Page 40 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“But you’re not seeking love now.”
“No, my lord. I’ve closed my heart to it. It’s easier that way.” Another lie, this one perpetuated by her cynical self because she knew he would never love her and it was pointless to wish otherwise. On the other hand, neither would she ever love him.
But life with Montie had taught her to hide her feelings, and she’d become very good at it. She hoped only that she hadn’t learned to hide them from herself.
She licked the pudding from her spoon, slowly, provocatively, all the while making little moaning sounds that caused him to harden, his skin to tighten, his breath to hitch. He had no doubt that she knew precisely how much she was tormenting him and was taking delight in doing so.
He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her. He wanted to laugh, a large boisterous guffaw that would echo through every corner of the manor. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed a woman so much—and he had yet to enjoy her fully.
His own pudding remained untouched. “Perhaps you’d care to partake of my dessert,” he offered when she finally set her spoon aside.
“Don’t you like pudding?” she asked.
“I haven’t much fondness for sweets, which must be why I like you. You’re so tart.”
Surprise washed over her features. “You like me?”
Had he said that? Damn it all to hell, he had. Without thinking of the repercussions or how she might interpret the words. That she might find hope in them for something more between them. “You challenge me, Portia. I can’t deny that I enjoy that aspect of our relationship. I’ve never much cared for mewling misses.”
She gave him a lascivious look. “How about purring ones?”
Oh, yes, he definitely wanted her purring. “Is there anything else to be brought out, Gilbert?”
“No, my lord. The pudding was the last bit.”
Thank God. He shoved back his chair, stood. He considered for half a heartbeat inviting her to the library for an after-dinner cognac. But he was weary of delaying the inevitable, of pretending to be a gentleman when she managed so easily to turn him into a barbarian who wanted only to ravish her from head to toe.
He felt rather predatory walking to her end of the table, and some of his thoughts must have shown because quite suddenly she appeared a trifle wary of him. Good. She might have the upper hand out of the bed, keeping him hard and ready for her, but by God, he would have the advantage once they landed on the mattress. He pulled out her chair, waited as she rose with such elegance, stepped away from the table—
He swept her up into his arms, taking satisfaction in her small squeak.
Her face level with his, she stared at him. “Surely you plan to enjoy a drink after dinner.”
All he wanted was to drink in the whiskey of her eyes. Not that he was fool enough to state such drivel. “I think we’ve delayed matters long enough.”
He watched the delicate movements of her throat as she swallowed. He was going to nibble on those fragile tendons quite soon. Then he became incredibly aware of the outline of her legs, their warmth seeping into his arms. No damn petticoats. He rather liked it.
He thought he detected a tremor traveling through her before that rounded little chin of hers jutted out a fraction and she gave a barely imperceptible nod. As she licked her lips, she placed her hand just below his jaw, her fingers coming to rest against his neck where his pulse was pounding in an erratic rhythm. She lowered her eyelashes slightly, invitingly. “I’m anxious to discover if you’re as good as you claim.”
If he’d known wives taunted and teased more provocatively than the highest-paid light skirt he’d ever experienced, he might have taken one sooner. He may have growled or perhaps he sounded as though he was strangling, because as he began striding from the room with urgency, she laughed lightly, running a hand over a portion of his chest and shoulder, whatever she could reach. Leaning in, she nipped at his ear.
“Keep that up, you little minx, and I won’t be able to walk up the stairs.”
“I like that you want me.”
Wantwas too tame a word, but he had no wish to frighten her by revealing the full extent of how desperately he desired her. Nor did he wish to give her quite that much power over him. She was going to be the one unable to walk before the night was done. He already knew once wouldn’t be enough for him. Hell, a dozen times might not be enough.
As he reached the stairs, she settled her head on his shoulder, and a fierce protectiveness swept through him that nearly caused him to stumble back. Something about the trusting gesture made him regret that he wanted her for only one purpose: to warm his bed. From the moment he’d opened the door to her, he’d had an insane desire to possess her, to claim her... to win.
He didn’t trust her or her motives for agreeing to marry his father. That hadn’t changed. He’d been determined to best her at her own game—in hindsight, it occurred to him that he might have walked right into her trap, yet he couldn’t seem to regret it. Not when it guaranteed she would be writhing beneath him. And writhe she would.
She might tempt him and play the naughty flirt, but he was the master of the night.
At the top of the stairs, he turned down the hallway toward his bedchamber, was acutely aware of her breaths shortening, of the anticipation thrumming through her. She incited his own desires with so little effort. He was mad to want her this desperately.
He strode past his father’s room, stopped, cursed. He wanted no disturbances this night, no interruptions. Once he had her in his bedchamber with the door closed, he didn’t want it opened until dawn.
“We should check in on your father,” she said softly.
