Page 39 of A Wicked Game

He was the last person in London she should trust. And yet she did.

“Oh, fine,” she huffed. “Go ahead. Do your worst.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I intend to do my verybest.”

A nervous thrill of anticipation twisted low in her belly.

He raised the scarf and wrapped it over her eyes, abruptly cutting off her vision. His arms brushed her ears as he reached around and tied a tight knot at the back of her head. Darkness consumed her.

This must be what it’s like for Father.

All of her other senses came alive. She became aware of the pounding of her own heart, the soft crackle and heat of the fire against her legs. A disturbance in the air told her that Morgan was standing right in front of her. He was looking at her: Even without sight she could feel his gaze burning her skin.

She really was crossing the line, in more ways than one. This was stepping beyond the personal boundaries she’d always set with him. They were heading into uncharted territory.

She cleared her throat and tried to maintain a pragmatic tone. “So, what happens to the griffins next?”

“Oh, all manner of foolish things. Sometimes they’re made to do ridiculous tasks, like walk the plank into a bath full of water, or they’re ‘baptized’ by being thrown overboard and rescued.”

His voice was hypnotic, deep and gravelly. “But most of the time we just paint their faces with tar, then ‘shave’ them with a rusty iron ring.”

Harriet gave a little start as the pad of his thumb brushed across her cheek, and then her lips, as if anointing her own face. His fingers slid up to cup her jaw, and his thumb rolled down her lower lip.

Her whole body tightened.

His thumbnail clicked against her teeth, and she had the oddest urge to part her lips and suck it into her mouth, but before she could make sense of that, his warm breath sloughed over her cheek.

And then the tip of his tongue traced the same path his thumb had taken, along her lips.

Harriet jolted in shock, but he withdrew, leaving her lips moist and tingling.

“Was that—kiss number two?”

His low chuckle did sinful things to her insides. She clenched her thighs together to try to ease the heavy ache that had started there.

“You wish. That wasn’t a kiss; that was a lick. You taste like champagne.”

His hand was still cupping her cheek. Slowly, so slowly she almost screamed, he slid it down the side of her neck until he reached the buttons of her shirt. He clucked his tongue.

“I thought I told you to wear something low-cut.”

Her stomach somersaulted at the teasing gravel inhis voice. That same voice had filled her most forbidden nighttime fantasies. Now it shimmered across her nerve endings like rough silk.

“This shirt seriously hampers my plans.” He toyed with the first button. “May I?”

Harriet struggled to find her voice. “Yes.”

He popped open the first button. And the next. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

She was wearing stays beneath the shirt. Harriet stood immobile as he flicked more buttons open, his knuckles brushing the warm skin he exposed. She felt a rush of cool air against her throat and upper chest as he tugged the fabric from her trousers, then undid the final buttons, and spread the fabric wide.

She waited, breathless, ears straining for his verdict. Her stays were new, a gorgeous, lace-edged set the pale pink of a seashell. She’d bought them with the fantasy of his reaction in mind, but never imagined she’d actually be in a situation where he’dseethem.

The corsetry pushed her breasts up and slightly together, making two pleasing mounds that suddenly felt far too exposed.

With every breath she inhaled the dark, masculine scent of him. She parted her lips, desperate to drink him in, to revel in his heady, intoxicating scent.

Morgan gave a slight, sharp exhale, and her skin tingled as his finger touched her collarbone and traced a path down, along the edge of the corset, skating in a teasing scoop over the top of her breasts. Goose bumps pebbled her skin.

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