Page 37 of Winter's Waltz
He tugged her closer. Into his lean, strong body. “But there are different sorts of trouble, empress. Good trouble and bad trouble.”
She had a feeling the trouble he wanted to embroil her in was the bad variety. The very wicked, sinful, delicious sort.
“There is only one kind of trouble,” she argued. “And that is why it must be avoided at all costs.”
He brought her ink-stained fingers to his lips, kissing each knuckle one by one. “Generally speaking, I find you to be a wise woman, Genevieve Winter. But on this matter, I regret to inform you that you are decidedly wrong.”
No man had ever kissed her knuckles before. The graze of Sundenbury’s mouth over her bare skin was incendiary. She felt it all the way to her toes. Her hands had never seemed extraordinary before. They were useful tools, the means by which she performed any number of tasks. But the Marquess of Sundenbury had just rendered them remarkable. She did not think she could ever look upon her hands again without recalling the brand of his kiss on her knuckles.
“I am not wrong,” she forced herself to say. “You are trouble, Marquess. Wicked trouble. Wrong trouble. Distracting trouble. Bloody foolish trouble.”
“Good trouble.” His grin faded, his countenance going serious. “I want to kiss you again.”
Her treacherous heart was racing. Her faithless mouth fairly tingled at the prospect.
She wet her lips. “Kissing is also trouble. I have a hell to open and fire damage to repair and an unknown enemy trying to ruin me and ledgers to balance.”
“All those things sound more like trouble.” He kissed the knuckles of her other hand, lingering on her thumb, then turned that lovely mouth of his upon her wrist.
The inner part, where she was most sensitive.
She was melting. Gen was sure of it.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
But there was nothing cutting in her voice. No force. No sense of urgency. Because she did not want him to stop.
“Kissing you.” His smile returned, a flash of white, his warm, brown gaze laden with intent. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”
She swallowed. “E-everywhere?”
Hell, who was this simpering woman, draping her body against this handsome lord’s? She did not recognize herself.
“Everywhere.” He kissed her other wrist, then tugged her nearer still, until they were completely aligned, bodies pressed together. He guided her hands to his shoulders and dipped his head to her throat. “Here, on your neck where you are so soft and sensitive.” His lips moved over her eager flesh as he spoke. “Here behind your ear.” He kissed her there. “On your jaw.” There, too. “Your cheek.” Kiss. “Nose.” Kiss. “And most especially your lips.”
“Sundenbury,” she whispered, lost in his thrall. Their mouths brushed as she spoke, but still, he did not kiss her there where he had stopped.
“Max,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers gently.
Gen had never swooned in her life. But she thought she might now.
“Max,” she agreed.
“Good empress.” And then he rewarded her with the kiss she had been waiting for.
Their mouths sealed. There was only one hunger burning inside her now, and it had nothing to do with the need for sustenance and everything to do with desire for the man holding her close, kissing her with such a delirious blend of tenderness and carnality.
The fingers he had tantalized grasped his coat, pulling him nearer. Desperate to have more of him. He exuded not just heat but something more potent. The thick ridge of him pressed into her belly through the thin layers of their garments. She kissed him back, with more force and intensity than he had expected. He stumbled backward, bringing her with him, into the desk.
There was the sound of something upending. Likely her inkwell. Gen did not care. He was on the desk, and he pulled her atop him so that she was astride his lap, her knees on unforgiving wood. The shift in position had his cockstand pressing against the aching apex of her limbs. She rocked against him, the friction making her moan, sending sparks to her most sensitive parts.
His hands were on her thighs, caressing a path of fire. His tongue was in her mouth. He tasted sweet, like honey. He must have sampled one of the forgotten cakes. Her fingers sank into his hair, sliding through those soft, dark strands. She kissed him with all the fury and frenzy within. His hands moved to her bottom, squeezing. She rocked on him again, spurred on by his kisses and by overwhelming need burning hot inside her.
She tried to tell herself this was wrong.
That kissing noblemen could only lead to the worst sort of trouble.
That she had a hell to rebuild, a business to start.
