Bronwyn Scott - Regency Sins - Pickpocket Countess / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady

He groaned his lust as The Cat ran her nails down his chest. Her deft hands found their way inside his shirt to the hard planes beneath the fabric. Brandon sucked in his breath. Never in his intimate relationships had he been so stimulated and he had yet to remove his clothes.

‘You see,’ she whispered sensually, ‘it is nice to be caught.’

His groin swelled painfully. He wanted her to catch him. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to head in the reverse direction. He wanted to catch her in the manner she’d intimated.

His mind ran riot with all nature of exotic visions. He imagined a primal coupling among his scarlet sheets that would leave them both sweat-drenched and slaked. He imagined her sleeping and rumpled in the middle of his big bed, her dark hair fanned out against the crimson clad pillows. He imagined for a moment that The Cat and all her passion belonged to him alone. If he took her, it could not be otherwise. He was a man used to power and the responsibilities that went with it.

She stepped back and arched an eyebrow that both insinuated a dare and mocked his ardour. With languorous movements, she stepped away from him and took a chair, crossing her long, booted legs. ‘It’s clear from the look on your face, and dare I say “other parts”, that you think you are man enough to tame The Cat.’

Brandon’s blood was already hot. Her insouciant manner pushed him the rest of the way until he fairly boiled. It was time for this impudent wench to learn a lesson about what happened when she played with fire. ‘You need taming badly.’ He advanced towards her, hands on hips.

‘You think you’re that man?’ The Cat queried from her relaxed position in the chair, unmoved by his proximity.

He leaned over her chair, his hands braced on each of the arms. He inhaled. The scent of outdoor air with the tinge of winter on it still hovered about her. She hadn’t been there long ahead of him. ‘Damn right I am.’

‘Many men have tried and most have failed.’

‘I am not most men.’ He was impressed. She hadn’t flinched once.

‘No, you’re an Earl. There’s, what, roughly fifty of you?’ She rose from the chair, her movements forcing him to step back and aside.

She still wore his jacket. She made a great show of taking it off and laying it aside with all the care of a man preparing to engage in fisticuffs. ‘Well, my lord, are you going to come tame The Cat or stand there all night trying to figure out who the other forty-nine are?’

He saw her game and it was over. He would not suffer defeat twice in the same evening, nor would he be cowed into retreating by her brazen tongue.

‘I call your bluff. Consider yourself caught.’ He gripped her forearms and covered her lush mouth with his in a kiss that conveyed the power of his desire—a desire that both transcended the base need to be the sole possessor of such a wild creature and encompassed the primal need to protect what was his.

Indeed, whether she knew it or not, she was his—his equal in wit, in sensual gambits, in passion for a cause. In all the ways that mattered, she was his. His tongue probed the warmth of her mouth and she responded wholeheartedly, giving herself over to a complete embrace and, for once, letting him lead. Her body pressed against his. Her hands twined about his neck to pull him close. Her hips fitted against his jutting erection. At such contact, Brandon knew an elation as old as Adam.

Confident in himself and in her response, he moved his hand to rest in the provocative space between her breast and ribs. She sighed encouragement into his mouth and he cupped her full breast through the cloth of her shirt. Then he was falling backwards onto the bed, taking the weight of The Cat with him. In a flash he found himself pinned, The Cat looming above him, straddling him at midsection.

She changed her grip so that she imprisoned both of his wrists with her right hand. The charming smile on her lips persuaded Brandon to lay still and see where her shenanigans led. If she required the illusion of control, he could accommodate her whim.

With her free hand she pulled his cravat free and wound it around his wrists, her actions compelling her to stretch over his head so that her breasts were mere inches from his mouth. With a flick of his tongue, he could lick the nipples through the linen of her dark shirt. His sense of fair play startled him back to consciousness. He had not mistaken her motions. She was tying him up with his own clothing.

‘What are you doing?’ he inquired, a douse of sobriety cooling some of his ardour. He tried to make sense of the amusement playing across her masked features when she leaned back from her efforts.

The Cat leaned forward to sprinkle tantalising kisses against his jaw. ‘Have none of your other lovers ever invigorated you like this?’ Her hand drifted to his member and grasped it firmly, stroking him through the fabric, her thumb teasing its sensitive head.

‘I didn’t think so.’ The Cat laughed—a deep throaty sound men would pay handsomely to hear in the night. She tugged his shirttails from his waistband and popped the buttons of his shirt open to reveal his bare chest. Brandon knew his nipples were erect with need.

‘Still think you can tame The Cat?’ She took one erect nubbin in her mouth and laved it with her tongue.

Brandon moaned. If this was failure, he’d like to fail more often.

The Cat sat back on her haunches, smiling broadly. She swung off the bed and studied his long legs for a thoughtful moment. Then she began to tug. Off came his boots. Off came his trousers. His member stood at rigid attention for them both to see.

The Cat stepped away from the bed and walked backwards towards the door, her face still wreathed in her grin. ‘Consider yourself caught.’ She used his own words.

‘Where are you going?’ Brandon strained again to sit upright.

‘I’m going home.’

‘Going home?’ The implications slowly dawned on him. ‘Wait. You can’t leave me like this!’

‘Yes, I can.’ She fired her parting volley, ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to trust a smiling cat?’

In the end, the bonds hadn’t been tied so tightly as to prevent escape without calling for assistance. He silently thanked the vixen for that small consideration. It would have been far too embarrassing to call for his valet. How would he ever have explained this to Harper?

Brandon hoisted his form up and loosened one of the knots with his teeth. His hand slipped through the growing loop and he was quickly free. He recognised the favour for what it was—this private game of point and counterpoint was just between them. It had taken on a life of its own. It had somehow become separate from the fight over the mill.

Tonight, she’d meant to win their game, but not to make him look the fool. He’d wager the crown jewels she’d known he could get out of the bonds with little effort. Well, he was glad to give her the small victory. It was only fair after he’d cornered Miss Habersham on the balcony. They were even. For now.

Still, the loose knots had effectively prevented him from chasing after her. She was gone until the next time—and there would be a next time. There was unfinished business between them.

In the heat of their play, he had not confronted her with his thoughts about her identity or about his plan to see her stop the robberies. The Cat definitely addled his wits.

It was time to call for reinforcements. In the morning, he would send a note to his close friend, Jack Hanley, Viscount Wainsbridge. Between the two of them, they’d crack The Cat’s secrets.

Discovering her identity was for her own good. In spite of her games tonight, he recognised that he liked her too much to see her hang and she liked him.