Page 78 of When the Scoundrel Sins
He leaned on his shoulder against the doorjamb and smiled down at her. For a moment she couldn’t believe he wasn’t a figment from her imagination, but she knew he had to be real. Because only the real Quinton could stir such confusion and yearning inside her, a riot of it leaving her not knowing whether to throw herself into his arms or throttle him. And for a moment not caring which as long as her hands were on him.
“Invite me inside,” he murmured softly. His deep voice twined down her spine and blossomed goose bumps on her bare arms.
Taking a deep breath, she held her ground and prayed he couldn’t see how he made her tremble. “That wouldn’t be proper.”
He trailed a searing look down her front that told her exactly how little he cared for proper. That look cascaded memories through her of every breath-stealing kiss he’d ever given her, every delicious touch, and she shivered beneath his audacity.
As if he knew what confused desires he flamed inside her, he quirked the corner of his mouth higher with amusement. “Can’t a man visit his fiancée?”
“I’m not your fiancée.” She forced a playful tone, despite the hollow ache in her chest. “Haven’t you heard? I’m an heiress now. You don’t have to marry me to save Glenarvon.”
Breathing deeply to steady herself, she longed to touch him, to brush her fingers through his mussed hair that even now had a golden lock lying rakishly over his forehead. But she wasn’t naïve enough to think that it would stop with such an innocent touch and tucked her traitorous hands behind her back.
His eyes captured hers as he murmured, “What if I want to marry you anyway?”
Her breath caught painfully, her throat and nose stinging with emotion. She whispered breathlessly, “You don’t.”
“But I do. Let me in, and I’ll prove it.” He purred those words so wolfishly that a flush of heat rose in her cheeks, and his eyes sparkled at the reaction he drew from her. “Besides, I want to give you your birthday gift.”
A bittersweet knot tightened in her chest that he cared enough about her to bring her a gift, to come to her bedchamber tonight…yet not enough to love her. “Someone might see you here.”
He lifted a brow in challenge. “Then invite me inside so they don’t.”
Biting her lip, she hesitated. She should turn him away, make him leave—and with that, to possibly lose her last chance ever to be alone with him, to be held safe and secure in his arms.
“Please, Belle.” He told her honestly, “I’d very much like to come in and talk.”
“Talk?” she asked dubiously.
“Perhaps more.” His half grin blossomed into a wicked smile. “But we’ll never know if you don’t let me in.”
A voice inside her head screamed in warning, but even that wasn’t enough to tamp down the ache of desire she felt for him. Unable to deny herself the happiness of being with him, she stepped back to let him slip inside her room. She silently closed the door behind him, then paused to draw a deep breath before she turned the lock.
Quinn set the satchel he carried down on her reading chair and faced her. His sultry gaze swept languidly over her, from unruly locks to bare toes and back again, and everywhere he looked, heat prickled beneath her skin. The now familiar ache began to rise inside her, and her breath turned shallow and jerky. Her body knew now what he was capable of doing to hers, and she longed for those wonderful sensations again. Just as she knew that only Quinton would ever be able to make her feel such pleasure, such freedom and joy.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she protested weakly, unable to keep the aching tremor from her voice.
“You’re beautiful.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Trying to ignore that, she sucked in a deep breath to steady herself. “We shouldn’t be alone like this.”
“Verybeautiful.”
Exasperated, she sagged her shoulders at his attempt to charm away her frustrations. “Quinton—”
He stepped slowly to her, then took her chin and tipped her face up to tenderly kiss her lips.
Belle closed her eyes, overcome by the nearness of him, his masculinity filling her senses.
She shifted closer. The heat of his hard body against her soft one made her tingle everywhere they touched, and his lips kissed hers so thoroughly that already she craved more. That secret space between her legs throbbed for him, with a need only he could satisfy. Why Quinton Carlisle, of all men, created this desperate longing inside her, she simply couldn’t fathom. But he did just that.
He didn’t love her, but he did desire her. And tonight, their only night together, that would have to be enough.
His mouth left hers to dance light kisses along her jaw to her ear, then down to the bare stretch of flesh where her neck curved into her shoulder. He ran his hand over the scooped neck of her night rail, stealing a caress of his fingers across the top swells of her breasts.
“You truly are beautiful tonight, Annabelle,” he murmured.
That was a lie if ever she heard one. Her cheeks flushed at being caught wearing this old nightgown, which covered her in a formless tent of white cotton from wrists to ankles. “I am not, not in this frumpy old thing.” And certainly not with a red nose and eyes from crying.
