The Den Of Iniquity. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
He followed her line of vision across the room through cigar smoke and low lighting to where two gentlemen, one notorious for wasting his seed as carelessly as he wasted his money, left the piquet table in favour of a more tempting distraction.
‘Bloody hell.’
He bolted from his office and down the side stairs, Ransom barking a loud objection as he passed the dog in the dimly lit hall. Opening the hidden panel in the wall, he reached through, gripped Vivienne by the shoulder and dragged her backward with no explanation.
‘What are you doing here?’
He locked the panel before he carried, dragged, shuttled her up the stairs and into his office where he performed the same routine, door closed tight. Then he pinned her to the panel, furious at what might have happened, at his disordered emotions and maddening reaction to seeing her nearly accosted within these walls.
‘Christ, what are you thinking?’ He growled the words fully aware he overreacted but unable to stop.
Her eyes went wide, glittering with tears? Or challenge? There was no way to tell. With her skin flushed pink and hair pulled back in a wide bandeau, she looked as defiant and determined as a warrior.
She looked beautiful.
She was dressed in fine evening clothes, a gown of silk and satin, the perfect reminder she remained out of reach, despite his blood heating at the sight of her. He stepped away exhaling a breath to expend a measure of fury. Desire pulsed, his muscles hard, most especially the one in his trousers. What the hell was wrong with him? He threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face where it fell in his rush to reach her. He drew another breath. He wouldn’t invite forbidden temptation in his life. This was madness.
‘Why are you here?’ He said each word slowly, the deliberate question bringing him a sense of order.
‘I wanted to find you.’
Her statement almost sounded a question. Did his reaction frighten her? The honest confession lit a flame of curiosity. He was accustomed to beating information out of thugs and snitches whenever he needed an answer. His eyes roved over her person. Long silken tresses reached her waist, a tiny waist at that, but not without the lush curves of a full-grown woman. She breathed deep, the motion giving rise to the swell of her breasts, smooth and pale where they tested the neckline of her fancy gown. His eyes refused to move on, memorizing every detail, the soft promise of delicate skin, how her pulse jumped at the hollow of her neck. At one time she’d been covered with a shawl, but now it circled her throat, thrust back when he’d hauled her through the panel. The wrap framed her cleavage. His blood ran white-hot.
She didn’t move when he stepped closer. His expression smoothed with the passing minute.
‘But why?’ He stood so close he could smell her and dammit to hell, Ace spoke the truth. She smelled divine. Some mixture of exotic florals that reminded him of a garden on the verge of bloom, the transient existence of innocence and ignorance before the world ruined and destroyed them. He breathed her in, a temporary potion and enchanted elixir, and his cock grew harder still. Somehow the scent tempted him on the most carnal level. ‘You placed yourself in danger.’ He leaned a little closer, drawn by an invisible thread, his voice a husky rasp. ‘Why?’
‘You said if I ever needed anything…’
Her eyes darted to his mouth. Did she fear he would pelt her with recrimination?
The thread of curiosity wound him closer still and he braced a hand against the door where she remained, back flat on the panel, his hand in kind, a few strands of black silk caught under his palm. His lips hovered over hers, that little cupid mouth, pink lips, heart-shaped face, wide beguiling green eyes. His heart pounded in his chest as if it demanded to be let free.
‘What is it you need, Vivienne?’
It was the first time he’d said her name, the syllables molten velvet, a caress disguised by letters and sounds. She swallowed, aware the slightest movement would close the infinitesimal distance between their mouths, his full lips near enough to feel every breath, sense the smallest sway.
‘I didn’t mean to anger you, Sin.’ She tried his name on her tongue, liking the sound of it, and a lick of excitement fuelled her courage. Control. This was power and control. Still he didn’t move away and a frisson of tension danced between them, the hum of unspoken words and forbidden suggestion.
‘Don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and his nose almost brushed hers.
‘Shall I call you Max then?’ A flicker of emotion lit his eyes. He blinked twice, long dark lashes framed eyes blacker than ink. A nerve ticked at the corner of his temple and for the first time she noticed the cut that sliced above his brow.
‘You’ve been hurt.’ Dismay caused her words to come out hushed. She snaked her hand between their bodies, careful not to touch though the urge was strong, and smoothed her fingers over the wound. He bristled but didn’t pull away. ‘What dreadful man did this to you?’
Her question must have amused. His mouth curled in a sly half-smile. ‘Why the daisies?’
Flustered by his change of subject and avoidance of the question, she inhaled a sharp breath and regretted the action. Warmth flooded her core. He smelled of brandy and leather and some woodsy cologne that spoke to the absolute virility of the man. He leaned over her, caged on one side by his muscular arm. Could he sense her fluster? Perspiration dotted her skin. ‘Flowers are pleasant.’ So was this. Dear heavens, so was this. Her heart exploded in applause to that conclusion.
‘I’ve indulged in many pleasurable things, yet never flowers.’ His gravelly tenor caused her pulse to leap.
‘All the more reason you should have them.’ Were she to move the tiniest space her mouth would touch his.
‘Do you bring bouquets to people all over London?’
He toyed with her now, but she truly didn’t mind. Inside her body, sensations bounced against her ribs as if they played a harmony.
‘Only those in need of reform.’ Had she said the words aloud?
His bark of laugher jarred her, but it was glorious, to be so close to his potent masculinity and see the sparkle of amusement in his obsidian eyes.
‘I can’t be reformed.’ He adopted a sympathetic tone as if he apologized and at the same time mourned the truth of his words.
He touched a lock of her hair with his free hand, winding the length around his finger and stroking it against her cheek. It was a terribly intimate gesture and her whole body revelled in that one velvet caress.
‘That’s not true.’ Her brows furrowed in dispute. ‘Of course—’
‘I’m a bastard.’
His eyes searched her face but she shared no reaction and when he saw none he leaned that much closer. She inhaled, wanting his scent inside her.
‘I’m a bastard and nothing can change the circumstance of my birth. I’m formed this way. There’ll be no reforming.’
The tension in his words was near overwhelming, the admission rife with too many emotions to label, yet no matter how he fought against it she could never allow him to believe it true.
‘I think—’
He captured her mouth in a demanding kiss that brought them against the door with its force. Good thing too. She melted beneath him, her legs of no use for support, her hands grasping the collar of his coat in desperate preservation.
He angled his head, fitting his mouth to hers in perfect position while his hand sunk into her hair, his fingers scraping across her scalp with tingling possession.
Dear Lord she must be dying. Leaving the earth and transcending to some other level of feeling, every cell of her body alive and drenched in invigorating sensation. His lips were strong, hot, powerful against hers and she arched into his body, opened her mouth