The Scoundrel and I: A Novella by Katharine Ashe

Author:Katharine Ashe [Ashe, Katharine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Handsome aristocrat, Feel good story, Opposites attract, Romantic Comedy, Rags to riches, Royal navy, My Fair Lady, Feel good romance, Devil’s Duke, Falcon Club, Printing press, love story, Wealthy lord, Working girl, Prince Catchers
Publisher: Billet-Doux Books
Published: 2016-08-06T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

It was neither a short kiss nor a tentative kiss, nor really just one kiss. It was long, intoxicating, hungry, and it went on and on. Air was not necessary, only lips touching, caressing, needing, and hands finding shoulders, cheeks. His fingers speared through her hair, holding her to him as he consumed her lips. Her hands delved beneath his coat and spread over his chest, and he groaned and sought her deeper. They kissed and she wanted it to never end, to fly away to a place where this was everything, everything in the world here in his mouth, his hands.

Which was insanity beyond insanity.

She pushed him away. “I cannot kiss you. I—I must go.”

“Good idea.” He raked his hand through his hair and she ached with wanting to do it for him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “In a bachelor’s house. What in the devil are you doing here?”

“What am I—You brought me here! You made me come inside.”

“Out of my mind. I was out of my mind. Good God.” He ushered her toward the front door, and even the brush of his fingers upon her lower back made tendrils of heat slip all through her.

“You—” She looked up over her shoulder. “You are making me go now?”

“Yes.” The syllable was hurried. He paused and looked down at her, and alarm ricocheted through her. His eyes were bright, fevered. His perfect lips parted. “Unless you—”

“I do not.”

“Course you don’t.” His voice was gravelly. He pivoted again toward the door.

“What are—I—” Words would not form. “You—”

“What? I—”

“Why are you limping?”

“Not quite limping,” he said, somewhat strained.

“Then what—”

“A man can’t—that is, don’t like to say—I’ve—Miss Flood,” he snapped, as if he were on the deck of a ship, but huskily. “Go. Now.”

She drank in his profile and the rush of heat inside her was so astonishingly good. Her feet would not move. The next statement popped out of her mouth without her approval.

“I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t want to go?” He shook his head. “No. No. I’m certain you do. And I want you to go too. I’ll call Cob down. He’ll drive you home.” He opened the door, stepped back from it, and turned his face away. “If you please.”

“I want you to kiss me again,” she whispered.

His eyes shut and the gorgeous sinews on his fists bulged. “I pray you, madam.”

“Please kiss me again,” she said.

“Gabrielle—”

“Captain, kiss me.”

He slammed the door shut, seized her shoulders, and pulled her against him. “Certain?” he said over her lips.

“So certain that I wish it were already happening.”

It was more than a kiss. It was ravishment, pure and simple, although who exactly did the ravishing to whom was not in the least bit clear. His hands were all over her—on her back and arms and neck and her back again—but hers were all over him too. When he kissed her throat and tugged her earlobe between his teeth she allowed it. Indeed, she whimpered her approval and spread her

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