He spun around and crossed the room in two steps. If Lorrie hadn’t been so surprised at the quick movement, she would have dashed for the door. The expression on the Viking’s face was pure rage. Paralyzed by the crackle of danger surrounding him, she didn’t resist when he backed her up against the desk, placing one hand on either side of her waist. “I am not stupid.”
“And Francis said you were,” she whispered, her voice refusing to cooperate and leave her some semblance of pride. He’d bent low to look her in the eye, and she couldn’t help but notice his eyes were pretty this close. They looked warmer.
“Francis said a lot of things, most of them no more true than what my so-called father vomited up in that letter.”
“Oh.” She saw how it had been then. She could picture the Viking’s childhood quite clearly now. He’d been a smaller version of himself, but still taller than the other boys and probably awkward in his skin. If he’d had trouble reading, the other children might have teased him. Had he fought back? Possibly, but he was bigger than the other boys and probably punished for what he saw as defending himself and what others might see as an unfair advantage.
But the worst of it was that his own father hadn’t believed him. He’d taken the side of his nephew over that of his son. It would not be a difficult choice. The Viking could be stubborn and terse and so silent it might seem sullen. Francis was charming and amiable and quick to smile or make a room full of people laugh.
“All of this happened when you were but children. Surely you and Francis have put all of that behind you.” She knew it wasn’t true even as she spoke the words. In her mind, she’d wanted to protect Francis by assuming his complaints to his uncle had been taken out of context or were made out of frustration because he was denied access to her.
But this was nothing more than flattery. The same self-flattery that made her believe the Viking had desired her that night in the prince’s gardens. He’d kissed her because he wanted her to forget Francis. He’d taken this position with her family for revenge.
“I won’t be put in the middle of this,” she said.
“You seem to think you are the center of the universe.”
Lorrie pushed back on his chest to no avail. “Are you saying I am conceited?”
“No. I’m saying you think you’re the center of the universe.”
“Mr. Mostyn—”
“My quarrel with my cousin has nothing to do with you. You are that piece on the chessboard. He’s using you.”
“The piece—a pawn?” Her cheeks flamed hot. “I am not a pawn, sir.”
“You were even before I met you. He wants your dowry, so he makes you believe you are in love with him and, worse yet, that he loves you. Now he uses you to turn my father further against me.”
She huffed out a breath. “I think you quite capable of turning people against you all by yourself.”
He smiled slightly, and she found she liked it when he smiled. His lips looked so much more kissable when he did that.
But she did not want to kiss him.
Very well—that was a lie. Still, she would not kiss him again. And then she was speaking without thinking again. “Did you kiss me to exact revenge on your cousin?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t pretend, and I don’t lie. I kissed you because someone had to show you Francis Mostyn is not the only man in the world.”
“I know that—”
“And because I wanted to.”
“You…” Her throat had gone dry. “You wanted to?”
His hands moved in so his fingers brushed against the material of her night robe. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
“And right now?” She swallowed. “What do you want to do?”
“This.”
*
He yanked her against him and tilted her chin up with one hand. Even as his mouth lowered to meet hers, he knew this was a mistake. He was under her father’s roof. He might not be much of a gentleman, but he liked to think he had his own code of honor. Debauching virgin daughters under their fathers’ roofs was well out of the bounds of his code.
Even knowing this, he didn’t stop. He’d wanted to kiss her again since the first dance of the evening. He’d watched her dance at least four dozen dances with half as many partners, and it had been all part of the position.
Until tonight.
Tonight he had hated the men dancing with her. He’d wanted to rip their hands from her shoulder or her arm, tear their heads from their bodies, and smash the men’s faces into the first blunt object he encountered. He’d tamped the urge down, but all the frustration of inaction had built up. And now the foolish chit had put herself within his reach. How long could a man resist this sort of temptation?
He was no longer content to stand on the outside and look in.
His lips met hers, and the sensation was even better than it had been the first time. He’d thought he’d imagined the punch of arousal in his gut and the dimming of the world around them. But it was happening again. He wanted her so badly it hurt, and he could hardly remember where he was or why he must not take her.
He was not a man of subtlety, and he did not tease her lips open. He took what he wanted, claiming her mouth as though it was a prize on the battlefield. If she’d only fought him or resisted, even slightly, he would have stopped. For all his size and strength, he was no brute.
“Yes,” she moaned against his mouth. “This. This.”
Ewan tore his lips from hers, his breath coming in heavy pants. “You should run.”
She blinked eyes so dark green they reminded him of the deepest recesses of a forest glen. “Why?” Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he could feel her small, slim body press against him. He forced his hands to stay at her waist. He might have broken her in two with one quick movement.
“The things I’m thinking right now should scare you.”
Her eyes widened, but not with fear. “Tell me.”
“Goddamn it!” He tried to move away from her, but she held on to his neck, and he didn’t have the will to remove her hands.
“You might as well call me Lorrie.”
“No. This is your father’s house. We cannot do this.”
“Do what?”
He held his hands out to indicate their embrace. “This.”
“What if we weren’t here—”
“You are a duke’s daughter.”
“What if I wasn’t?” Her hands slid up his neck to tangle in his shorn hair. “What if I was a trollop? What would you do to me?”
He shook his head. “That’s a dangerous conversation.”
“Would you toss up my skirts?”
“Yes.” He’d tear every stitch of clothing off her.
“Would you touch me?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Everywhere. “Go to bed.”
“Would you push me back on the desk and stand between my parted legs?”
“No.”
“No?” The disappointment practically dripped from her lips. What the hell sort of virgin was she to speak so shamelessly?
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because I’d rather take you from behind.”
“Behind?” Her brow furrowed in that way he could not seem to cease finding adorable.
“Like this.” He spun her around and cupped a hand around her neck. He shoved her none too gently toward the desk and pushed her down until her round bottom was level with his cock. This would scare her back to sense. He pressed his hard member against that soft flesh and leaned close to her ear. “Is this what you want?”