Page 49 of My Rogue, My Ruin
There was one thing separating the masses from theton: a title. Something that could not be earned by honest, hard work, but by birthright. To see the privileged take what had been handed to them at birth and ignore the other side of London, the side that depressed them because of how dirty and poor it was, infuriated him.
“I do not keep the little I take,” he said finally.
“Little?” she scoffed, her voice shaking. “You took my grandmother’s pearls. Priceless heirlooms that cannot be replaced. You pointed a pistol at me!” He stepped toward her, and she stepped back, the bench at her calves trapping her. “You are nothing more than a thief and a scoundrel.”
“Heirlooms arethings,” he said, the word bitter on his tongue. “Which have since been redistributed to those in need. Widows, orphans, the poor, and the ill. Trust me, they need food more than you or any other heiress need adornment. And my pistols, I’ll have you know, were empty.”
She opened her mouth and closed it. Archer stared at her flushed face, her chest heaving with the force of her emotion as she weighed his words for truth. The air fairly crackled between them, and she was fighting it. Fighting him and that same raw connection that had formed between them that night on the lane—the spark of sexual desire he’d felt from the very first moment his gaze had crashed into hers. He could see fright in her eyes, but there was something else there, too.
He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to kiss the fear from her eyes and make them cloud with passion instead. Despite reason, he stepped closer. She inhaled sharply.
“Don’t you dare,” she said in alarm, throwing her hands between them as if to ward off his approach.
“Dare what?”
“Come any closer. I’ll scream.” Briannon’s eyes darted to the closed door.
“No, you won’t,” he said gently. “You won’t for the same reason that you wore those rubies. And I was right, wasn’t I? So better suited to you than dreary pearls.”
Her tone dripped condescension. “Did you steal those, too?”
“No. I bought them for you.”
He bridged the remaining gap between them, forcing her hands to press into his chest. She fisted them, almost pulling away, but kept them there like a shield. “Please, my lord, move away,” she said, her eyes huge. He wanted to drown in them, so clear they looked like pools of honey.
His fingers brushed her cheek, his voice gruffly tender. “I should have bought you topaz to go with those magnificent eyes. They look like molten gold with this dress.”
“And when I wear brown, my eyes look like mud, so your money would have been wasted.”
Archer smiled at her attempt to diffuse the escalating tension between them. He lowered his voice a notch and ratcheted it back up. “And what if you are wearing nothing at all?”
Briannon’s eyes flared with suppressed desire, and he grinned with satisfaction. She could deny their attraction all she wanted, but what he saw there spoke volumes. “Lord Hawksfield, please,” she began. “You cannot say such things.”
“Archer.”
She swallowed, her lip trembling. “Archer—”
The sound of his name on her tongue was a siren song. With a strangled groan, he bent his head, though halted within an inch of her mouth. Archer wanted so badly to kiss her, but he needed her to want it, too. Their breaths met and mingled as he shifted his palm up her spine. Blinking in confusion, her eyes lifted to his, her body straining toward him, and what he saw there made his pulse seize. Deep hunger shone from those rich, tawny eyes, and it was obvious she felt the attraction between them as keenly as he did.
“A moment ago you wanted me to move away,” he said quietly. “Do you still wish me to?”
Twin flags of color lit her cheeks, but she closed the gap to graze her lips against his. Their touch was so light he would have thought he’d imagined it if it weren’t for the violent reaction of his body. The shock of the intimate contact made his blood race, and his hands shook as he spread his fingers over her shoulders. Drawing her pliant length against his, Archer set his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and soft, and tasted of lemon and spun sugar.
He plied her mouth further, using every ounce of his experience with the opposite sex to make her melt. He kissed her jaw, the taut column of her throat, and returned to her mouth, sliding his lips between the crease of hers until she opened sweetly for him. He swept in, relishing the swift retreat of her tongue.
Groaning at her shyness and the heated response it elicited in him, he continued to kiss her, reaching deeper, until her tongue made a timid return for one more decadent touch. Her fists wound into the lapels of his dinner jacket. He didn’t have to coax her now. Despite her sheltered innocence, the natural passion he had sensed lying just beneath her surface rose ardently to meet his. Archer’s arms curved around her, splaying one hand at her back and the other caressing the bare skin at her shoulder as hers hooked around his neck. There was nothing separating the heat of their bodies but a few layers of cloth and silk.
He dropped his lips to her bare shoulder, his tongue tracing a hot path on her skin. It tasted nearly as good as her mouth had. His mouth continued its exploration, tugging on the fabric that covered her breasts. She protested vaguely, a few incoherent words, but when his hand boldly caressed her breast, she gasped and fell silent. Archer couldn’t help himself—he’d been consumed by the thought of repeating the act since the Gainsbridge Masquerade. His hand slid past the ruched silk of her bodice, his tongue tracing a hot wet path toward her earlobe. She wore no stays, and the realization enflamed him.
Greedily, Archer sought her warm flesh, cupping her breast as his mouth found hers once more. Briannon’s breast swelled against his palm as his thumb rolled across the hard point of her nipple. She moaned into his mouth, and Archer deepened the kiss. The soft, pliant feel of her nearly made him lose hold of himself. He groaned low in his throat, his tongue delving and retreating in imitation of the act he was beginning to crave with desperate longing. God, he couldn’t get enough of her—her taste, her scent, her skin. He wanted it all.
Archer broke away, and her eyes sprang open as his aroused body stood flush with hers. Her storm-tossed eyes were wide with shock, her mouth swollen and rosy, and all he wanted was to devour her.
“We have to stop,” she said, pushing lightly against him—and then spreading her fingers to touch and explore the breadth of his chest as if she couldn’t stop herself.
He couldn’t stop touching her, either, sliding his hands against her back, her shoulders, winding in the softness of her hair. “Why?”
“Because…this is…wrong.”
