Page 39 of The Defiant One
He smiled, but his eyes were hard and determined. "To outsmarting my Machiavellian brother."
Chapter 12
He offered her the metal flask, still warm from his palm. Celsie took it. She wasn't particularly fond of brandy, so she had only the tiniest of sips. But it was a toast to which she was all too happy to drink. She handed the flask back. He tipped the vessel, draining it.
Their gazes met, coconspirators, allies, on a mutual smile.
And a moment later, it hit her.
Oh, no. Not again!
"Andrew —"
He must have felt it too, because at the same moment he shot to his feet, rapping his head on the roof and cursing loudly. "Hell and damnation! That cursed spawn of the devil!"
It was the same thing all over again. The same warm languor spreading through her blood. The same desperate longing to get her hands on this man, under his clothes, on his skin, all over his skin. The same prurient, unfulfilled tingling in her breasts and between her thighs . . .
Oh, no.
Oh, yes.
Oh, God!
She flattened herself against the back of the seat, willing herself not to touch him. "For heaven's sake, Andrew, this isn't just brandy, it's —"
"The bloody potion!" he roared, throwing himself back down in his own seat and twisting his face against the leather squab so he couldn't see her. His eyes were open, glazed, as surely her own must be. She saw his fists clenching and unclenching desperately. She saw the fine sheen of dampness breaking out across his brow, along his jaw and neck, and heard the almost inhuman howl of rage that tore from his anguished throat.
"I'll kill him, so help me God, this time he's gone too far!"
"I don't understand —"
"Lucien was the one who gave me the brandy! He bloody drugged it!"
He made a desperate lunge for the door, ready to hurl himself out of the coach at high speed if only to keep his brother from having the last laugh, but his knee caught the edge of Celsie's seat and he fell, heavily. Celsie was never to know whether he grabbed for her shoulders as he went down, or she grabbed for his in an attempt to catch him. It didn't matter. In the next moment, his mouth, hard and angry all over again, was slanting towards hers.
And then he kissed her.
She had never been kissed so thoroughly, so hungrily, so aggressively, in her life. Oh, she'd had the occasional chaste peck from fortune hunters posing as admirers; she'd had cold, sloppy kisses from the pea-plagued Lord Hammond and found puppies' tongues to be drier; and she'd had no cause, based on her own wanting experiences, to think there was anything more to be had from kissing a man than some vastly unpleasant sensations they had all seemed to enjoy far more than she.
But this . . .
She melted under the delicious sensation of his hard, powerful body all but crushing her down against the seat. She felt his hand yanking her shirt free from the waistband of her breeches and sliding up her abdomen beneath the light fabric, his other hand cradling her cheek, holding her head right where he wanted it, his thumb slowly brushing her mouth as his lips drove hungrily against hers. There was nothing cold, wet or sloppy about the way Lord Andrew kissed; there was nothing chaste about it, either. He knew exactly what he wanted and he knew exactly how to go about getting it, and what he wanted was to put his tongue into her mouth and his hand beneath her shirt and then all over her suddenly sensitive, suddenly on-fire, suddenly very eager and happy-to-be-noticed, breast.
Celsie let him.
She moaned deep in her throat as he caught the nipple between thumb and forefinger and gently rolled it. And all the while his tongue thrust against her own, his mouth crushed hers, his harsh, quickening breath glancing off her cheek and a jutting hardness pushing against the top of her thigh.
Celsie, gasping, finally broke the kiss. She stared dazedly up at him.
"My God," he said, breathing hard. "I'm not going to survive this."
"And neither am I, unless you kiss me again."
"This is ridiculous, I hardly know you, I hardly like you, I want to do all sorts of wicked things to you and I can't seem to control myself —"
"I hope you don't even try."
"I don't want to try . . . Lord save us, Celsie. I need to touch you. I need to kiss you."
