Kasey Michaels - A Midsummer Night's Sin

Puck turned rather abruptly, his mind having taken him somewhere he preferred not to go, and all but cannoned into one of the guests.

“I beg your pardon, I was not— Well, hello, beautiful lady.”

“How would you know? I’m wearing this ridiculous mask.”

Puck was taken aback by this pert answer nearly as much as by the clear disdain in the young woman’s voice; he hadn’t been dismissed out of hand by a female since he was thirteen. But that reaction faded quickly as his attention was captured by the most amazingly clear blue eyes framed by lashes so long and dark he could scarcely believe them real.

And that mouth. Not only pert, but wide, and lush, and definitely inviting. There was a small brown mole—no, beauty spot—at the upper-left corner of those sensuous lips, which only added to the overall impression of sensuality. Of carnal knowledge and the pleasures of sex. A woman wasn’t born with a mouth like that without knowing what it was for or how to use it.

He put his hands on her shoulders, noting that she was rather tall for a woman, and boldly inspected the rest of her.

She was slimly built, her scarlet silk domino hiding most of the curves he felt certain were there but unable to conceal the fact that the breasts beneath it were wonderfully full and high and, he was equally certain, Heaven to touch, to tease, to taste.

Best of all, she was here. He leaned forward, smoothly insinuating his mouth beside her ear so that she’d be sure to hear him above the hubbub around them.

“We’ll dance, you and I,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her arms, cupping her slim waist beneath the domino even as he took her right hand and raised it to his lips.

Her fingers were cold, although the room was stuffy and overly warm, but she did not move away from him. Her gaze did slide toward the middle of the floor, where couples were gathering as the musicians struck up a waltz.

“No, not here. You’re much too exquisite for this motley crew,” he soothed, and then twirled her about, deftly maneuvering them toward the opened French doors and out onto the narrow, moonlit balcony.

Once there, seeing that the rather crude benches to either side of the doorway were occupied by amorous couples who didn’t seem to mind an audience, he let go of her waist but not her hand, turning her about to lead them down the wide shallow steps and into the meager, flambeaux-lit gardens.

She didn’t protest but just lifted her skirts and followed where he led.

It took some doing, but he finally managed to locate a small clearing devoid of other occupants. There was no bench, but the grass seemed plentiful enough, and there was always that stout tree trunk to lean her against as he got to know her better.

Know her body better. Intimately.

He already felt sure he knew her enough.

She was here, wasn’t she? She was apparently willing. What more did he need to know?

“What is your name, scarlet lady?” he asked her, looking into her wide, unblinking eyes, feeling himself becoming lost in those clear, swirling depths.

“I’d first know yours. Is it Mr. Black or Mr. Gold?” she said, showing spirit yet again.

Puck laughed. “It’s neither. My name is Robin Goodfellow.”

The truth was rarely believed, and it wasn’t now.

“Oh yes, I’m quite sure that’s correct. And I am Titania, Queen of the Fairies.”

“Ah, fair Titania,” Puck allowed, quietly surprised that she would know the characters from Shakespeare’s farce until he realized that she must be an actress. He was about to break his most sacred rule and tumble an actress. “Then you do not believe me?”

“No more than you believe me, no. But does it matter? I don’t imagine you’ve brought me out here for an exchange of names.”

“And why have I brought you out here?” he asked, even as he lifted the silken hood back and off her head, revealing a mass of artfully placed curls nearly black in the dim light.

“I’m not entirely certain. I was rather thinking it was to kiss me.”

“To kiss you,” Puck repeated, taken aback. She said the words as if they were dangerous in the extreme. “And you came here to be kissed?”

“I didn’t think so, no. But now that I am here, I may as well be hanged for a sheep as well as a lamb, don’t you think? I’m convinced my—my companion is taking full advantage of this rather exciting bit of freedom. The masks, you know. A stranger’s kiss in the moonlight.”

Puck’s brain was sending out alerts his libido pushed aside as ridiculous. She was an actress, that was all. She was most probably playing the coy maiden in hopes that the novelty would excite him.

And her ploy was working, probably even better than she had hoped. His mind was being seduced by her feigned naiveté, while the rest of him was growing hard with a base passion he hadn’t experienced since he’d been a randy youth who could have embarrassed himself at the mere thought of touching a female breast.

“Then, my queen of the fairies, we will begin with a kiss.”

Because he thought she would wish him to play along with her small charade, and because the idea of doing so only increased his growing passion, Puck lightly cupped her chin and leaned in to put his mouth to hers.

Oh, and she was good. She did not disappoint. She allowed the kiss, but did nothing to encourage him to deepen it. She did not put her arms around him, did not immediately begin to grind her body against his, the sure signal of a professional who wished the act over and done and several gold pieces slipped into her purse.

But she’d miscalculated, badly. Her supposedly untutored mouth presented not only a challenge, but a frisson of delight that went straight to Puck’s manhood, which now strained against his trousers.

A kiss. A single kiss, and he was ready to set her up in her own apartments, give her anything she wanted: diamonds, pearls, her own carriage and stable. One kiss, and he was the fool he laughed at, enslaved by a woman whose cold-blooded profession it was to jumble the wits of idiots like himself.

Idiots like his own father.

He lifted his face away from hers and looked into her magnificent eyes.

He saw no guile. No greed. No reaction at all save what might be termed confusion.

Oh yes, she was good.

But he was better.

This time he didn’t approach her gently. He swooped, openmouthed. He took her into his arms, his lips slanted across hers, his tongue probing, his teeth nibbling, his hands traveling down her back and then coming up and around to cup her lush breasts. He insinuated his right thigh between her legs, pressing upward against her sex.

He kissed her mouth, her throat, bent her back over his arm to press his lips against the smooth expanse of skin above the neckline of her gown.

And all the while, he crooned to her in French. How lovely she was. How he was being made mad by her virginal game playing. What he would do to her to reward her, how he would do it, how she would know she had never been made love to before, no matter how many men she’d had.

And she whispered back to him: “I have a hat pin poised to stick in your ear, and I will do it if you do not release me at once.”

The words were clear, and they had been pronounced in flawless French.

Puck hauled her upright and put her away from him, staring at her in astonishment. This was no whore for hire. He’d been duped. By God, had he been duped? And by some idiot slip of a girl out for a lark?

“ What did you say?”

“Nothing half so horrible as you did, I’m sure,” she answered as she pulled her domino shut and raised the hood back over her hair. Her hands shook, but her voice was firm and clear. “I’m leaving now. Do not follow me.”