A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) by Stone Jillian

Author:Stone, Jillian [Stone, Jillian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published: 2012-11-26T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Cate wasn’t completely nude. He’d left her stockings on. She tugged at her bindings and glared. “Mr. Phineas Gunn, aka Hugh Curzon, aka demonio-bestia bruta, bárbaro del diablo, animal salvaje del perro, cerdo despreciable.” She gasped for air and began again. “Let me translate, you brutish fiend-beast, devil barbarian, savage dog, despicable swine—”

“Not too loud, darling.” He tilted his chair back. “You wouldn’t want me to have to apply a gag, would you?” His collar was open and shirt unbuttoned. Below the waist, the man was covered in leather. Deerskin hugged muscular thighs and he wore tall riding boots. Aware of her gaze, he crossed a boot over his knee. Her nudity, the bindings, and this dishabille of his charged the atmosphere with something lusty and sensual. And worst of all, it was working. Aroused could barely describe what she felt.

He hadn’t touched her yet. But those piercing dark eyes promised he would. And she wanted him to. In fact, it was all she could think about. There was an edge of fear to these bindings—there was also something delicious and disturbing. Her womb already ached and she was aware of a stunning wetness—in those forbidden places, lower down. His gaze dropped beneath her navel and her belly trembled.

He squeezed a fresh wedge of lemon over a plate of oysters. “You’re not an anarchist, Cate, nor are you a very skilled operative. You get yourself into too many—situations. This continual and, I must say, fearless confrontation technique of yours.” He shook his head. “A professional would never work this way. Only an amateur could enjoy such dumb luck.” He tilted a half shell to his mouth and slurped one down.

Her stomach growled.

Finn tut-tutted. “You don’t eat enough. In fact, I suspect you forget to eat. Is this litheness”—an ogle traveled down her legs—“something you must maintain for dance?” Finn picked up his ale and sauntered over to the bed. “To my mind, you need a bit of feeding up.”

She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue and eyed the bottle.

“No doubt near rape causes a thirst . . .” His dark smoldering gaze swept over her body and lingered just below her navel. He stood above her and flipped open the stopper. “Whenever I experience a close brush with death, a pint or two seems to take the edge off.” He tilted back his head and took a long guzzle.

Cate closed her eyes and imagined amber liquid flowing down her throat. The mattress dipped to one side. He sat close, and pressed the cool glass against her bottom lip. Drops flavored with malt and hops filled her mouth. She swallowed as much as she could before the stream of ale ran down her chin and neck.

She opened her eyes and met his. “M-more.” He tilted the bottle, and she gulped.

His gaze followed the trail of droplets to the pool of liquid in the cleft between her breasts.

Beige, translucent flesh hardened under his study. “I imagine these two would like to be kissed.

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