Page 116 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He brought his lips to her knuckles as his eyes promised darker, filthier things. A chorus of sighs and fluttered fans answered him as he led Isabel away.
“Come to rescue me?” she asked.
“We both know I was rescuing them from you,” he said, dragging her into a waltz. “You looked about thirty seconds from stabbing Lady Lavinia with a cocktail fork. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Did you see how she pawed at you during the last quadrille? Shameless.”
Ronan pulled her closer than propriety allowed, sliding his palm lower on her back than he should. “There it is. That jealousy. Makes me want to bend you over right now. Let everyone see exactly who you belong to.”
“Behave yourself, Mr Volkov. We have a job. Our mark could walk in any minute.”
“He’s not here yet. And that dress is making me lose my mind.”
“Ronan.”
He should be used to this by now. This hunger. The way she dismantled him with nothing but a look. But it was worse since he put that ring on her finger. Sharper. Deeper. Because he knew she was his.
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Remember what you promised me? If I behaved?”
Isabel’s fingers tightened on his arm. “You’ve been so very patient. I suppose I should reward you.”
Her hand brushed against his cock, hidden by their bodies as they turned. So fast he almost thought he’d imagined it.Almost.
The woman was a menace.
The waltz ended, and Ronan pulled Isabel against him. “Meet me in the alcove,” he whispered. “Five minutes.”
He walked away before he yielded to the impulse to haul her over his shoulder and carry her out of the ballroom like some savage claiming his prize.
Ronan nodded at a passing diplomat. He made small talk with some German baron whose name he couldn’t remember. The next five minutes were the longest of his life as he mingled and exchanged pleasantries. But all the while, his gaze kept straying to the gold curtain cordoning off a secluded alcove. At last, he gave his excuses and disappeared beyond the heavy velvet. The space was lit only by the soft glow of a single gas lamp.
Barely a minute later, the curtain rustled, and Isabel stepped through.
“Hello, wife.”
“Hello, husband.”
In two strides, he had her up against the wall, his mouth claiming hers in a brutal kiss. Her lips parted on a gasp, and his tongue brushed hers. She tasted of champagne. Sweet and sharp, like everything about her. His hands settled on her waist, pinning her in place while he devoured her, letting six months of marriage and years of wanting pour into the kiss.
“Isabel. Have I told you today how utterly you devastate me?”
She gave a breathless moan. “Once or twice. Though it was more an inarticulate series of grunts over breakfast.”
“That wasn’t talking. That was worship, little thief. What if I made you come right here with all of Vienna’s elite just steps away? Would you be able to stay quiet, or would you scream my name until they all know exactly what I do to you?”
Her head fell back. The long line of her throat invited his teeth, his tongue.
“You’re a vulgar man, Mr Volkov.”
“That’s why you married me, Mrs Volkova.” He bent to nip at the lobe of her ear. “The knives. You’re wearing them tonight?”
“Always.”
He rewarded her with a slow grind against her. “How many?”
“Enough.”
“Tell me. Or I’ll start searching. Every. Inch.”
