Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

She tilted her head toward the stairs. The low rumble of voices rose up even now, faintly mocking to Evan’s ears.

“I found the company below not to my taste.”

He’d meant to reassure her, but instead she rolled her eyes and pushed to her feet.

“What will you tell the rest of them?” she asked almost conversationally. “Will you tell them that you found me in disarray? Will you and your cousin gloat that you finally broke me?”

She took one step toward him. If she’d had a knife in her hand, he suspected he’d have been bleeding already. But instead, the sleeve of her gown shifted and spilled down her shoulder.

“I told you I was sorry. I would never do anything to hurt you further.”

Her eyes widened. “Never?” She took another step forward and pushed the heel of her hand into his shoulder—not hard, but not gentle either. “You must think I’m stupid. And why wouldn’t you? I’ve acted the buffoon long enough.”

Her left hand rose and she gave him another little shove.

“All this time I’ve let everyone think that I’m easy game—that all you have to do is abuse me a little and you’ll have your fun. But I am done with that. The next time you push me, I will push back. What can I lose? It is not as if you could respect me less.”

“I never thought you easy game,” Evan protested. “In fact, you always seemed remarkably elusive.”

“Don’t lie to me. I let you hurt me every time. Every time I looked away. Every time I pretended not to hear your vicious remarks. There was never any cost to you when you hurt me.” Her face was beginning to turn bright pink in blotches. It should have been unbecoming, especially as her eyes were red with irritation—but by God, she positively smoldered.

“Not easy to insult,” he explained. “I thought you impossible to pin down, to unmask. To…to catch.”

“To catch? Whatever do you mean?”

She stood close to him, so close that he could have reached out and run his hand around the impressive curve of her bosom, sliding her sleeves from her shoulders as he did so. And at that uncertain twinge in her voice, all his reason shut down—all reason but the clean smell of her hair, the brilliant shine in her eyes.

And so he leaned in and kissed her.

She tensed in shock as his arms snaked around her. She was so hot against his lips—blazing hot—and soft all over. He had just an instant to savor the taste of her.

She wriggled away from him, glowering. “I see how this is. The poor little spinster—I’m so needy and desperate that you think I’ll surrender my virtue at the first opportunity.”

“No,” he breathed. He was the needy one, the desperate one. He needed to think, but his thoughts were slipping from his grasp. It didn’t help when her breasts lifted with every inhalation.

She put one finger on the edge of her wayward sleeve. “Well.” Her words were sharp, but her hand trembled. “Maybe I am.” And then she slid the fabric down her arm, exposing creamy skin.

His lungs were in agony. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think anything except—oh God, please keep going.

“Maybe I am desperate.” Her voice was low. “I have nothing to look forward to but decades of loneliness. Maybe all I ask for is one night of passion.” She glanced up at him through thick eyelashes. “Is that what I am supposed to say? I’m supposed to beg you for a night?”

“Yes.” The word came out before he could think better.

The corner of her mouth curled in distaste, but she didn’t draw back.

“I mean, no. I mean—” He wasn’t sure what he meant, but his erection was growing. He would mean anything, if he could just kiss her again.

“Maybe I am supposed to beg you to make a woman of me.”

“Hell.” Lust had always made him stupid. “You don’t have to beg.” His voice grew hoarse. “I’ve—look, I’ve always wanted you.”

Stupid he might be, but even he could tell that something was wrong. Her nose scrunched in an adorably pugnacious fashion and she glared up at him.

“Always,” she whispered, her voice silky. “Of course. How obvious. There is one little problem, isn’t there, Westfeld? I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t.”

“You see,” she continued, “I am very vulnerable—and you are not. Not at all.”

That brought another heated image to mind—this time, of how vulnerable he would be if he placed himself in her hands. Literally. He groaned, and tried to suppress the vision, but it was replaced by another—his kneeling before her, lifting her skirts—and another, in which she ran her hands all over him.

Not good. He needed to think with his brain, not his hardening prick. But she reached up and hooked her finger underneath her other sleeve, and all he could think of was her gown unfastened to her waist, her corset undone, and her breasts spilling out.

“Christ,” he swore aloud.