Page 27 of Winter's Waltz
Desperately.
Enough to ask him to bed her in the midst of the day after her kitchens had been set ablaze the night before. After her hopes and dreams, her entire future as the proprietress of Lady Fortune, were all in terrible danger.
He kissed her sinuously, deliciously. The marquess may be a horrible gambler, but he was a tremendous kisser. So tremendous. He did things…Oh, hell.She did not know what he did. Her brain was turning to ash, rivaling the heaps surrounding them in the destroyed kitchens.
His hands were on her, moving now. Caressing. Grasping her bottom, fingers kneading the tender flesh through her trousers, yanking her more firmly against him. And her thigh was rubbing against his cock. There was no question of what part of his anatomy she was brushing against. He was long and thick and hard. Which meant he wanted her. Molly had said that when a man was crazed with lust, his rod swelled and grew stiff, and the only answer for it was a sound frigging.
Curiosity stirred. The same curiosity that had once almost gotten her into so much trouble. But this time, it would not be quelled. She was older and, she hoped, wiser. Her lesson had been learned. There would be no trusting this handsome lord who could not keep from losing every ha’penny his father had ever bestowed upon him. She was beyond being manipulated or easily led astray; she would do what she wanted, as she wished.
Her hands left his hair. She touched him everywhere she could, investigating the breadth of his shoulders, the muscled wall of his chest, the strength of his arms. For a spoiled lord, he was all cord and sinew, delicious for her fingertips to explore. And explore him she did, as she kissed him back with all the desire clamoring within her, begging to be released, to be answered.
That would be a mistake, and she knew it.
More of a mistake than allowing him into her chamber this morning had been. Aye, he had slept on the floor as he had promised, Arthur as his bedfellow, but there were bonds being forged between them. A closeness she could not like.
And still she kissed him, her lips moving hungrily in response to his, her tongue sliding against his. Still, she allowed her head to fall back against the wall when he dragged his mouth down her throat. When he opened his mouth, sucking the flesh, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin, her knees almost went weak.
She clutched his shoulders, attempting to remain upright. This was the distraction she needed from the devastation which had been wrought. Until she became aware of a throat being cleared. Of a discreet cough. Then another, not so discreet.
That sound punched its way through the lusty fog clouding her mind. Her eyes opened, and over Sundenbury’s shoulder, she spied Peter. Peter whose jaw was clenched, and who bore the look of a man who was deuced uncomfortable. He was trusted, plucked from The Devil’s Spawn, something like an additional brother to her. Protective to a fault. She knew Peter would give his life for hers.
She also knew there had to be a damned good reason for him to linger and dare interrupt her. She braced her palms on the marquess’s shoulders and pushed at the same moment she addressed Peter.
“What is it, Peter?” she asked curtly, hating herself for the breathlessness in her voice.
Not the first time since Sundenbury’s arrival here in her territory. Ought to make it the last.
For his part, Sundenbury stiffened and straightened, shielding her from Peter’s view with his body, as if to protect her modesty. Silly man. She had none.
“Your brothers are here, Gen,” Peter said quietly, before disappearing as stealthily as he had arrived.
“Fuck,” she swore soundly, shoving harder at Sundenbury’s chest. “Some sodding distance, Blunderbury.”
If her brothers burst into the kitchens now, with what she and the marquess had been doing clear, she shuddered to think what would happen. Nor would she ever hear the end of it.
Too late.
Dom, Devil, Blade, Demon, and Gav stormed past Peter, countenances all as stony as if they were about to gut a man with their weapons.
“What the hell has happened?” demanded her eldest brother, Dom.
“And why are you standing so close to Gen, Sundenbury?” growled Devil.
She winced. This little interview was not going to go well.
* * *
Hell.
Of all the times when the burned remnants of a gaming hell’s kitchens were invaded by a horde of Winters…
Max would have chuckled at the sheer ludicrousness of such a thought had he not just been kissing the sister of said Winter horde senseless mere moments ago. And were he not currently sporting a cockstand roughly the size of London. Fortunately, the cockstand was subsiding as a result of being pinned beneath the blistering glare of Devil Winter, husband of his sister Evie.
“Miss Winter had soot on her face,” he improvised. “I was attempting to aid her in its removal.”
Belatedly, he extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat and held it aloft.
Not particularly convincing.
