the point of contact and flowing around her like the glow from a jigger of brandy. She couldn’t pull free. She no longer wanted to. And even if she did, she was hampered by the need to cling on hard to her portfolio.
What if I show him the wretched thing and be done with it? He’ll find a way to see it, anyway. He’s Wilson.
When Wilson kissed her fingertips, the thrill made her tremble.
“Well, it can’t be helped now,” she muttered, and his lips curved again as if he knew that was the most acknowledgment he would get of his scant apology.
Curse the man, he could see the effect he was having on her, and the only consolation was that effects worked both ways. When Adela stole a look at his groin, that was obvious.
Jigger of brandy? Surely she’d consumed a pint of it, but with just the intoxication and none of the detriments. To be desired so could turn any woman’s head, not least of all hers.
Wilson laughed, following the direction of her glance, then nodded toward the portfolio. “So what’s in this, then? More pictures of gentlemen’s nether regions? That seemed to be what you were specializing in last time I saw your work.”
With the words came another pounce. And prestidigitation this time. Wilson plucked the portfolio clean out of her hand, and Adela squeaked and tried to grab it back, without any luck. As he whirled away, his dressing gown billowed about him and he strode toward the desk. The praxinoscope had lost its allure now, and he shoved it aside and set down his prize.
Adela shot after him, her mind filled with the rudest insults. Confound his “sorry.” It’d just been a trick to get under her guard. He was already picking at the ribbons securing the binder. “No! Don’t! That’s private. You have no business prying into people’s belongings.” She tugged at his sleeve, but he just went on, his long tapered fingertips easily conquering the fastenings. “Just because you’re grandfather’s heir doesn’t give you any rights over me and my things. Leave that alone!”
Miraculously, he hesitated, the ribbons unfurled across the desk. He placed a hand over hers, on his shoulder, and his eyes were sly as silver ice as he regarded her sideways. “Why should I? Give me some incentive.” His look made her blood run hot, then cold, then hot again, surging pell-mell through her veins. She wanted to kill him, but at the same time she wanted to lie down on the carpet and demand that he mount her. “Perhaps you could beg?”
Damn you! Damn you to damned damnation and back again, you despicable swine!
“Don’t be absurd, Wilson. I’m simply going to ask you, as a gentleman, to observe my privacy.” His warm hand was still over hers, transmitting messages of sultry seduction, addling her brain.
“But I’m not a gentleman. I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.” He prized her fingers off his arm and conveyed them to his lips again. The touch of his mouth minced her thoughts, leaving only urges. “Surely you of all people don’t think I’m one?”
“No. I don’t. Not anymore.” For a brief time in their youth, he’d been a prince of the universe to her, its very center. But no longer. Not for years.
His mouth moved over her skin. Was that moisture she felt? Was the lascivious devil licking her? Her entire body shuddered, and only a titanic effort of will kept her from swaying. Instead of feeling Wilson’s tongue against her palm, she seemed to feel its stroke, slow and lingering, between her legs....
She blinked, battling for control. Confused over how she’d come to this. Wilson pivoted on his heel and turned to her, still holding her hand. “How about we strike a bargain? You give me another kiss. A proper one, and a little dalliance with it... And I won’t open this portfolio of yours and look at whatever it is you don’t want me to see.” His eyes were level, daring her to accept, their slow glint ever more disorientating.
Don’t do it, Adela. Don’t agree. You know him. You’ll end up in even worse trouble. The drawings are precisely what he thinks they might be....
Why had she ever come in here in the first place? She had no need of Lord Rayworth’s erotic treasures to inspire her; her imagination was sufficient. And her memory. Her mind was like a photographic plate, and she could develop anything she wanted on it. The ability to conjure images out of air was her great artistic gift.
Adela looked at Wilson’s mouth, knowing she was lost. He was a blackguard, but he excited her more than any other man ever had or probably ever could do. She wanted those lips on hers again, and in other places, too. Zones they’d never actually explored in real life, but which cried out for him now. His eyes didn’t look quite so silver currently; the pupils were huge, dark as a thunderhead, with a lightning-crack of promise in their depths, an intensity of desire that matched her own.
“What dalliance? What do you mean?” Oh, she was such a fool....
“Don’t fret. Nothing too compromising, Della. Just a few pleasant moments, I promise...pleasure I owe you.” He smiled at her, a very imp of mischief and devilment, exotic yet familiar.
She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust him. He’d been incorrigible seven years ago, and she had no reason to believe from their brief social meetings in the interim that he’d reformed even in the slightest degree.
“I don’t believe you, Wilson. You’ll take liberties. It’s what you do.” She tried to tug away, but couldn’t. His knowledge of Oriental fighting arts meant he knew special arcane grips that were light yet unyielding. And even without them, his eyes would still have held her.
“But you liked liberties once, Della. In fact, you invited them.” It was his turn to tug now, and as if drugged, she moved toward him. “Surely you’ve not forgotten what we shared? I promise I’ll honor your secrets.” He glanced at the portfolio, and the fingers of his free hand flexed. “All of them.”
“You’re a devious and manipulative man, Wilson,” she hissed, and then flung herself at him, grabbing his warm face between her hands and kissing him hard on the lips.
Well, that’s one way to distract him, the rational part of her brain observed coolly, while all the rest of her reveled in his taste.
But Wilson’s soft grunt of triumph as she opened her mouth to him almost made her retreat again. She’d got him right where he wanted to be, and before she could react, his hands slid around her, gripping her tight. He was still scheming, but at least for the moment his hands were on her, not the portfolio. She let her own arms slide right around him, clinging close, her blood pounding and racing in her veins.
Oh, Lord, this is Wilson.... Wilson...
Everything always circled back to him. He’d made her what she was, a sensual woman with turbulent erotic appetites. Seven years ago, he’d turned a lever and set lust in motion, and even though they’d fallen out again almost as quickly as they’d clung together, she hadn’t given up on the pleasures of the flesh.
Wilson Ruffington was the author, albeit unwitting, of a wicked secret life.
4
More Wicked than you Could Possibly Imagine
But there was no time to think of that moment of transformation now. In the perilous present, Wilson’s tongue probed her mouth just as it had during their first hot kiss, the wicked muscular thrust aping that other thrust, that other wonderful hot, wet, hard
