Page 50 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“Is that your opinion?” he asked, twisting her curls around his fingers and feeling the weight of the silky mass in his palm. “Or does it belong to the dozens of people downstairs who would judge you should they discover us alone like this?”
Entangled. Entranced. She fit so perfectly against him. Her curves teased the length of his body, creating an exquisite friction.
“But wecouldbe discovered,” she said. He did not miss how she had not quite answered his question. It was not her opinion, then. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“Is that not part of the thrill?” he murmured, with a laughing growl.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked, pulling back. “Mere thrill?”
He paused, unthreading his fingers from her hair and lifting his mouth from where it had been nuzzling her temple. Archer gazed down at her and saw raw, honest curiosity in her expression.
“No.” His throat closed off as soon as the answer slipped out. Not thrill. Not solely. Kissing Briannon gave him something else, something he couldn’t quite articulate. Her innate sensuality, her naive inexperience…they drove him to distraction. Never had some girl fresh from the schoolroom had such a paralyzing effect on him.
“I’ve wanted to do this again since that night at the masquerade. Kiss you. Touch you. This feelsright,” he continued, his thumb caressing the point of her chin. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”
Her lips parted, as if she lacked the strength to keep them pressed shut. When she said nothing, and the tip of her tongue darted out to touch her lower lip in thought, Archer could not resist. He sought her mouth again, sucking the tip of her tongue and holding it firm as he held her against his body. Lost as he was, she moaned and wrapped her palms around his upper arms, clinging to him as tightly as he did her.
A sensual haze engulfed him then, pulling him down and threatening to drown him in the sweetly seductive taste of her. Hell, how was he going to force himself to stop? She wasn’t prepared for the wicked things coursing through his mind: his fingers, tugging the golden gown from her shoulders, dropping it into a cloud at her feet. His body covering hers on any surface that would accommodate them. Her moans intensifying as he satisfied their desires in every possible way.
As if Briannon had been able to see his fantasies, she broke the kiss, alarm notching her brow.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s someone coming,” she whispered. “He called your name.”
Sure enough, Archer heard the sound of footsteps. A fist rapping on another door down the corridor.Bloody hell.With reluctance, he stepped away from Briannon and adjusted his clothing. His groin throbbed, and he hoped she was too distracted and alarmed to notice his arousal. If it was the duke coming down the corridor, or Lord Dinsmore, appearing in the door incontestably tousled—and hard—would only do Brynn’s reputation more injury. Damn it, what had he been thinking keeping her up here for so long?
Archer composed himself, opened the door, and let out a gratified breath as a footman rounded a nearby corridor. He stepped out and shut the door softly behind him. “What is it?”
“My apologies, my lord, but I have been searching for you. I understand it is quite late, but the stable master hasstronglyrequested your audience. It seems your gray is favoring a leg. I apologize again, my lord, but—”
“It’s perfectly fine, do not apologize,” he replied, though he couldn’t rid the scowl etched upon his face that grew deeper by the second. “Where is he?”
“The kitchens, my lord.”
The last thing he wanted to do was to leave Briannon on her own to dwell upon his confession to being the Masked Marauder and to regret their kiss, but he had no choice. Brandt would never disturb him at the residence unless it was urgent. Archer dismissed the footman with a brisk nod. “Tell him I will be down in a moment.”
He reentered the room, watching as Briannon rearranged her mussed hair and fussed over the folds of her dress. Her eyes met his, and his breath caught. She looked thoroughly kissed and so wildly beautiful that it took all his strength not to haul her back into his arms and keep her there. Instead he cleared his throat and willed his body under control.
“I’m needed elsewhere, but please—do not leave. I won’t be a moment. You’ll stay?”
She hesitated, that delectable mouth of hers slack, her lips likely throbbing as his were. But then she nodded, her agreement soundless, her bright gaze fairly smoldering. Whatever Brandt wanted, it had better be damned important.
Archer closed the door behind him and took several long breaths to cool the ardor in his blood before striding toward the kitchens.
Chapter Thirteen
Brynn stared at the closed door, collapsing onto the window seat with all the grace of an ox. She wasn’t in the least bit incapable of speech. She’d wisely chosen to nod for fear of what would come flying out of her mouth.
Oh sweet Lord. It washim.
The Marquess of Hawksfield…Archer…was the Masked Marauder.
Brynn couldn’t reconcile the vivid images of the bandit lying half naked on that cot in the cottage with the autocratic gentleman who’d stood in front of her. She recalled the way Archer had favored his leg and how his hands had touched the injured spot—right where she’d shot him. She closed her eyes, wishing away the disturbing, utterly arousing recollection of his bunched, muscular thighs, and crumpled against the cushions.
Her body felt like it was being held together by the threads of her dress, and nothing much else at all. One touch of his fingers, his lips—oh god, histongue—and she’d been rendered into a useless, brainless, mass of sensuality. His kisses had consumed her, and in the moment, being devoured by him had seemed like a perfectly wonderful way to disappear.
Suddenly breathless, she clenched her fists and turned toward the bookshelves. “Stop it,” she hissed to herself.
