The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) by Lara Archer Read Free Book Online

from panic. Or horror maybe. No doubt it shocked her to hear him talk of her sister that way.
    He almost relented, but . . .
    Pity now could get her killed later .
    “Laugh, Miss Covington!” he commanded, his gaze drilling into hers. “Push me away! If you want to get rid of me, that is. Widening your eyes like that, in that innocent manner, will only serve as an enticement.”
    A strange restlessness seized him, a sizzling new awareness of her flesh under his hands, of her scent and her heat, her quickening breath, and the delicious softness of her. He was also aware—very, very deeply aware—that she was not Sal.
    “There’s nothing to fear,” he whispered, bringing his mouth down close to her ear. “If you knew the first thing about the pleasure men can give to women, you might not want to resist at all.” He met her eyes again, and found hers widening still more, their bright green depths like pools for drowning.
    Her lips parted softly.
    She expected him to kiss her, he realized. She wouldn’t stop him if he did.
    And at the moment, the idea of kissing her became mesmerizingly appealing. This whole encounter had unbalanced him, as if confusion over who she was had muddled his sense of himself. The room was suddenly over-warm, the air dizzying.
    He had to stay rational, keep the sensible part of his brain in control. He recalled the last time he’d fallen prey to the drugging pull of desire, and that memory struck him like an icy blast of rain, bringing him back to instant self-mastery. Victoire .
    His shoulders stiffened. He knew nothing for sure about this woman either.
    He was not going to be the one to lose control.
    But she would.
    She needed to learn something of pleasure, and quickly. Besides, she deserved to be knocked off balance, after that kiss she’d sprung on him the other day.
    He looked down at her with a more strategic eye. Well, he most certainly shouldn’t do what she expected—kiss her the way a young girl expected to be kissed. Deliberately, though, he let his mouth drift closer to hers, relishing the feel of her softening under his hands, surrendering, succumbing. Perfect . Her gaze went to his lips.
    But then he darted sideways, and down, and pressed his mouth into the warm curve of her neck instead. She gasped and jolted at the contact. For a moment, it seemed she might fight him—but then she arched into him instead as he sucked lightly at the tender flesh of her throat, and flicked his tongue along the long line where her heartbeat pulsed. He brushed his lips up under her jaw, and back to the silken lobe of her ear, which he drew between his teeth, and sucked again, harder.
    Her breathing went ragged. Lord, how perfectly innocent she was!
    She shifted slightly, instinctively offering him more of her throat. Her fingers drifted over the sides of his coat, and clutched at the fabric there, convulsively, as if to keep herself from falling.
    Triumph pulsed through him—but, damn it all, the scent of her beneath the soft fall of her hair was extraordinary. The taste of her, the warmth, the overwhelming proof that she was, after all, flesh and blood and woman.
    He relinquished his hold on one arm and traced his hand teasingly over her shoulder, down over the smooth neckline of her gown, and down further, increasing the pressure as his palm molded to the shape of her breast. The silk had warmed to her flesh, like a peach ripened in the sun, and despite all his intentions his own blood heated dangerously.
    He let his fingers knead her, his thumb flick inwards over her nipple. She jerked and moaned, and his groin reacted with alarmingly speed.
    The one practical thought that came to him involved Miss Covington’s gown. In accordance with Sal’s sophisticated style, it had been fashioned with the more subtle, softly luminous side of the silk showing outwards. That meant the glossier, slicker side turned in against the skin. It was a whore's dress, worn without a shift and with minimal