To Seduce A Rogue (Southern Heat Book 1)

by Tracy Sumner

  He should have known better, should have refused Pete Stewart’s offer to share a few stories. A few drinks. After his abysmal meeting with Oliver Stokes, and the hard, irrefutable truth that Charlie Whitney was sleeping—no doubt curled in a sleek little ball—in a warm bed in his home...it had just been too much. Anticipating her there, waiting for him, made something shift inside him, something indisputable and fervid. Something he hoped had more to do with his penis than with his heart.

  He halted as his house came into view. It was dark except for a light glowing from the library window. His fists bunched. She was still awake. After he had avoided her tonight like the coward he was rapidly becoming, left her to her own devices, left her alone with Mrs. Peters, chaperone; after confronting enormous guilt because her first full day in Richmond had been spent cooped up in his home, all the while denying he wanted to spend the evening talking and laughing with her. After all that...she was still awake.

  Was there no mercy for the weary?

  He shoved his hand through his hair, groaning. He wished he could not remember the taste and feel of her so well. Wished the swell of her breast was not stamped upon his palm like permanent lines. Wished the softness of her lips was not drawn like a map upon his tongue. He groaned again, his heart picking up speed as his long legs propelled him forward. He stumbled up the front steps to the door. He wished, with his whole heart, that he could not close his eyes and breath in the distinctive scent of her. He wished he did not know her so well, like her so much. Respect and trust her.

  Because it was hopeless. As of this afternoon, their lives were detached. For reasons he could neither disavow nor disregard.

  He grasped the doorknob between shaky fingers and turned, expecting the door to be locked. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. Mrs. Beard, for all her inquisitiveness and motherly admonitions, ran the household quite shrewdly and appropriately for a confirmed bachelor. She would never have left him out in the cold, so to speak, upon his own brick steps.

  He held the heavy wooden door next to him as he eased inside. He did not want to release it and have it slam against the wall from a sudden gust of wind. When he turned the lock, the noise reverberated along the hallway, and he put his fingers to his lips, suggesting silence.

  And forgetting his promise to leave Charlie to her own devices, stepped to the door of the library. It was open an inch or two, the distance more than enough to weaken his resolve and provide just the right amount of temptation for him to act upon. Soundless, the door swung wide. Mrs. Beard was rather adamant about oiled hinges.

  His gaze roved over his desk and the two leather chairs sitting before it. He scanned the shelves of books to his right. No disarray as far as he could tell. He took a step into the room, turning his head to the left, in the direction of the fireplace. A large sofa, covered in gold and black satin damask, sat in front of the fireplace, its high back facing him. He walked toward the sofa, thinking someone must have left the lamp lit for him, because there appeared to be no one in the room. Then he spotted a petite, satin-clad foot hanging over the sofa’s arm.

  He halted, looking down on Charlie Whitney.

  She was fast asleep, not curled in the tight ball he’d imagined, but rather stretched out on her side. His gaze floated with languid ease from the top of her dark head to the tips of her feet. It was the first time he had been able to look his fill. The first time he had seen her sleeping. Sable hair loose and spread like a pillow beneath her. Lashes lying softly, darkly against tanned cheeks. He smiled and leaned. She had spectacles on—round wire frames perched jauntily on her nose. He’d never seen those before.

  A slight smile curved her mouth, puckering her lips just so. Her right hand curled under her chin, her fingers clutching a charcoal pencil. A pad of paper lay on the floor. He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep his gaze from resting on her chest, which rose and fell with her even breaths.

  She was dressed inappropriately as usual, in a dressing gown of pale green silk she should have worn only in the privacy of her bedroom. He could see the lace edging of a nightdress, made of the same green material, peeking between the valley of her breasts. The silk hugged the curve of her hip as snugly as a wet leather glove and, for his viewing pleasure, had gotten twisted at her knees, exposing the rest of her legs to his hungry gaze. His eyes widened as he noticed how very dark her calves were. Evidently, she sat in the sun with her dress pulled up. Or those damn trousers rolled up.

  Against his better judgment, he walked around the sofa and knelt to pick up the pad of paper. Resting on one knee, he flipped it open. One page contained a list of editorial ideas. Another the comforts and grievances of train travel. He turned another and stopped cold. It was a sketch.

  Of him.

  She had caught him unaware. He was smiling, a soft, gentle smile, one he certainly didn’t recognize but feared she had seen much too often. It was a smile reserved for his mother and Eaton. A smile that displayed the buried, forgotten side of him. Goddammit, she had drawn Jared Chase. Adam was absent from the sketch he held in his hands.

  He flipped pages, finding more: asleep at his desk, gazing across rolling fields, leaning over the press with Gerald, stacks of newspapers at their backs.

  What could this mean? Could she possibly think about him as much as he thought about her? Did she lie awake at night asking God why he had thrown them together when it was far too late? Did his gaze burn into her skin like hot coals? Did she lick her lips and taste him, lift her hands to her face and smell him? Did she know the instant he walked into a room? Or walked out of one?

  He dropped the pad of paper and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to make this yearning disappear. He wanted to destroy what he felt for her, before it destroyed him.

  He wanted emotions that had been dead for years to suddenly possess nourishment and grow.

  No. He shook his head. He could not love anyone ever again. He would not.

  “Chase?”

  The sleepy whisper jarred him as effectively as a swift kick to his stomach. He jerked his head up, his heavy, stinging eyes meeting her drowsy, muddled one.

  “Chase...what are you doing?” She glanced at the pad of paper. A rosy flush crept up her neck and settled on her cheeks. “Oh, my sketches. I needed someone to sketch. I didn’t think you would mind—”

  “I don’t mind. Only...” He pulled his gaze from her face, training it on the pad of paper as if his life depended upon it. “They frighten me.”

  She lifted herself to her elbow. “Frighten you?”

  He swallowed past a dry throat. “I’m frightened to the depths of my soul, Charlie. Frightened of losing control of myself, my thoughts, my actions.” He clenched his jaw tight and began to rub the scar on his wrist. “I dream about you...about us...and wake up gasping for breath, my hands reaching for someone who is not there, my goddamn heart pounding hard enough to burst from my chest.”

  He continued, lifting his gaze, focusing on a point just beyond her shoulder. “I can close my eyes and see you, smell roses and...I tell myself I’ll forget. I will get past this. Just loneliness, thinking about Eaton and my mother. Wishing for what is not possible.” He lowered his head.

  She stood with swift anger. “You’re drunk.”

  “That changes nothing I’ve said.”

  “Why are you saying these things? Why are you doing this?”

  Her breath unwittingly teased his hair. “God, you smell wonderful. Like flowers and sunshine, and that damn dirt you love so much. It invades my dreams like you would not even believe.”

  She bumped against his shoulder as she moved past him. He lifted his head and watched her walk to the window behind his desk. If he could touch her like he wanted to. Just once. Would it be possible to satisfy his hunger with one passionate, fleeting encounter?

  She turned slowly, her arms wrapped around her stomach. Her breasts, propelled by her defensive gesture, peeked from the lace-edged neck of her nightdress. She shivered. Not from a chill, he guessed
.

  He crooked a finger at her.

  She didn’t move, only stared at him. He was close to vaulting to his feet, anything to get to her when she dropped her arms and came forward. Instead of fleeing like she should have, she slipped her spectacles off, laying them on his desk as she passed it.

  He pulled her to her knees when she reached him, not giving either of them time to think. He looked into her face, losing every bit of reasoning he possessed as the blatant desire reflected on her face rolled like a wave of heat over him. Exhaustion, hunger and loneliness battled within him. He could not deny them any longer. He thrust his hands into her hair and brought her to him. She didn’t fight, rather, opened her mouth when she felt his touch. Then she flicked her tongue against his lips, against his tongue. She was learning so quickly—exactly what he liked.

  He groaned deep in his throat and clutched her tighter. He had to get closer. Slanting his mouth, he deepened the kiss. He ran his tongue along her lips, explored the inside of her mouth. She tasted of cinnamon and magic.

  She tangled her tongue with his and his heart jumped. He tightened his arms as she swayed into him. Or, perhaps he swayed into her. It didn’t matter. He was not going to lose contact with her. At that moment, he didn’t give a damn if everyone in the house came tumbling in upon them.

  He wanted her more than he had ever wanted another woman in his life.

  Want did not even begin to explain the sensations rocking him.

  Taking control, he circled her waist, his other arm wrapping around her shoulders. In one deft movement, he turned her to her back.

  Suddenly, she was lying under him, warm skin and cool silk, her body blending so well with his. She arched her back and squirmed, all the while murmuring meaningless words.

  He laughed softly, kissing his way down her neck, nipping the tender skin with his teeth. “Slowly, love, slowly,” he whispered as his hand settled upon her breast. His laugh had come out, in part, due to fear. In a dark corner of his mind, he was afraid she was going to abandon him. Although the groans she emitted and the adventurous way she pressed herself against him were the actions of someone whose need was as great as his own.

  “Your legs. Open you legs.” With his finger, he drew a circle around her nipple. She moaned, hardening as quickly as he.

  She did as he asked, and he settled himself between her legs, his throbbing erection pressed to her, heat joining them. Two thin layers of silk and one slightly thicker layer of linen separated bare skin. Too much separated them.

  Purely on instinct, she wrapped her legs around the back of his knees, locking him to her. She arched, her hands sliding to his waist where she wrenched his shirt from his trousers. He sucked in a breath as her hands crept inside his moist cotton shirt. He should have known better than to think he would frighten her. She was the most daring person he knew. As if to prove that declaration to a further degree, she sucked a piece of cloth-covered skin, a sensitive spot just below his collarbone, biting and groaning as her hands clutched his back.

  His mind spinning, his control slipping, he lowered the neck of her dressing gown past her shoulder and gazed at her. Her breasts were beautiful, the nipples erect, perfection. He dropped his lips to one, sucking it through the nightdress. He moved his hand to the other, stroking the puckered tip.

  He wanted to share everything a man and woman could with her. Taste her. Lick. Suck. Bite. Kiss. Stroke. Caress. Only, he didn’t know how much longer he could last. Clothing still covered them, and he felt like a schoolboy about to burst.

  She tugged at his waistband. “Take off...your trousers.”

  He blinked, placing his palms flat on the floor on either side of her head. Her eyes were wide, the pupils swimming in a sea of deep, deep, blue.

  “Trousers?”

  “Your trousers,” she said, her breath rasping in his ears. “I think I can get...your shirt off. You’ll, you’ll have to do the trousers.”

  “The door’s not locked.” He said this as calmly as he could despite his own excitement. Said it logically, too, like he had not been thinking about stripping her clothes off only moments before. “We’re on,” he looked up before glancing back at her, “the floor.”

  “You mean you haven’t ever done this on the floor before?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t mean—”

  “Or that we can’t do this on the floor?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that, eith—”

  “You mean we aren’t going to...oh, Chase.” She sounded disappointed, heaven love her.

  His mind started a slow tilt. “No. I most certainly did not mean that.”

  She stared, her face flushed, her gaze expectant.

  He laughed and shook his head. “I don't know what I meant. I just never expected you to come right out and ask me to...take off my trousers.”

  She frowned. “Does this have to do with the etiquette problem? I didn’t know I had to act the lady with a man sprawled on top of me.”

  He kissed her, sucking her bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle caress. “Charlotte Whitney, I can honestly say that you never have to act the lady with me sprawled on top of you.”

  His usual gracefulness thankfully restored, he rose to his feet. He extended his hand, which she refused with a quick shake of her head.

  “No.”

  “Get up.”

  “No. I want to finish.” She met his direct gaze with one of her own.

  Soft laughter bubbled from his throat. Kneeling, he slipped his arms beneath her, lifting her high against his chest in one swift motion. “We’re going to finish.”

  She smiled, shyly for her, as a blush crept up her face. “Nothing is going to leave, is it?” She directed a pointed look down.

  He kissed her soundly on the lips. “No, nothing is going to leave.”

  He walked through the entrance hall and took the stairs two at a time, holding her tight against his chest. He stopped at his door and slid her from his arms and slowly down his body. She caught his hands and lifted up on her toes to press her lips to his.

  He yielded, shoving her against the door. Bringing his tongue into her mouth, he lifted her hands high above her head and pressed them against the wood. In response, she rubbed her pelvis against his. If he did not know better, he would have thought her a very experienced woman.

  “Wonderful,” he said.

  Crumpling silk in his fingers, he laid his palm on her bare hip. She let her arm fall from high atop the door and grasped the silk from his hand. In an action he would remember his entire life, she jerked the dressing gown and nightdress over her head, leaving herself completely naked in the hallway in front of his bedroom door.

  “Jesus.” He placed himself in front of her and looked in the direction of Mrs. Peters’ room. “Jesus,” he repeated.

  He glanced back to find her face turned up to his, a sly smile turning her lips. Her desire did not scare her. Nor did his apparently. She was enjoying this.

  Heart thumping, he let his gaze roam the length of her, like a child in a candy store who had not expected to be in the candy store yet. Marilyn’s voluptuousness flashed through his mind. He found it hard to believe he had ever found Marilyn attractive.

  The woman standing before him was perfection: breasts, petite, upturned, well formed; stomach, flat and full of shadowed hollows; hips, straight, boyish, with a gentle curve at the widest point; thighs, sleek, tight, athletic; calves, small and curved. To have those legs encircling his while he thrust...

  He reached behind her and opened the door with a savage twist of the knob. He grasped her shoulders and pushed her inside the room, slamming the door behind them with a swift kick. She stumbled, but he held her steady as he captured her lips beneath his.

  His hands were everywhere at once. She met the challenge using her fingers, her lips, her teeth. He could barely hear her sighs over the blood pounding in his head.

  “Your clothes,” she murmured.

  He released her and dragged his shirt over h
is head. Hopping on one foot, he pulled his trousers and underclothing off, mindlessly throwing them to the floor.

  She drew a fierce breath as she looked at him. He hoped her first look at any man. She followed the trail of hair down his body, her eyes widening as they reached his arousal, erect and jutting. She didn’t pull her gaze away, her eyes hot and smoldering.

  As he watched her watch him, he actually felt himself blush. Her look was not that of a modest virgin, nor one of a courtesan, which Marilyn sometimes employed. Charlie's look was gentle, lustful, honest...awe-struck.

  “Come here,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  She came, her hand extended, her palm sliding up his chest. She stopped at his nipple, her fingers teasing it as he had done to hers. “Charlie,” he groaned and pulled her into his arms, lowering his lips to hers, putting all the emotion he felt for her in the kiss.

  He walked backward with her toward the bed, but she stopped him with a touch to his cheek.

  “Let’s stay in the light. I want to see you. I don’t want to cover up with sheets and darkness.”

  He closed his eyes. He actually got harder, if that was possible. He was so desperate that her words were enough to make him lose control. Her goddamn words. But, who loved words more than he and Charlie?

  She stepped into his arms. “I don’t want anything to stand between us tonight.”

  “No.” He placed a kiss on her hair, then lifted a thick lock to his nose, inhaling the clean, earthy scent of her, running the silky strand across his lips. He bent and nibbled her neck, dropping to the hollow between her breasts. He captured her nipple with his finger, then his teeth. She gasped and arched against him as he drew it between his lips, where he sucked one, then the other.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders. “Please.”

  With a final taste of her, he sank to his knees, pulling her to the floor with him. He could not wait much longer. He had waited much too long already.