Page 21 of Wickedly Yours
Arabella’s lips parted, the simple act drawing his attention to the gorgeous red of her mouth. She looked too shocked to speak. But she didn’t swat at him or slap his face. Nor attempt to get away. “I am not in need of comfort,” she said quietly.
“Maybe I am.” He set his glass down before cupping her face between both his hands. Gently he stroked the line of her jaw, pausing over the bruise and cursing Corbett.
A soft, feminine sound of approval came from Arabella as she tilted her chin into his hand and lifted her mouth.
When his lips met hers, Rowan groaned. The taste of her was exquisite. Darkness and vulnerability mixed with innocence and the heady taste of wine. Her lips were pliant beneath his, offering no resistance. Arabella’s inexperience was obvious as she seemed not to know exactly how to move her mouth. Knowing another man had not kissed her thus aroused him more.
Arabella pressed herself closer, unknowingly twisting her plump bottom in a teasing motion against his already aroused cock. A soft mewling escaped her lips.
Rowan held her more firmly, drinking deeply of Arabella. He wanted more of her. All of her.
She arched, her lush curves molding against the lines of his chest. Her hands wound through his hair, raking her nails against his scalp.Closer, she seemed to urge.
His hand moved to cup one rounded buttock, squeezing gently, kneading her soft flesh, before running down the length of her thigh. He demanded her lips to part, to surrender to him, as his tongue found hers.
Arabella shivered at the uncertain invasion. But after only a moment of coaxing, her tongue curled around his, mimicking his actions. She was moving gently back and forth against the hardness in his breeches. A whimper came from the back of her throat.
He cupped one breast, tracing the outline of her peaked nipple, imagining the nub pushing against the red silk of the chemise. If he touched Arabella between her legs, she would be wet. Ready for him. A growl escaped him, and he pulled his mouth from hers. He’d forgotten himself.
I’m about to take her on this chair.
Dazed, Arabella looked at him from underneath the dark sootiness of her lashes, her lips swollen and slightly parted. The black pitch of her eyes blinked. “Rowan?” Her voice was low and sultry, the sound of a woman who wished to be bedded. His cock twitched madly, urging him to take her. “Why did you stop?”
He closed his eyes, struggling to get his breathing under control. “Arabella—”
Almost immediately her body stiffened. The delicate hands went up against his chest to push him away. A hurt look flashed across her face before the lush mouth once again looked as if she’d sucked a lemon. Her chin tilted arrogantly even as a wounded look filled her eyes.
Rowan tightened his arms, refusing to release her. She was so quick to anger. “Stop, Bella. I would not dishonor you.”
She froze at the sound of her pet name. “How fortunate it must be for your family to use their honor only at times deemed suitable.”
Angered at her words, and detesting her tone, Rowan grabbed her hips and forcefully pushed her down hard against the arousal that threatened to rip the seams of his breeches. “You may put your fears of rejection aside.”
Her mouth widened in shock, but her features softened. “Vile.” The word sounded almost affectionate. “I should never have offered you an ounce of gratitude or comfort.” Her voice had lowered again to a husky whisper. She gave a futile, tired struggle before curling herself upon his chest all the while hissing out her dislike of him.
Rowan closed his eyes, pressing a kiss against her temple, enjoying the feel of her in his arms and the sound of her voice. Her hair smelled slightly of bergamot, a strong scent more suited to a man than a woman. Somehow that fit her.
“Goodnight, Bella.”
* * *
She wasin Grandfather’s coach. His coach was wonderful. It smelled of leather and pipe tobacco. Just like Grandfather. Arabella laughed as she popped another sweet in her mouth. Her brother, Nick, sat across from her. The Duke of Dunbar was in residence for the Season and she and her brother had spent the afternoon in the park with Grandfather before His Grace reluctantly sent them home. She often thought that even though he was a duke, Grandfather was lonely sometimes. Especially since Grandmama went to heaven.
Arabella missed Grandmama.
The coach pulled up to the town home her parents inhabited. It was much smaller than Grandfather’s and the staff not as well turned out. Papa and Mama rarely took she and Nick to the park. Her parents would certainly never buy them sweets. She hated this house. Just the sight of the dull gray brick filled her with a heavy foreboding.
‘Please Nick. Let’s not go in. Please. Let’s go back to Grandfather’s. I don’t wish to go in. Truly.” Something was wrong. She could feel it.
“Don’t be a cow, Bella.” Her brother gave her an annoyed look. “I bet Cook is making cherry tarts.”
Cherry tarts were Arabella’s favorite.
The coach stopped and Nick helped her out, grabbing her about the waist and swinging her to the ground before the footman could even put down the step. Her brother was big already and didn’t need the step.
She flung open the door and ran down the hall. Several of the maids were gathered together, their pails and mops set aside. “Sluggards!” Arabella trilled as she ran through them, scattering the maids like a flock of birds. One reached out to stop her, grabbing at her clothing. ‘Lady Arabella. Stop, I pray you.’
But Arabella didn’t stop. Instead, she burst into Papa’s study, Nick on her heels. She skidded to a stop at the sight before her, the lemon drop she sucked on falling out of her open mouth.
