Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

The gin. He blamed the gin. Liquor always made him maudlin and impulsive.

“Why, Rhys St. Maur,” she said, grinning, “was that flirtation?”

“No. I don’t know how to flirt.”

“Come now, be truthful.” She reached for the edge of his shirt collar and played with it coyly. Her voice husky, she said, “All this talk of marriage and destiny and fate—it’s all just a ploy to get into my bed, isn’t it?”

Was he really that drunk, or did she sound hopeful?

“No,” he said honestly. “No, it’s not.”

Though Holy God, the very idea of taking her to bed had him reeling. Pictures filled his mind. Wild, depraved pictures, like the etchings soldiers carried in their boots and bartered for greater value than gold. And thanks to the damned flames of gin licking away inside him, Rhys was powerfully tempted to act those pictures out, in the flesh. In her flesh. He wanted to find her softest, most secret place and lodge happily there, all night long.

Vulnerability flickered across her eyes. “Don’t you want me?”

Hell. Of course he wanted her. He wanted her so badly, his ears ached from clenching his jaw so tight. He wanted her so much, he could have pushed against this doorpost like Samson and brought down the whole damned inn.

But he’d made that mistake yesterday—pushing too hard, too fast.

He forced a casual smile. “I’m saving myself for the wedding night.”

Her burst of surprised laughter drew his gaze to her mouth, and there his gaze gladly lingered. She had lovely lips. A dusky pink shade, richer red toward the center. The lower one plumper than the top. Hers was a pretty face, but not a soft one. Her cheekbones sat high and proud. She had a determined set to her brow and jaw, and her chin tapered to a decisive point. But her mouth was a soft, lush, vulnerable curve in the midst of all that strength and resolve.

He wanted—no, needed—to taste it.

“No,” he whispered, standing straight and framing her delicate face in his big, gnarled hands. “I won’t take you to my bed just yet. But I’ll take that kiss tonight.”

Chapter Seven

And take it he did, before Meredith even had time to draw breath. He pressed his lips to hers quickly, as if she might change her mind if he gave her the chance, or as if he might change his. The timing was off, and their lips mashed together at the wrong angle, and her eyes were still open.

For a moment, she felt fourteen again. Awkward, uncertain. Painfully aware of everything but the joy of being kissed.

But then he tilted her face a degree, and his mouth shifted a fraction against hers. She remembered to close her eyes.

And suddenly, they fit. Suddenly, this kiss was everything. And she still felt fourteen again, but in that blissful, giddy way of tumbling headlong down a rocky slope with no thought for caution, no purpose but to chase exhilaration and joy.

Rhys St. Maur was kissing her.

And it was wonderful.

They remained that way for an improbably long time, mouths pressed together in tender innocence. He made no move to part her lips or explore her mouth with his tongue, though she would have gladly allowed it. If he’d wished, he could have taken everything. But he didn’t even try. He just kissed her softly, over and over again. The corners of her mouth. Her top lip, then the bottom. Sweet little sips of gin and heat.

When at last he pulled back, she instinctively raised her hands to cover his, pressing them tight against her face and forbidding him to release her. The thought struck her that she could have been touching him all the while. She could have been stroking his hair, or smoothing her palms over the hard planes of his shoulders and chest.

Damn, she was a fool.

But she settled for this, dragging her thumbs over the back of his hands, tracing the delicate crooks between his fingers, and finally encircling his thick, corded wrists as she opened her eyes.

“That was …” He looked down at her with a strangely puzzled expression. “That was nice.”

“Yes. Quite.”

He slid his hands from her face. She reluctantly released his wrists.

With a self-conscious clearing of the throat, he reached behind him, groping for the latch. “Well, it’s late. I suppose I’d better be …”

“Wait.”

To hell with feeling fourteen again. And to the devil with “nice.”

With decisive speed, Meredith grabbed him by the collar, hauled herself up on tiptoe, and kissed him, hard.

He stumbled back against the door, and the moment of shock jarred his lips apart. She slid her tongue straight through that window of opportunity. That was all it took. Now he really, truly kissed her back. Mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. Desire evident.