The Rogue Not Taken
Page 60

“Where?”
“It was raining, and cold. And my sisters were talking about balls and gowns and gossip . . . and the mews were warm and quiet.”
“What did you find there?” He kissed down her neck, long, lingering sucks that made it difficult to think.
“I was in the hayloft.”
“And the stable hand was there? With the maid?” There was something in his tone that she’d never heard in a man’s voice before. Something breathless. Like . . . excitement? The thought made her excited, as well. More excited. As though such a thing were possible.
“No,” she confessed. “They were in a stall.”
“And you looked?” His tongue swirled at the crest of her good shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to. I was only looking for a quiet place to read.”
“I do not judge you.” He licked—licked!—the skin between shoulder and dress, and she thought her breasts might break free of their bindings. “I simply want to imagine the full scenario. What did you see?”
“At first nothing,” she said. “I didn’t know they were there. If I had—”
“You never would have stayed. You’re too good a girl.”
“But once I heard them . . .”
He filled her silence. “Once you heard them, you couldn’t stop yourself.”
“Even girls get curious,” she defended herself.
“What did you see, Sophie?” His hand was moving now, over her thigh, toward her knee, the sound of it on the fabric of her skirts unsettling.
“I couldn’t see much at first. I was looking down over the edge of the hayloft. I saw the tops of their heads. They were kissing.”
His lips settled on hers, immediately lifting, leaving her quite desperate. “Like that?”
She shook her head in the darkness. “No.”
“How, then?”
“You know how.”
“I wasn’t there,” he said, and the teasing in his tone made her even more aware of him. “Show me.”
God knew how she had the courage to do as she was told, but she did, running her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck, pulling him to her. “Like this.” And then she kissed him, letting her tongue slide over his lips and into his mouth, where he tasted like wine, hoping that she was doing it right.
He groaned and gathered her closer, careful of her shoulder, turning her so that her thighs draped over his lap, his hand finding the hem of her skirts and sliding to her ankle, the touch warm and wonderful.
She was doing it right.
After a moment, he broke the kiss. “Is that all you saw?”
No. “It became more . . .” She trailed off, hoping he would fill in the descriptor so that she did not have to. He did not. “. . . erotic.”
The sound he made was best described as a growl. “There are few things I like more than that word on your lips.”
“Erotic?”
He kissed her quickly, his tongue stroking deep before releasing her and leaving her breathless. “What was so erotic, Sophie?”
She was lost in the memory again, in the hope that she might relive it now. Here. With him. “He opened her dress.”
“Christ,” King said. “I was hoping he would do that.”
And then the bodice of her dress loosened, the too-tight lacing coming easily undone, and her breasts were free. She gasped, the sensation welcome, but somehow not enough. For he did not touch her. His hands were around her hips for some unknown reason. She squirmed, aching for his touch. “King,” she whispered.
The growl came again, softer, more breath than sound. “Then what did he do?”
“He touched her.”
One finger found the curved underside of her breast, and it was so unexpected and so desired that she nearly leapt from her skin. He ran that single, remarkable finger in a long, slow circle around her breast, leaving fire and aching desire in its wake. “Here?”
“No.”
The circle became tighter. Closer to where she wanted him. Closer to where she’d only imagined anyone ever touching her in the dead of night, alone.
It was the dead of night, but she was no longer alone.
“Here?”
She shook her head. He might not have been able to see it, but he knew. The circle tightened, and she thought she might die from the wait. “Here?”
“No.”
He stopped moving. “Where? Show me.”
She barely believed it when she did as he asked, clasping his hand in hers and placing it where she wanted him. He immediately gave her what she asked for, stroking and plucking at the straining tip until she sighed her pleasure, pressing against him, aching for—
“What did he do next?” The words sounded like carriage wheels on stone.
“He kissed her,” she whispered. “There.”
“Smart man,” he said, and set his lips to where his fingers were, sucking gently, as though he had an eternity to explore her, and perhaps he did. Perhaps she would let him explore her for as long as he wished.
But he did not remain gentle, soon running his teeth across the hardened nipple in a wicked caress that had her crying out and sliding her fingers into his hair to hold him there. But King did not give her what she wished, instead lifting his mouth at her touch and blowing cool air across her flushed skin before lavishing similar attention on her other breast.
It went on and on, back and forth, until she was straining for more of his touch, for more of his lovely mouth, for more of him. And he gave it to her, the hand at her ankle sliding farther beneath her skirts along the length of her leg, higher and higher, until it stilled, at the soft skin of her thigh, fingers stroking softly as he lifted his head and spoke in the sinful dark. “And what did you think of it?”