Page 20 of In a Rake's Embrace
“Yes,” she said shakily.
“I want to fuck you.”
It felt as if the breath had been snatched from her body. He laughed, the sound low and almost cynical.
“I won’t,” he said, “but my kiss communicated that, and your body answered. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He traced the back of his fingers along her cheek, down to her throat, and across her collarbone, barely brushing the edge of her bodice. His touch was so achingly tender it sent warmth spiraling through her. Slowly, he leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss at the corner of her mouth, lingering there just long enough for her breath to catch. The gentleness in that kiss brought a sudden lump to her throat, and her heart seemed to quiver in response.
“This is my way of telling you I desire you … but with no expectation of taking you to my bed. I want to touch you, to taste you. Do you understand?”
She lifted trembling fingers to his mouth, her lips tingling with the memory of his kiss. Agatha hadn’t known kisses could be so varied—so exquisitely tender and pleasurable. “Yes … I want more.”
His low, rich laugh felt like a heated caress over her skin. Agatha drew a steadying breath, willing herself to calm the wild pounding of her heart and the unfamiliar hunger stirring deep within. She wasn’t entirely sure what more she wanted to know, but some instinct warned her to tread carefully with the Earl of Radbourne.
CHAPTER 8
Thomas gently eased Agatha from his lap, though every fiber of his body resisted the action. The hunger roaring through him felt almost unbearable—six kisses, and he had been reduced to a man of writhing need, every touch of her lips igniting a deeper ache. He could hardly believe that something as simple as the brush of her hand against the front of his trousers would push him to the edge of losing control. A surge of sexual tension gripped Thomas, so intense it nearly unnerved him, forcing every muscle into rigid self-control.
Agatha slipped from him nimbly, looking impossibly sensual in her worn, stretched shift and torn stockings. Her tousled hair, swollen mouth, and flushed cheeks only added to her allure, and for a moment, he had to fight the urge to pull her back onto his lap and keep kissing her.
“What is the next lesson?” she asked, her voice bright and eager, her wide eyes shining with curiosity and determination.
Thomas swallowed hard, forcing himself to regain his composure. The chit would damn likely laugh if she suspected that he, a man who it took a lot to arouse, felt like his cock would burst from his trousers. He stood and walked over to themantel, his movements measured, though his heart still raced. Reaching for the decanters lined up there, he poured a glass of champagne, then brandy, sherry, whisky, and port, placing each glass carefully on the table before turning back to face her.
“You will need to learn how to drink,” he said. “Yesterday, you said you do not drink.”
She canted her head. “Yes.”
“Many men want their lovers to indulge with them. They feel they cannot do so with their wives. Every private room is stocked with the finest liquor, and you will often be invited to partake by your lover.”
Agatha blinked, her gaze shifting to the array of glasses before her. “I’ve never drunk before,” she confessed, her tone softer now, almost uncertain.
Thomas arched a brow. “Never? Why not?”
Sadness touched her eyes, and Agatha hesitated. “My mother died when I was young,” she began quietly. “My father ... he lost himself in the bottle after that. He drank to drown his grief, and the smell of alcohol has always revolted me since then. Each time I catch its scent, I’m reminded of how my father transformed—no longer a man who laughed, but one quick to anger, treating his own children with chilling indifference.”
A wave of understanding tore through him, and for a moment, he didn’t see her as the woman determined to seduce and conquer but as someone who had known pain and loss. He had already suspected she endured a difficult life, perhaps as painful as many of the women who worked atAphrodite. A part of him softened, though he masked it quickly.
“When my father died, it was sudden. One night, he was laughing at dinner; the next day, he was gone. I drowned myself drinking for days until the scent of liquor sickened me,” Thomas admitted, stiffening, unsure why he had revealed that glimpse into his life.
“It is painful to lose a parent,” Agatha said softly.
It damn well was. “The drink dulls the ... pain of feeling,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Just a few days, then? Or was it weeks, months ... perhaps years?”
His jaw tightened. “I let myself drown in it for five days.”
She held his gaze, her curiosity unyielding. “Why did you stop?”
Thomas paused, unused to sharing anything so personal. Even his closest friends only knew fragments of his past. Finally, he raked a hand through his hair and said, “My family needed me. That was my reason.”
A shadow crossed her eyes as she looked away. “My father never stopped ... not until he met Gloria years later. That my sisters and I needed him was never reason enough.”
“But he eventually stopped?”
