Or do something else to her.
He truly must hate her. No one had ever touched her thusly. Or addressed her so boldly or looked at her with such intensity. His green eyes looked dark. Black eyes. Pirate eyes.
“No more,” he warned. “No more venturing out alone at night.”
Her chest swelled on an indignant breath. Who did he think he was? “I don’t take commands from you.”
“Hell’s teeth, woman. Do you ever simply admit you’ve made a mistake and back down?”
“To you?” she scoffed, glaring at this bossy male before her and wondering how it had come to this. Yes, he had a point. She wasn’t typically stubborn, but glaring up at his angry face, she couldn’t give an inch. Everything inside her rebelled at the notion.
A few days ago the Duke of Autenberry was merely a fantasy and this brother of his not even known to her.
“You are no one in my life,” she said in a voice fraught with tension. “You cannot tell me what to—”
“Oh, I can,” he bit out, his voice a gravelly purr that abraded her skin and sparked something inside her. His hand slid around her nape and hauled her closer. His pirate’s eyes swallowed her up and forced all the air out from her lungs in one great rush. “I will.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but his mouth covered hers. Claimed her. It was the only word for it. This was a taking.
And she the taken.
Chapter 13
Struan Mackenzie smothered any words she might have thought to say.
In fact, thoughts were wild and fleeting once his mouth touched hers. Sensations and emotions, however, abounded.
Shock. Outrage. The utter strangeness of it all.
Her head spun. She’d been kissed before. This shouldn’t feel so totally foreign to her. But kissing had never been this before.
She gasped and he took full advantage. His tongue slid inside her mouth.
Warm. Slick. Wet.
Astonished, she stood frozen, motionless, letting him have his way with her mouth. Plunder at will. Appropriate for a man with pirate’s eyes.
His thumb nudged under her chin, forcing her head back and that only deepened the kiss. Made it wetter. Hotter. Better.
Heaven save her. She was getting squirmy all over. That had never happened before either. What was happening? What was she doing? What was she letting him do?
She hated him. And yet she had this mad impulse to fling her arms around his shoulders. Wrap her legs around him. Outrageous.
Not at all how she should feel.
Certainly not with him. She hated him. He hated her.
Didn’t he?
Of course, he did . . . no matter what his mouth was doing to her. No matter how his gloved thumb grazed the side of her neck. They had done nothing but quarrel from the start. Ever since she saw him battering her poor duke. Rightly so. He was a brute. Rude and insulting.
And yet it was a strange thing to reconcile hatred when his mouth was moving so expertly over hers. Men did not kiss women they did not like.
Immediately a voice rose up inside her to contradict.
Well . . . some men did kiss women for whom they felt nothing. She wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t know men weren’t above using women. Especially women they felt were somehow less. Indeed, it was those very men that Poppy guarded Bryony against. It was her duty to make certain no man looked at Bryony as a meaningless vessel and decided she was a female who didn’t matter.
She pulled up hard. Did Struan Mackenzie think she was that sort of woman? That she did not matter? The notion made her sick. She brought her hands up between them. She pressed both palms flat against his chest—a definite distraction that chest. It was muscled and hard. She didn’t know gentlemen could feel so very . . . solid. Shaking off the thought, she gave him a hearty shove. The kind of shove she imagined would succeed in budging him. And it did.
His lips lifted from hers with a strange puff of sound that resembled words. In his gravelly brogue, she translated it to mean, “What did you do that for?” She couldn’t be certain. Just the sound of that voice stroked something deep inside her. His voice seduced. It wasn’t fair.
His pirate’s eyes fixed on her, mesmerizing. All at once she wasn’t pushing so hard at his chest anymore. Her hands relaxed, palms softening against him.
His head dipped toward her, moving slowly, his intent clear as his eyes drifted over her face. She had all the time to move, to protest, but his sinful eyes mesmerized her. His mouth touched hers again, soft at first and then more firmly.
She forced herself to remain utterly still as he nudged her lips apart. Not an easy feat. Her lips yearned to react and all her lady parts hummed and throbbed in the most delicious yet painful manner. Strange how one could feel both pain and pleasure.
“Come, Poppy,” he murmured against her mouth, his tongue gliding along her bottom lip and igniting a tremor through her. “Kiss me back.”
She gave the barest shake of her head and he chuckled, the sound dark and rich. “So stubborn. You know you want to,” he coaxed. “I can feel your heart pounding.”
Oh, he was ruthless, but she would resist him.
He pulled her bottom lip between his teeth, and her core clenched in response.
She would. She must.
Suddenly he bent his knees, crouching his great height so that their faces were on level. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground as though she weighed nothing at all. She squeaked, her hands flying to his shoulders.
“What are you—”
“Lock your legs around me.”
With their faces level, she stared wide-eyed at him.
She opened her mouth to refuse, but that brogue of his filled the space between them, hard with command, yet husky with something that spoke to all the tender and aching places inside her. “Do it, kitten.”
She obeyed, hopping up slightly until her legs locked around his hips. He brought his big hands to each of her thighs, fingers digging through her skirts and adjusting her so that her sex met directly with the stiff bulge of his manhood. Even through the fabric of her skirts she could feel him and she had to stop herself from rocking into the beckoning ridge.
It was like she was outside herself. A voyeur looking down at this woman she didn’t know who followed the lead of a man much too masculine, whose brutal beauty and hypnotic voice robbed her of all sense.
He withheld his mouth from hers. Waiting. Waiting for her.
His warm breath gusted her cheek. His mouth was so close. Tantalizingly close. She caught a whiff of the heady scent of him again. Her gaze darted from his lips to his eyes, so dark and compelling. They pulled her in, muddied her thoughts. She leaned in slightly, forgetting everything, wanting that mouth even though everything about this was wrong. She couldn’t think.
He rocked his hips and a bolt of lust shot through her body.
Desire licked through her. Her breathing hitched. She leaned forward slightly, tasting him with her tongue, the barest, swiping stroke, and his eyes went black with heat. He closed the fraction of space between them, his chest grazing the front of her chest. Her breasts grew heavy and tight, aching.
Sweet heavens, he was going to kiss her again. Yes, yes, please.
He pulled back slightly and growled against her lips. “Kiss me, Poppy.”
Her name on his lips broke something loose inside her. Ignited her. She leaned into his mouth, finally kissing him back, starved, touching her tongue to his.
He made a deep growl of approval, his hands gripping her thighs tighter and hefting her higher. She squeaked and gripped his shoulders.
“I’m not dropping you,” he rasped on her mouth. “That’s not happening.”
Her heart tripped as his big hands slid around, holding her up by her bottom. Her mouth devoured him, tongue tasting and exploring, savoring.
He lifted his head and the air left her in a rush as she looked up into his starkly handsome face. His gaze drilled into her. “Wh
o knew the little kitten could kiss like that?”
“Oh,” she croaked, half expecting him to lower her to the ground now. It had to end. Reason and sanity had to surface eventually.
But he didn’t move away. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and full of something she couldn’t read.
She pushed the tendrils of hair that had come loose off her face. She moistened her lips, reaching for her composure—the last of which fled as she watched him glance down at the bare amount of flesh peeking above her bodice. His eyes smoldered at that scant sight of her skin.
His words brushed over her, murmuring, “You want my mouth again?”
She nodded jerkily.
He rocked against her, rubbing his hard length along the core of her that was covered up with far too much fabric. He lowered his head and brought his mouth against her neck, directly beneath her ear. She felt his words vibrate against her skin. “Good. Because I want to taste you here. Now pull your cloak wider for me.”
She nodded even though a part of her rebelled at being told what to do. Her hands curled around the edges of her mother’s cloak, exposing herself for him. In this moment, he wielded total control over her and she reveled in it. For the first time she felt like she could let go.
His mouth dragged down her neck in a trail of searing kisses. Lips, grazing tongue and softly nipping teeth. She gasped and whimpered, wiggling against him, need pumping through her. His lips reached where her neck and shoulder met. His warm breath fanned in the hollow there for an agonizing moment. Anticipation zipped through her as she waited for more. She trembled, holding her breath for his kiss there.
Finally it came. A savoring, openmouthed kiss followed by the slight scrape of teeth. His lips moved against her skin. “You taste so good, Poppy. Like there’s nectar buried in your skin.”
She shivered at his words and his teeth sank deeper, marking her, claiming her. A choked gasp ripped from her as her bones liquefied and a rush of heat pooled between her legs. Her eyes flew wide and she gasped. She had no idea that a bite could affect her so pleasurably. That she would like such a wicked thing so much. That she would feel it so deeply.
He pulled back, laving the tender flesh with his tongue.
Her head spun, chest lifting with ragged breaths.
His eyes gleamed down at her. “See? We can get along.”
“Wh-what—”
“There are benefits to being more . . . amenable.”
“Amenable?” she echoed, attempting to shake off the fog of desire. “Oh!” She pushed at his rock solid shoulders.
His hands adjusted on her, leveraging her so that the hard ridge of his manhood thrust harder against her—deliciously so. She gasped and bit her lip in an attempt to cut off the sound and not appear the total wanton. Little late for that, Poppy.
“Wouldn’t you rather be doing this than fighting? You and I would fit together just right, lass.”
She shuddered. Yes . . . yes.
She was damp directly where she rode him, his hardness rubbing deeply against her. Dear heavens. Shame washed over her as an invisible band coiled tighter and tighter in her belly. He could probably feel how moist she was between their clothing. As much as that mortified her it didn’t stop her from whimpering and moving against him, seeking something near and yet elusive.
His lips returned to her throat and she was helpless against arching into that mouth. “You’re wasted on him,” he growled against her skin.
The words vibrated through her, shaking her awake. She did not mistake his meaning. He was saying she was wasted on the duke. Because he thought she was with the duke. He thought they were together romantically, intimately. He thought she had been like this with his brother . . . mouth to skin, their bodies straining against each other in full, heart-pounding hunger.
It was a sobering thought. It made her feel tawdry and something else. Something confusing and different and not unpleasant.
She felt desired. Coveted. And it made her heart swell inside her too-tight rib cage. In this moment, she could not imagine doing this with anyone else. She could not imagine anyone except Struan Mackenzie provoking these sensations in her.
She was a sinful creature, to be sure. She never knew she could be this. So wicked. Wanton. So titillated because she had aroused this man . . . because she had stirred a need in him to take her from a man to whom she did not even belong.
This entire situation was out of control. She was out of control.
Jarred, she blinked and looked around, seeing the alley in which they stood. The cloak of night with its shifting mist. His body pressed against hers. Her legs wrapped around him. This was depraved. She’d gone mad.
Stark. Raving. Mad.
“Stop.” A single word but he lifted his mouth from her neck.
He released her. Her legs slid back down, feet landing on solid earth—right alongside her judgment.
She looked up into his eyes. They were a dark forest, the green lost to the night, unreadable as they crawled over her face. “This was a mistake,” she whispered, looking down at herself, smoothing a hand down her rumpled cloak.
He snorted and she cast him a sharp look. “A mistake,” she repeated.
“You weren’t saying that moments ago. You were as hot for it as any lass I’ve ever had. I must confess a little surprise. I didn’t think you would be quite so . . . proficient.”
Angry heat stung her cheeks. Why shouldn’t he think she would be good at . . . at . . . amorous endeavors? As soon as the indignant thought entered her head, she slapped it away. A lady shouldn’t take offense over such a thing. Indeed, a lady would never have permitted a rogue like Struan Mackenzie such liberties.
He continued, “Although I suppose I should have surmised a certain aptitude from you since you’ve secured my brother’s interest.”
That’s right. He thought she was Autenberry’s lover. How could she have permitted herself to kiss the wretch? To more than kiss him? She’d responded to him as she never had with Edmond.
Not trusting herself to answer him, she pushed off the wall and started down the narrow alley, shaken and rattled, her body still throbbing in places where it should feel nothing.
She heard him follow behind her. “Poppy,” he started to say, one hand closing on her arm, forcing her around.
“You two there!”
Startled, she jerked, her gaze colliding with a figure looming at the mouth of the alleyway. She scanned the big-bellied man, marking his uniform. Mackenzie stepped beside her to face him, as well.
Now the Watch appeared? Earlier, when his presence could have been useful, he was nowhere to be found.
“Constable.” Mackenzie nodded circumspectly. “Just walking the lady home.”
Mackenzie slid a hand against the small of her back, guiding her out of the alley.
The man looked her up and down as though skeptical that she was in fact a lady. Granted, they were emerging from an alley. Doubtlessly, her hair and wardrobe were mussed. She could guess at all his lurid thoughts. The man’s gaze returned to Mackenzie, who stared back at him with a stony expression that seemed to dare him to disagree at the veracity of her virtue.
The man cleared his throat, resting his hand on the butt of the baton secured inside his belt. “Carry on, then. All manner of questionable characters out and about this late.”
Indeed. All manner.
Poppy held her tongue, her steps a quick staccato on the walk as they hastened home. She didn’t even attempt to shake off his hand against her back. It had been a long evening and she was tired of fighting. Besides, she could feel the Watchman’s stare fixed on the back of them and the sensation of Mackenzie’s big hand against her felt somehow comforting.
They turned the corner and she murmured, “You needn’t escort me the rest of the way. He can’t see us anymore. I can take myself home.”
“That is not happening,” he replied. “You’re daft if you think I will let you walk the rest of the way unescorted. Now if you h
ad shown some sense and taken a hack in the first place or—”
“I can’t afford it,” she blurted, her arms swinging as she walked. It was so easy for him to assume that she had other choices—that she could simply hail a hack whenever she chose. This world, this life, held a decided lack of choices for women without family and means.
He fell quiet. For once, she had silenced him.
Heat crept over her face as her admission sank in. Only now did she feel embarrassed and vulnerable that she had admitted such a thing to him. In his eyes, in the eyes of a man who was clearly as rich as Croesus, it felt like a weakness. She felt small and pitiable, and she hated that. She hated being on the receiving end of anyone’s pity.
She had endured enough of that in her life. After her father’s death. After Edmond’s rejection. After every time people met her stunning sister and then looked at her, comparing her much plainer looks to Bryony’s and finding her lacking.
“It’s a matter of funds?” he demanded.
She groaned and increased her pace, forcing his hand to fall from the small of her back. He followed, his steps matching hers.
“You say that as though it’s an issue of no concern,” she accused. “For some of us it is.”
“I find it hard to believe that Autenberry’s paramour would be living short on funds.”
There it was again. That insulting and erroneous assumption. He thought she was Marcus’s lover. Even after the way she had just kissed him and let him touch her. He thought she was his brother’s lover.
Instead of bothering to correct him, she cut him a swift glance. “Last time I checked, your brother is in a coma.”
“And you have no nest set aside? No pin money from him?”
He made her sound like a kept woman.
“No.” It was the only word she could manage.
He made a sound. “Not much of a protector, my brother.”
His words rang in her head and she shivered. You’re wasted on him. She knew he was thinking that again.
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