Page 7 of One Night with an Earl

“Oliver,” she breathed.

The use of his Christian name on her lips did as much to arouse him as had their passionate kiss in the corridor. He wanted to kiss her again.

“Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for his answer, she headed for the sideboard, removed her gloves, and reached for a decanter. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was nervous. Perhaps she was relatively new to her profession. He’d like to believe he was her first but knew better.

“I prefer whisky.” He settled in the large leather chair and watched her. Her fingers were slim and graceful as she poured two crystal glasses. He found himself fascinated with her and frowned. What was it about her that had lured him to this room in one of the most expensive brothels in town? He wasn’t a gambler and avoided the gambling halls and gambling rooms at balls, but he would bet a large sum that she was different.

Her movements were smooth, almost ladylike, as she approached to hand him a glass. He sipped the alcohol and watched her.

“Last chance to change your mind.” His voice was thick in his throat.

She tilted her head to the side and regarded him. He held his breath, waiting for her decision and hoping she’d—

She came close to pluck the glass from his hands, set it on an end table, then sat herself across his lap. She wrapped slender arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

His restraint snapped.

Bloody hell, whatever she was selling, he was purchasing. He kissed her hotly, fiercely, and she met him with equal measure. Her nails sank into his hair, holding him close. His heart thundered, a combination of need and anger—hot anger that one scarlet-clad woman could easily decimate his restraint. It was a combustible combination, and her eagerness served to heighten his raging lust.

He wasn’t satisfied with such limited foreplay for long. He tore his lips from hers to trail a path down her neck to the tops of her breasts. She hissed in a breath and arched her back, offering her breasts to him.

“Yes,” she said, breathless. “Don’t hold back.”

Either she was a talented actress meant for Drury Lane or she was just as aroused as he was. Her bodice was low, so low that when she breathed deeply, he could see the tops of her nipples. He dipped a finger inside and touched a rosy peak, and she gasped sweetly. Her fingers tightened almost painfully in his hair. Her response was like a lit match to dry straw. He burned with need.

Had it been that long since his last sexual encounter? Or was Lady Scarlet his secret fantasy? Had she somehow released a pent-up need unacknowledged, even to himself?

His hand reached for the hem of her skirt, and his fingers traveled past her ankle to her calf. Her legs were long and slim, and he wanted them wrapped around his waist as he took her.

“It feels even more wonderful than I ever thought.” She let out a soft, wondrous sigh.

He lifted his head to look into her eyes. The half mask may be part of her costume, but his fingers itched to remove it. Holding her close and basked in candlelight, the chips of green in her hazel eyes fascinated him. He suddenly longed for the intimacy of removing this barrier between them.

His voice was hoarse as he issued the command. “Take off the mask.”

Chapter Three

Ana’s eyes flew open. “No. The mask must remain.”

She held her breath, afraid Oliver would insist or try to remove it himself. This was not negotiable, and as important to her as the use of the false name Lady Scarlet.

Her heartbeat escalated, but when he at last nodded, her relief was profound. She pressed her lips to his in a sweet distraction.

He groaned. His fingers removed the pins from her hair, and the masses of dark curls cascaded down her back. “I’ve wanted to see your hair unbound the first moment I saw you. It’s the color of a velvet black sky.” He wrapped a curl around his finger, then cradled her face and kissed her.

His kiss was urgent and exploratory, more demanding this time. Soon she was just as heated, and she clutched the lapels of his coat. She wanted desperately for him to remove it. She longed to feel his chest, to see what he looked like beneath the layers of tailored clothing.

As if reading her mind, his hands went to his coat, and she assisted him, nearly tearing the garment from his arms. He tossed it to the carpet. Her fingers were at the fastenings of his shirt, and he tugged it from the waist of his trousers, and she helped lift it over his head.

Her greedy gaze took him in. His wide shoulders were muscled, and his arms were brawny. A sprinkling of hair covered his chest, then trailed down his lean abdomen, disappearing where his trousers began. She’d once seen a painting of the Greek god of war, Ares, and thought no man could look like the artist had portrayed him. She’d been wrong. Oliver was long and lean and as beautiful as the painted god.

“Ares,” she whispered.

“What?”

She raised her eyes to his. “You remind me of a classical painting of the Greek god of war.”

He chuckled. “No one has said that before.”