Page 6 of One Night with an Earl

Her prior experiences had not prepared her. Wet, sloppy kisses from overeager fops and dandies pulling her into garden mazes could not compare. He tasted like fine whisky and dangerous male.

More! her mind cried out.

Sizzling heat ran through her veins and made her legs weak. She leaned into the kiss and was rewarded when his possessive hand snaked around her waist, and he pulled her flush against him. His mouth slanted over hers and kissed her fully.

Her lips parted, and his tongue slipped inside to explore the recesses her of mouth. He may have been holding a part of himself back from this, but once he’d committed to kissing her, he did nothing in half measure.

She found herself thrust against the wall, one hand clutching his lapel, the other hand wrapped around his shoulder. His hands rested flat against the wall, and he caged her with his large body. She didn’t feel trapped, only thoroughly ravished by his skillful mouth. Broadcloth scraped against silk, and the heat from his hard body seeped into her soft curves.

When he tore his lips from hers, his dark eyes blazed. “Which is your room?”

…

She was driving him wild.

Oliver had planned on escorting her out of the salon, away from Moore’s clutches, and to safety. The lady in red either could have walked out of the Silver Chalice or sought the solace of her room—alone.

Instead, she’d boldly propositioned him.

Would you like to kiss me?

Christ! She plied her trade well. He was shocked at his fierce response to the first touch of her lips. He prided himself on his steel control, his regimented lifestyle, his determination to put duty first. He did not judge courtesans for their trade. They needed to earn a living, after all, but he had never been tempted by one.

Then he’d kissed her.

Her lush mouth had captivated him from the beginning, and she had not disappointed him. Her lips were sweet and soft and tasted of innocence. She was very, very good, and he would have sworn her passion had not been feigned. He may have broken the kiss, but he was loath to release her. When he held her curves flush against him, his cock hardened even more, a feat he didn’t think possible. He wanted to lift her red skirts and bury himself balls-deep right there against the wall.

He was surprised at his reaction. He’d told her the truth at least. He despised his brother’s usual haunts, and brothels were on the top of his list to avoid.

His gaze roved and lazily apprised her. She had a lovely, swan-like neck, and he wanted to kiss her there, then travel to the tops of her breasts, which swelled enticingly above the red bodice. The more he stared, the more he found her flawless.

“My room is upstairs,” she said, her voice lilting.

He stepped back, and she placed her hand on his sleeve as if they were taking a leisurely stroll in Hyde Park. Her lips curved in a satisfied smile as she led him down the corridor, away from the vestibule.

He continued to study her freely. Her profile was perfect—smooth, dusky skin, straight teeth, glossy raven curls stylishly piled upon her head. He longed to release the pins, to see how far the curls would reach down her back. She wasn’t fresh-faced from the schoolroom, but nor was she old.

The corridors were lit with sconces, and erotic sounds came from behind several of the doors. She made two wrong turns, as if she didn’t know the layout of the establishment.

He frowned. She should know it like the back of her hand. Time meant money to these girls. Was she putting on a show?

“Are you lost?”

Panic flashed in her eyes, but she lowered her gaze, and when she raised her head again, her hazel eyes were calm. “Nonsense. My room is right ahead.”

One more turn. Then she came to a door at the end of the hall, opened it, and entered. He followed, and she closed the door, leaning against the wood. The room was lit by candlelight. It was elaborately decorated like the salon, but the color scheme was different. From the cushions on the sofa, to the curtains, to a gilt-framed mirror, all was a pale gold. In the center of the room, a bed sat on a pedestal, draped in sheer, shimmering gold panels. An oversized leather chair rested in the corner.

He turned to face her. “What’s your name?”

“Lady Scarlet.”

“Hmm. I could have guessed by your dress. What is your true name?”

She was an arm’s length away, close enough for him to reach out and pull her to him or for her to dart away.

“Names are unnecessary, don’t you agree?” she asked.

“Wise choice. Call me Oliver.” He was still uncomfortable with his newly minted title of the Earl of Drake. It belonged to his brother and was a constant reminder of his loss.