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Dangerous Games. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.

Dangerous Games - Charlotte Mede


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indulgence.

      Bellamy crossed his arms over his chest to contain his emotion and stroked his mustache. He should have asked Flynn to bring his cigars, his urge for tobacco doing nothing to temper his mood.

      “You’ve erred,” he said slowly, allowing the storm clouds to gather, “if you believe that I have your best interests at heart. I’m not like your husband.” His gaze flicked over her like a whip. “And tell me, did he ever discover that you kept a retinue of lovers, ranging from stable boys to gardeners, while he was away on his various assignments for the Crown?”

      The beginnings of anxiety tautened her lips. Constance was shrewd enough to turn things around while she could. Her nostrils flared at the slight. “You’re speaking nonsense, darling, and you well know it. Julian ignored me, if you can imagine, so what choice did I have? He deserved it,” she said, her fine features collapsing, looking like she suddenly needed a dose of laudanum to soothe frayed nerves. Her eyes darted around the room to settle on the bedside table where her tincture was customarily found. Bellamy made sure she had a ready supply. “I come from one of England’s best families,” she rattled on, moving toward the bed to begin opening drawers and rummaging through their contents.

      “Such a lofty tone coming from a whore.”

      “Go sod yourself.” She slammed shut a drawer triumphantly, small glass bottle in hand.

      “Not while I have you about.” Bellamy rose from his chair and made his way toward her. She raised the bottle to her lips just as he grabbed her arm and flung her into a chair. Seizing the bottle from her hand, he hurled it to the floor. The bottle smashed, leaking oily liquid, a bitterness perfuming the air.

      Not about to be cowed and deciding she could do better by heightening the atmosphere of violence, Constance smiled slyly. “Your accent is thickening, King, my darling, along with your bad, bad temper,” she taunted, crossing her legs as though she had all the time in the world, and making sure that one of the thin straps of her silk rail fell alluringly from her shoulder. “Are you reverting to savagery, having spent all that time with those primitives?” She shuddered delicately.

      Bellamy heard the gathering thunder in his ears, and his hands itched to encircle her white neck and slowly, oh-so-slowly, strangle the life from that exquisite body. How he wanted to hurt her, to slap that delicate face, to shatter that sultry, knowing expression. He wanted a whip in his hand, to lash her until her smooth skin oozed welts, to give her over to his men to ride until even she would scream for mercy.

      How unfortunate that he had to keep her intact. For St. Martin.

      He jerked away from her as though she were filth. “I could call for the guards right now….”

      Constance’s eyes narrowed, sensing an opportunity for advantage despite the lingering haze of laudanum. “But you won’t because you want me all to yourself, don’t you? And you adore taking something from a man like St. Martin, a man whom you could never be. Have I ever told you what my dear husband was like in bed?” She paused for a heartbeat. “No. I don’t recall that I did. Quite superlative, if you must know. And I would know…”

      “You’re simply goods to him, as to me.”

      “Is that so?” she asked, a sharpness to her face, leaning forward in her chair. “What am I worth then? To my husband who believes me long dead? Tell me!”

      If only she knew. Bellamy exploded in guttural laughter. “You bitch. I cannot believe he was dimwitted enough to make you his wife, despite your aristocratic pretensions. Imagine, the clever, strong, brave Julian St. Martin.” He looked down as she sat languorously in the chair, her hard green eyes challenging him. “You can only hope that he is mad enough with guilt to take you back in spite of the fact that you spread your legs more easily than a mongrel in heat.”

      “He will,” she purred knowingly. She rose from the chair until they faced each other, an orgy of danger surrounding them. He approached, moving closer, the arrows of fire once again piercing his belly.

      “Look what I can give you,” she crooned, “and look what you’ve taken from him.”

      Constance knew that he wouldn’t resist. She felt through the opening of his robe while he grabbed her other hand and put it open-palmed between his legs, pressing it until he was sure she felt what he wanted her to feel.

      “You adore taking something from St. Martin. And even more,” she said throatily, intensifying her caress so he was unable to answer. “You’re addicted to the way I spread my legs for you.”

      The aristocratic whore was right on both counts, Bellamy thought, looking forward to another descent into hell, moments before he surrendered, once again, to her depraved hands and mouth.

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