Page 2 of Pride: The Rogue
Latimer chuckled; and even determined as he was to remain clear-headed, lust leant a rough quality to his amusement. He attempted to dislodge her eager fingers which she now used to play with his ballocks.
This time, as she humped him, her movements took on an urgency that couldn’t be faked.
This particular visit, however, had nothing to do with sexual gratification—at least, not for him. “As lovely as you are, sweet,” Latimer said, at last detaching her hand from his balls, “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to regretfully decline. For now,” he lied, to soften the blow.
She pouted. “Ooh, a challenge.” As if impassioned even more by that incorrect assumption, she ground wildly against him.
No, it really wasn’t. When it came to matters of business, Latimer possessed a Herculean willpower. Not even the most skilled courtesan or stunning Aphrodite could make him lose focus.
The auburn-haired beauty’s eyes, glassy with desire, grew more heated. “You want to make me suffer because I neglected you,” she said, her voice heavy with hunger. “Come to my rooms. Let me feel your wrath.”
She made to take Latimer’s mouth, but he drew back, denying her what she sought.
This time, he lifted the deft Cyprian from his lap and set her on her feet. “Some other time, sweet.” He gave her a firm swat on her buttocks, giving her some of what she craved.
She moaned, thrusting her hips at the air. “Please.”
Latimer tensed feeling someone come up behind him, too late.
“That will be all, Ariel.”
Stephen Warwick, current Earl of Dynevor and future Marquess of Maddock.
At the same time, the lovely Cyprian stole a peek at the figure beyond Latimer’s shoulder, demurely lowered her eyes, and made to dash off when the other man stayed her once more.
“Do not go far, sweet.” Lachlan felt the young proprietor’s calculated gaze on him while he spoke to Ariel.
Ariel dropped a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.” Doing the commanding man’s bidding, she scurried away, leaving the two gaming hell proprietors alone.
Latimer stood and turned to face the young earl.
Both men sized one another up.
An inch past or an inch shy of six feet, Dynevor, in black, bore the high-quality garments of a fancy lord. The hardness ofhis features and the icy glint in his eyes, however, told a different tale.
“Dynevor,” Latimer said.
The gentleman’s lips quirked up in a cold smile. “Imagine,” he murmured, almost tauntingly. “Forbidden Pleasures’ very own proprietor, Lachlan Latimer, here at my club. Tell me, Latimer, are things so bad at your clubs you have to visit mine?”
Latimer answered with an equally frosty grin and a question of his own. “Afraid to find me here, Dynevor?”
The man’s hard mouth tightened. “Ain’t afraid of anyone,” he snarled.
Just as sex hadn’t brought Latimer here, neither had a desire for a good, healthy fight. He’d had enough of those over the past months dissolving his ownership stake at Forbidden Pleasures.
“Aye,” Latimer conceded. “I believe that, Dynevor.” He’d also learned the young proprietor may be fleet of foot, but he had a recklessness that matched his eighteen years of age.
Somewhat mollified, the earl grunted. “Oiwasn’t sure it was you, for a bit.”
“Ah, which is why you sent your most skilled Cyprian.”
“She wasn’t the most skilled.” The earl dangled that information like some irresistible temptation Latimer wouldn’t be able to deny.
When Latimer didn’t elicit the desired response from Dynevor, the other man snapped. “Do you believe I’d waste my finest on the enemy?”
Undaunted, Latimer looked the dead-eyed proprietor square on. “Are you going to toss me out, Dynevor?”
“Whyever, would I do that?” The earl’s cocksure grin returned. “I’ve been expecting you.”
