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Arabella could not make him do anything he did not want to do.
And, quite frankly, Guy wanted her to admit that. To explicitly concede defeat. The nerve of the woman: to conspire with Clare, to lie her way into his house, disturb his evening, and jeopardize his future. Sending her away would be easy—but too easy. How much more satisfying to make her give in, just as he had at the costume party. And Guy knew exactly how to win: Mockery had always been her downfall.
“Well, well, well. Flawless, frosty Arabella Larke, turned adventuress. This might have seemed like a grand idea inside that head of yours, but the reality…” He inhaled with a hiss, making an exaggerated grimace. “Naked bodies. Skin on skin. Limbs getting in the way. Me touching you in places you probably cannot even name. And the bodily fluids! Ugh.”
“Thank you for the warning. Shall we proceed?”
Somehow, the gap between them had shrunk, yet still she refused to yield an inch. She had no idea. She might know the facts—Arabella always knew the facts—but as for the actual experience of tupping? The awkwardness alone would horrify her. Not to mention the mess.
“Proceed?” he scoffed. “You would not even have the courage to kiss me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think this is a game?”
“It is now.”
* * *
Years before,Guy had witnessed Arabella practicing archery. From the moment she nocked the arrow, she might have been alone in the world. Every inch of her body had been directed toward the target, her limbs steady as she drew back the bowstring. Her eyes had flicked to consider the wind, then returned to aim. To loose the arrow. To hit that target at its center and coolly claim the prize.
He felt like that target now.
Arabella hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before lowering her gaze to examine his mouth. Her curved lips twitched; Guy tore his eyes away. He would not think about kissing her.
Yet clearly her focus was on kissing him. He tried to laugh at her, but his laughter choked under the intensity of her gaze. An intensity that was growing perilously erotic.
Would she peck his cheek? Firm, brisk, cold? No, he decided. Arabella would kiss him to win. No hesitation, no half measures.
And if he were to kiss her—he wouldn’t, of course—but if he did… How would proud, poised Arabella react to the intimate brush of cheek against cheek, to the mingling of breaths, to the sensual slide of fingertips over her skin?
First, he would soften her: run his thumb over her mouth, wait for the catch of her breath, part her lips, and then—
And then he realized she was closing the space between them, her long lashes lowered as she targeted his mouth. She pursed her lips slightly, her tongue darting out; Guy’s own mouth was a little dry.
Don’t disappoint me, a voice whispered in his head, his last coherent thought before her hand drifted onto his jaw and cheek, a delicate touch that brushed his skin like smoke and coiled hotly in his stomach.
She leaned into him, and for one baffling heartbeat, he was looking into her eyes, then her lids fluttered closed, and her scent engulfed his brain, and his own eyelids lowered as her lips captured his.
Soft. Warm. Open mouthed. Lingering.
Sweet-hot desire shot to his groin like an arrow. She persisted with the kiss, infused it with a beguiling mix of hunger and tenderness. As if intoxicated, Guy cupped her neck, to hold her in place as he touched his tongue to hers. She flinched under his hand, tried to retreat, but he deepened the kiss, and back she came; a heartbeat later, her tongue stroked against his, and heat washed over him like steam.
Bloody hell. He released her and staggered back. What the devil was he doing? Giving herlessons? His aim was to chase her away! But perhaps he was succeeding, for her posture had grown stiff, her face turned aside, her hands balled into fists.
Here was his advantage: his experience with desire. He knew how to control it and when to unleash it. Arabella did not. She was proud, and desire and pride could not coexist. Desire was the great leveler, turning emperors into beggars and paupers into kings.
Arabella in the grip of desire would be easy to overcome.
“That’s done,” she said, in a fine semblance of composure. “Now, if we can stop dithering?”
“What? No flowers? No poetry?” He managed a light tone, hoping she did not notice the rasp in his voice. “How to make a man feel cheap! You’ll steal a kiss and offer nothing in return?”
She glared at him. “I weary of your games, Guy.”
“Unfortunately for you, we’ve barely begun.” He knuckled her chin; her breath caught. “You are too direct, sweetheart. A man wants to be wooed. Seduction succeeds when you entice your companion to want it too. Whisper sweet nothings, flatter and coax, feather them with light touches and kisses until you set their desire ablaze.”
“Surely you have enough imagination to pretend I’ve flattered and coaxed? The end result is the same.”
“That won’t do at all, I’m afraid. If you want me, earn me.”
