Page 89 of A Deal with the Devil

Chapter Twenty-Two

“What if I want that too?” Kitty asked because she wanted it so much. Desperately. More than she might want her next breath.

He half smiled and it was a dark smile. It was a forest at night, a storm approaching. “Then lock the door, Kitty.”

She reached behind her and locked it without dropping her gaze. It was impossible to look away. He was seduction and hunger and wicked promise incarnate. And he was so beautiful—the crooked tilt to his smile, that sculpted dip in his upper lip. The sharp line of his jaw.

When he gestured for her to come to him, she briefly considered defying him, just to see what he might do. But tonight she would much rather see what he would do if she joined him. She was wearing a simple day dress, nothing silky or frilly or fashionable, but it did not matter. He looked at her as though she were dressed in whispers and moonlight. As if she belonged here. With him.

It made her feel a little drunk. A little wild. Exhilarated.

It was remarkably difficult to walk normally, to not run and throw herself at him. He spread his legs and leaned back in his chair like it was a throne. He tapped his knee. Autocratic. Impatient.

He made her feel pampered and like prey, all in the same heartbeat.

She faltered a moment once she reached him. What was she supposed to do now? Make a sophisticated remark? She only knew how to make irreverent and shockingly inappropriate quips. How to calculate ledgers, and how to hide people. How to hide herself.

He watched her, waiting.

A challenge.

But also power. It was entirely up to her. He wasn’t giving it to her, only acknowledging that it was already hers. She licked her lower lip.

“Are you teasing me, firecracker?”

“Maybe.” She was teasing herself. Teasing them both. She wanted this. Any hesitation had more to do with her pride than anything else. And pride would not make her climax until her legs shook. But Rhys absolutely would. Devil might make the powerful men of London shake with fear, but she knew Rhys would make her shake with pleasure.

“Careful,” he warned softly, expression forbidding in a way that sent hot shivers up her thighs. She stepped closer, between his knees. “So you’ve decided?” he asked.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”

“And?”

“Yes,” she said again, anticipation washing through her, chasing away the nervousness.

He smiled, smug, satisfied, wanting her. She could see as much. The muscles in his jaw, the tendons in his neck flexing. The demanding tap on his knee. “Then what are you waiting for, love?”

He was pure seduction. She had thought so before, but this was overwhelming. Her senses reeled, clamoring for attention. She perched lightly. Too lightly. As if she were taking tea with a dowager.

“I think we can do better than that,” he growled, pulling her sharply against him and angling his knee so that it widened her thighs. He dragged an open-mouthed kiss along her jawline, back and forth until she melted. She turned her head so their mouths met, and the kiss was like drowning, softly, deeply, inexorably. His tongue slid against hers as he gripped the back of her head to angle her. To drink from her, never letting her retreat. It was dizzying.

Perfect.

She gripped the front of his dressing gown in response, and the soft rasp of his chest hair peeking through the opening tickled. He closed his other hand around her thigh, firmly, as if anchoring himself to her, and her to him. She bit back a whimper. “Those noises are mine,” he said against her mouth. “Don’t you dare keep them from me.”

He shoved her skirts up, claiming the soft, warm skin behind her knee, on the inside of her thigh, and finally, finally her quim. She was already desperate for his touch. He stroked between her lips, gathering her wetness before stroking deep. She arched against him, moaning. “More,” he demanded, which was the same word echoing through her head, through every corner of her body: more, more, more.

He circled her bud gently, then, with more pressure, plunged his fingers inside her, and back to her bud, a maddening rhythm that had her whimpering and panting.

And then he moved his hand away. She clutched at his arm.

“It will be so much better if you wait.” He kissed her, and it was slowly and beautifully carnal.

She squirmed in his lap, eager for friction, any kind of contact. She was so close.

“Ah ah,” he murmured just firm enough to have her intimate muscles quivering. “You’ll wait until I give you permission and not before.”

She pouted. She was fairly certain she had never pouted in her life. “Rhys.”