Sarah MacLean - No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

“No one of consequence,” she said, “I am simply good with a needle, as well.”

“I would pay you for the truth,” he said, and even as the words came gentle, like a caress, they stung, harsh and unpleasant. This was the game they played.

She shook her head. “It’s not for sale.”

He was not through. She could see it in his gaze. And so she did the only thing she could think to distract him. She came up on her toes, and kissed him.

If he’d been asked to wager everything he owned on what would happen in that room that evening, he might have laid it on his kissing her.

He’d wanted to kiss her from the moment he’d taken her in his arms in that alleyway.

From before that.

From the moment she’d wrecked him with the hint that there might have been something more between them that night twelve years earlier.

From before that.

There was always an edge after a handy trouncing, one that did not go away until an opponent landed a strong, sure blow. The theory held true if the opponent was a woman, and the blow one of pleasure.

So he’d ignored the desire, sure it was no more than a need to ease post-fight tension. He’d experienced the edge enough to know that it would wane.

Except it hadn’t. It had roared through him as her hands had stroked down his arm in that dark alley, even as she’d worried his wound and sent pain coursing through him. And it had nearly consumed him as they rode to his town house—so much that he hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking her to join him inside.

The request had been salt in the wound, for he’d known that if she came, he would only desire her more. Her long legs and her pretty face and that hair that he itched to release from its moorings on a sea of auburn silk. And all that was nothing compared to the way her strength moved him. The way her sharp retorts and her smart words set him on edge. The way she made a strong, worthy opponent.

The desire had come to a head as she’d stitched his wound and kept her secrets. And when he’d finally touched her, it had coursed through him, undeniable and dangerous.

So, yes. He’d have wagered on kissing her.

But he wouldn’t have laid a penny on her kissing him. He would have miswagered, for it seemed that Mara Lowe was full of secrets, and willing to do anything to keep them from him.

Even kiss the Killer Duke.

And Christ, did she kiss him—her strong, soft hand tilting him down to her even as she lifted to meet him, capturing his lips with hers. Stealing his breath with the soft, tentative, devastating caress. Teasing him with the way her lips brushed across his, testing the waters. Questioning.

He willed himself still, refusing to touch her, to take control. Terrified that if he put his giant, brutal hands on her, he would scare her away. That she would run again. And then her mouth opened beneath his, unschooled and still so perfect, and the tip of her tongue edged along his bottom lip, a smooth, slick caress.

A man could only take so much.

His control snapped.

He caught her into his arms, a groan escaping from him, the sound low and likely terrifying for her, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop any part of it, not as he took hold of her, as he tilted his head and lifted her to him, and found the perfect angle at which he could kiss her like she was meant to be kissed.

Like he’d dreamed of kissing her.

Claiming her.

And damned if she didn’t claim him in return. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair, and he settled into her mouth, stroking deep until she sighed her pleasure, the sound rushing through him, straight to the core of him, where he’d been heavy and hard for what seemed like days—any time he was around her.

He worried her lower lip with his teeth, loving the way she shivered in his arms, letting his hands find their way into her hair, scattering pins and setting loose a tide of curls. He traced the silken strands with his touch once, twice, until he couldn’t bear not to look any longer. He pulled back, loving the way she followed him, the way she resisted their separation. “Temple,” she sighed, an edge of irritation in the name.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Let me look at you.”

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His gaze devoured her, her dark hair spread wild around her shoulders, gleaming hints of red in the candlelight, her strange, gorgeous eyes filled with frustration and desire. Her lips swollen from his kiss—

He took those lips again, unable to resist them. Kissed her deep and thoroughly, memorizing the sound of her sighs, the spice of her, the feel of her against him, like nothing he’d ever felt before—

Except . . .

His head snapped up, and her eyes blinked open. “You really ought to stop stopping,” she said with a smile.

He shook his head. “At the dressmaker’s,” he began, hating the way her gaze cleared of sensuality at the words. “What you said . . .”

It is not the first time you’ve seen my underclothes.

“We’ve done this before,” he said.

Her eyes flickered to his arm, to his tattoo. “Yes.”

No. It couldn’t be the truth. He would remember this—the way her mouth felt right against hers. The way she felt right in his arms.

He kissed her again, this time a test. An experiment. He would remember her. Surely he would remember the taste of her. The sounds she made. The way she somehow drove the caress and gave herself up to it.

He would remember her.

He released her mouth, directing his kiss down the column of her neck, to the hollow of her collarbone, dipping his tongue into the indentation there, tasting her. Savoring the sigh that escaped from her lips as he slid his hands to the front tie of her bodice and released the tension there, sliding his hand into the fabric to caress the straining tip of one breast.

To bare it to the firelight.

Dear God. He would remember her.

He met her gaze, glassy with desire. “We’ve done this before.”

She hesitated, and the pause sent a thread of frustration through him. He wouldn’t let her avoid him. He wouldn’t let her lie. Not about this.

Suddenly, somehow, this seemed far more important than all the rest. He lowered the layers of fabric, watching as dark dress and pale chemise gave way to even paler skin. To perfect skin, tipped with straining flesh turned the color of honey gold in the firelight.

His mouth watered, and he lowered his lips to that place where she strained for him.

Where, somehow, he strained for her.

It took all his strength to pause there, a breath from her skin, and whisper, “We’ve done this before.”

“William.” She gasped his name in the firelight.

His real name .

He froze. As did she.

“What did you call me?”

She hesitated. “I—”

No one had called him that for a decade. For longer. Few had called him that before—but he’d always liked his women to do so. He’d liked the way the familiarity of the name brought them closer. Made them more accommodating. It had been an easy way to make them love his naïve, idiot self.

“Say it.” The command was not to be refused.

“William,” she said, beautiful eyes filled with fire, the curve of the syllables on her warm lips making him at once furious and filled with longing.

Christ.

This had happened.

He would remember her.

Except he couldn’t. Because she’d made certain he wouldn’t. She’d stolen that night from him. This moment from him.

He released her as though she’d burned him, and perhaps she had. Perhaps the not remembering that night was the most serious of her infractions, now that he knew just what it was he could not remember.