, this night, this journey was nothing more than a dream that would disappear with the light of day.
And it would. The Marquess of Eversley was not for girls like Sophie. Uninteresting, unbeautiful. But in the darkness, she could pretend otherwise. And this night would keep her in memories for an eternity.
“What bits, in particular, Sophie?” He was at her ear again, his fingers stroking at the edge of her bodice, where her breasts strained for release against the too-tight lacing. “What has you curious?”
Her cheeks should have been flaming at the question, but the darkness made her bold. “All of it,” she said.
He laughed at the words. “No,” he said, moving his hand away, teasing her. “That’s not enough. Tell me, specifically.”
“I don’t know,” she said, the words coming on a wave of frustration. “Touch me again.”
“Where?”
Everywhere.
“Sophie,” he beckoned, like the devil at the door to hell.
She fought for thought. “A few years ago, I saw . . .” She trailed off, shocked by what she was about to tell him.
He stilled against her. “Don’t stop there, darling. What did you see?”
“I stumbled upon a stable hand. And a maid.”
“Go on.”
She shook her head.
“Where were you?”
“Looking for a place to read.”