Page 69 of A Wicked Game

He moved lower, to the second button, and her senses swam at the feel of his body behind her. The scent of him teased her nose and she pressed the front of her dress in mingled fright and anticipation.

She wasn’t wearing stays, nor a chemise. The bodice of her gown was designed with a built-in corset: All she had on beneath was a petticoat, stockings, and garters.

She knew the exact moment Morgan realized it too; he paused at button number five and his breathing hitched. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of the fabric, brushing the bumps of her spine in a tiny caress, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Will that do?” he rasped. “Can you manage the rest?”

His nearness was glorious, almost suffocating. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, but she managed to shake her head.

“I don’t think so. Keep going.”

Hedefinitelymuttered a curse that time.

She lowered her chin, exposing the back of her neck as he continued: his large fingers made light work of the tiny buttons and her skin pebbled as he worked his way downward. The rasp of his breathing and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds. Cool air rushed into the sliver of bare skin he’d exposed, and when he finally reached the last button, right at the base of her spine, she sucked in a deep breath.

The sides of the dress sagged open. Harriet slipped her arms from the tiny puff sleeves and pressed her hands to the front of the bodice to prevent it from falling to her waist. She turned, just as Morgan stepped back, his hands raised as if he’d surprised a venomous snake and didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

His gaze flicked helplessly from her face to her throat, then down to her hands holding up her dress, and he shook his head, as if in answer to a silent question.

“Harriet, I—”

She didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. “Shall we make another bet?”

His gaze snapped back up to hers. “What kind of bet?”

“I bet you can’t kiss me until I say stop.”

“What?” His confusion was obvious.

“I bet you can’t kiss me until I say stop,” she repeated, enunciating each word so there was no mistaking the challenge.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she almost laughed. He was clearly trying to identify the trick she was playing on him. He lowered his hands slowly to his sides.

“You want me to kiss you?”

“On the mouth,” she clarified.

“Until you say stop?” He was convinced she was trying to con him. Which she was, of course, but not in the way he imagined.

“It’s not that difficult a concept.” She infused her tone with just the right amount of scorn to suggest she was questioning his intelligence. “I’m sure you’ve kissed a hundred women before. And stopped when they said stop.”

“They rarely ask me to stop!” he growled. “Is this a trick?”

“No.”

“Ah!” His expression cleared, as if he’d just received enlightenment. “I see what you’re doing. You’re punishing me. For making fun of you on board ship. You’re going to let me kiss you—just for a moment, just long enough for it to start gettinginteresting—and then you’re going to tell me no.”

She allowed a little smile to curve her lips. “Maybe.”

Or maybe not.

He lowered his brows and glared at her. At any other time, she might have found it alarming, but for some reason she found his irritation adorable. Power, lust, and restrained aggression was a winning combination.

“You want to torture me,” he said slowly. Accusingly. “You want to get me all worked up into a lather, make me think there’s a chance you might make love with me, then dash my hopes.”

She raised her brows. “Kissing me gets you all worked up into a lather?”

He ignored her delighted amusement. “You seem very certain that I’ll be able to control myself. Aren’t you worried I’ll get so carried away I won’t heed your order to stop?”

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