The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) by Chasity Bowlin Read Free Book Online Page A

that she wasn’t so cowed by him that she didn’t use it. The meal ended, and she rose to retire for the evening, he halted her by placing his hand about her wrist. It wasn’t a firm hold. She could have pulled free from his grasp if she chose to, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned to face him.
    He slid his hand down, no longer shackling her slender wrist, but caressing her fingers, the palm of her hand. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm, following that tender touch with the rough scrape of his teeth. A shiver was her only response.
    Rising from his chair, he pulled her to him. He could feel the weight of her breasts against his chest, his thickening member pressed against the softness of her belly as he lowered his mouth to hers. He had tasted her sweetness earlier that day, but it still took him by surprise as he kissed her.
    He plied her lips with every skilled stroke in his repertoire. Teasing and stroking, and when her lips parted on a sigh, he invaded. He closed his arms about her, deepening the kiss. She tensed against him when he slid his tongue between her softly parted lips, but didn’t attempt to break the contact. Encouraged, he continued the sensual assault. When her fingers clenched on his shoulders, not pushing him away, but gripping to pull him closer, he felt a thrill surge through him.
    It was a flagrant kiss, carnal. He didn’t kiss her as if she were a frightened virgin, though he knew that she was. He kissed her with lust, with passion, and with all the benefit of his experience. She was being tossed into a maelstrom of physical sensations that were entirely alien to her, but he knew that his most effective strategy would be to rob her of the ability to think. It was a sound strategy, assuming he could retain his own senses. As the heat exploded between them, he was fairly certain he could not.
    Reluctantly, Michael pulled back but wasn’t ready to let her go entirely. He kissed her cheek, the delicate shell of her ear, and once again, pressed a sweet on her lips. “You should go to bed,” he said, “Quickly.”
    Abbi surveyed him quizzically, “I don’t understand you, at all. You are reputed to be the worst sort of rogue, and yet you have behaved very honorably with me… You spurned Lavinia and the grossly improper entertainments she offered, which, based on your reputation, should have been precisely to your order. You appear to wear two very different masks, and I can’t help but wonder, who are you really?”
    It was a more astute observation than he was comfortable with. Retreating behind a mask of sardonic wit, he replied, “Whoever it suits me to be at the moment.”
    Abbi shook her head and moved away from him. “That is a poor answer, my lord.”
    Michael watched her walk away. He could go after her. With a few more drugging kisses, he could spend the night making love to her and ignoring such pointed questions. It was tempting, but he found that for once in his life, he wished to do things the proper way. A kiss was one thing, but he intended for her to remain chaste until they were wed. For a notorious rake, he was discovering that he had an alarmingly traditional streak. It was damned inconvenient.
    In his own room, a short time later, the kiss still haunted him. He attributed his restlessness to unquenched desire. There was more than that, of course, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
    When sleep finally claimed him, he was beset by violent dreams. Abbi was running through the woods, and the torch bearers were closing in on her. Her clothing was torn and bloodied. Those visions gave way to older ones, and took him back to the war and the atrocities he had seen there. Then, in his dream, he was a boy again and Melisande, his first love, was lying broken and bloodied on the forest floor, abused in the most foul of ways.
    Beside the bed, the Gray Lady stood watch. Her eyes were filled with sadness, shimmering with phantom tears she could not