Page 33 of The Forsaken

Her eyes grew wide and her lips trembled.

Kerr deserved a whipping for acting like a brute. Yet none of it mattered the second his fingers stole under her cloak, grazed her bare shoulders or her breath hitched. His own became unsteady.

“You blasted scold!” He shook her slightly. “Pourquoi est-ce que je te veux?” Why do I want you? He yanked her onto his lap, grabbed her jaw, and crushed his mouth to hers.

Andromena went rigid, her hands braced to shove him off and strike his face.

No, he was wrong. Thank God.

The passionate chit curled her fingers into his lapels and pressed her full weight against him, a sudden shock before he realized she was kissing him back. This was nothing like the tame, careful parting they had shared on Ermine Street. The rough, demanding hunger of his kiss dragged small, breathless moans from her throat. She matched him stroke for stroke, her gloved fingers tangling, pulling, and clutching desperately at his hair.

His hands locked at her waist as she surged upward, curling her fingers into his lapels and slamming her full weight against him. The fierce, sudden friction scrambled his thoughts before he realized she was kissing him back. This wild surrender burned away the memory of that tame, careful parting on Ermine Street; the rough, demanding hunger in his own blood answered the breathless moans caught in her throat. He drove into the kiss, tasting her heat.

His cock begged for a role in the wicked dance he did with Andromena.

Her spirit would be a boon to the man who tamed her. But taming required marriage and marriage required a lifetime with the chit.

That should douse his ardor. It should. But it didn’t…which was why, it took a moment to register how still she’d become.

Kerr drew away first. Let Miss Andromena Smith express her doubts now; he had left no room for question. The lady’s flushed cheeks and bruised lips bearing the quiet, undeniable proof of his mastery.

Her untamed corkscrew curls framed her flushed cheeks.

He let out a low, rough breath, fighting the fierce, heavy drag of arousal burning through him. Kerr stroked the small of her back, a possessive brand to remind her, as much as himself, exactly who held the power and control between them.

He pulled his lips into a smug, triumphant grin. “Well?”

With a soft—he narrowed his eyes—regretful-sounding sigh, she slipped gracefully from his lap and found her seat.

“That was an improvement.” Andromena’s analytical gaze fixed him like a pinned insect under a scientist’s lens.

Kerr’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“But I still don’t see i-it,” she said.

That slight falter made her a liar. He heard every trembling note of it. After a lifetime of desperate beauties begging for his bed, he knew down to his bones that she wanted more, but her dismissiveness made his jaw lock. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes.

His military drilled discipline failed.

“Like hell you don’t,” he boomed, a heavy weight of anger bounced off the tight carriage walls.

The conveyance rocked to a halt.

Andromena gave a toss of her head as big as her disappointment. “As much as it pains me to rob you of the fight you’re clearly spoiling for, our time together is fortunately at an end.”

He’d been spoiling for something with her; the kind of wicked things that would have left her with her voluminous skirts and chemises rucked like a white cloud around her, as he took her even higher.

His revenge was swift, small, but immensely satisfying.

Andromena caught sight of the Earl and Countess of Culross’s moonlit courtyard and groaned. “You would burden my sister.”

“Lest you forget, Miss Smith, you were the one playing in St. Giles,” he testily reminded her.

“I was not playing.”

This again. Kerr pushed the curtain aside. He scoured the brick-enclosed stable quadrangle. His gaze found the clock tower at the center. Forty-seven bloody minutes past three o’clock. “If you wish to avoid causing distress to your family, govern your behavior accordingly.” Where in hell was Culross? His blasted friend—very swift approaching former friend—would have gotten the word he’d paid a fortune to send.

“The operative words being ‘govern my behavior’, Edgar. If I want to dance bare around the Rookeries, I’ll do so without permission; yours or anyone’s.”