Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) By Alexandra Ivy
A TASTE OF SIN
“Clara . . . my sweet angel . . . I want to taste of you,” he husked, holding her gaze with smoldering need. “Will you allow me?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, the unwitting motion clenching the muscles of his thighs.
“Taste?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Why?”
“Not everything has a reasonable explanation, Miss Dawson. Indeed, there are some things that should be left a mystery.”
“Such as kisses?”
“Such as kisses.” He stepped until her soft curves were pressed to his own. Still holding her face in his hands, he lowered his head until he was a breath from her lips. “Give me leave, Clara. I will not steal what should be offered freely.”
“Yes,” she at last whispered. “Yes.”
With a groan he softly touched her lips, fiercely reminding himself she was an innocent. Certainly there was passion enough beneath her proper manner, but she had no experience with the darker desires. He must take care not to startle her with his hunger.
Unfortunately, his silent lecture did nothing to prepare him for the satin sweetness of her mouth. Barely sweeping over her lips, he gasped as a flood of pleasure surged through his body.
He had expected to enjoy her. A lot.
But this . . . this was magic . . .
Chapter One
It was a typical spring evening in London.
Damp, foggy, and exquisitely miserable. The sort of weather that should have made any reasonable gentleman consider staying nicely tucked by the fire. Or better yet, immigrating to India with all possible speed.
Of course, English gentlemen were a rare breed.
While they might be incapable of tying their own cravat, or removing their boots without a small legion of servants, they would not so much as bat an eye at braving the most formidable weather.
Earthquake, flood, or monsoon, nothing was allowed to interfere with the nightly round of entertainments.
Especially when that entertainment included a few indulgent hours spent at Hellion’s Den.
Once a coffee shop that had catered to the various artists spattered about the capital, the narrow, decidedly shabby building had been purchased by Hellion Caulfield and Lord Bidwell to create an exclusive gambling club.
Since its opening last year it had become a favorite gathering for the gentlemen of society.
Dandies, rakes, rogues, and a sprinkling of hardened gamblers were stuffed into the smoky interior.
And then there was Rutherford Hawksley.
No one could claim him a frivolous dandy, nor did rake or rogue entirely suit him.
Oh, he was handsome enough to make any woman forget to say no. Quite often they forgot to say anything at all. Drooling and swooning was by far the more likely response.
Perfectly reasonable.
His features were lean and perfectly carved. He possessed a long, aquiline nose, a broad forehead, and high cheekbones that gave a hint of exotic beauty to his countenance. His eyes were an indigo blue and surrounded by a fringe of black lashes. And if he were not blessed enough, he possessed a set of dimples that could flash with devastating results.
But while women had always and would always lust after him, and more than a few knew the pleasure of his intimate touch, the past months had wrought a change in the once devil-may-care Hawksley.
No longer did he tease and charm his way through society. No longer did he shock London with his madcap dares. No longer was there a ready smile and hint of laughter in the astonishing blue eyes.
Instead there was a hard edge to his features and a hint of ruthless determination about him that kept the women casting longing glances from a safe distance and wise gentlemen stepping out of his path.
On this evening he was attired in his familiar black with his long raven hair pulled into a queue with a satin ribbon. In the muted candlelight a diamond flashed on his ear with cold beauty and the scar that ran the length of his jaw was thrown in sharp relief.
Seated at a private table, he sprawled in his seat with elegant ease. An ease that did nothing to disguise the air of lethal power in his lean form.
He looked precisely what he was.
Coiled danger ready to spring.
Unfortunately, Lord Pendleton, who was currently in the chair across the small table, was far too infuriated to appreciate the risk of baiting the young nobleman. In one short hour he had lost three hundred quid. Not such a terribly large sum, but one he could ill afford to hand over. Especially since his harridan of a wife had threatened to tell her father of his gambling habits.
The clutch-fisted old gudgeon was bound to pull the purse strings even tighter.
God rot his soul.
Tossing his cards onto the table, he glared into Hawksley’s unfashionably dark countenance. His annoyance was not lessened by the fact that the . . . the dastard was utterly impassive despite the stack of vowels piled indecently before him.
“You seem to be in the luck yet again, Hawksley,” the older man growled.
“So it would seem.”
“Some might even say unnatural luck.”
Hawksley narrowed his gaze. He had sensed his opponent’s frustration early in the game. The fool had been well outmatched, but like most noblemen he had been too proud to admit his incompetence. For such a gentleman it was far preferable to blunder along, somehow hoping that lightning might strike and avert the inevitable disaster.
Rather like clinging to a horse as it tumbled off a cliff.
As a rule Hawksley was content to toy with such prey and move on when they began to twitch. Why bleed a poor bloke dry? It only provoked an ugly scene. And besides which, there was always a ready supply of dupes anxious to hand over their allowance.
On this evening, however, he did not possess the luxury of time.
During the past fortnight he had devoted his nights to shadowing a certain Lord Doulton through the fashionable balls, routes, and assemblies of London. Not to mention the less fashionable brothels that clogged the Dials. It had left precious little opportunity to earn his livelihood.
Now he was without money, without credit, and his rent was due. He needed a bit of the ready if he weren’t to be tossed into the streets of the stews. A fate that did not suit his current plans.
And the blustering Pendleton had been the perfect pigeon.
Folding the vowels in his slender fingers, Hawksley tucked them into the pocket of his jacket.
“I prefer to think of it as skill rather than luck,” he drawled.
“Skill?” The older man’s face was becoming an ugly shade of pink, as if his cravat were choking him. “I could name another word for it.”
“Take care, Pendleton. My temper is rarely dependable and I should take great offense if you were to cast aspersion on my honor.”
“Arrogant pup, I shall say whatever I damn well please.”
Hawksley smiled his cold smile. “Only if you happen to be anxious for a dawn appointment.”
There was a moment of shock at the blunt warning. “Are you threatening me?”
Hawksley shrugged. He was in no mood to soothe the twit’s wounded pride. He had the man’s money. Now he wanted him to leave.
“Merely clarifying your options, Pendleton. You can accept your loss and walk away with a bit of dignity, or we can meet tomorrow on the field of honor.”
The pink countenance became puce and then an intriguing shade of purple.
For a crazed moment the older man seemed on the brink of utter stupidity. Thankfully the moment passed and he awkwardly rose to his feet.
“Fah, you aren’t worth the cost of a bullet.”
Hawksley had devoted a lifetime to disappointing and aggravating others, and the insult slid off without drawing so much as a wince.