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“And you, my dear, had better be more than talk, something I’m beginning to doubt.”

“Is that so?” She stopped right there on the third step from the bottom, unfastened her robe, and let it drop.

He took in her white bra, black thong, and the cowboy boots. “I’m dumbstruck.”

She trailed the tip of her thumb down her belly. “And you haven’t even seen the good stuff.”

“You couldn’t be more mistaken.” The corner of his mouth quirked, and in three long strides, he’d covered the distance between them. “Although I’ll admit I’m more than a little anxious to see the rest.”

“Okay, but I get to keep my job.”

“Shut up, will you?” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her off the step, hard against him. The toes of her cowboy boots banged against his calves as she looked down at him. She dipped her head, his lips parted, their mouths met, and he kissed her with a thoroughness that should have been foreign to such an elegant man.

Without breaking their kiss, he walked her backward to the couch. His arm reached behind her, and he tugged open her bra. “You are magnificent,” he whispered as he tossed it aside.

“I know.”

He chuckled and massaged her breasts, then kissed her again with that same thoroughness. As good as it felt, she wanted more. She wanted his mouth on her breasts, his tongue there, too, his teeth—

Gordon barked.

And she wanted privacy.

“Get rid of him,” she groaned.

“He’s a dog.” Colin nibbled at her lip. “He won’t tell.”

“He’ll watch.”

Colin cursed and shot Gordon a commanding look. “Stay.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her up the stairs to her bedroom, the dog following along. When Colin kicked the door shut, Gordon began to howl. Despite her need, Sugar Beth smiled, then laughed out loud at the vaguely murderous look on Colin’s face. “Don’t you move,” he snarled as he shot back out the door.

Still smiling, she sank down on the side of the unmade bed and pulled off her boots. Colin either found a doggie treat or some rat poison because things stayed quiet when he let himself back in. She looked up at him.

“Lovely,” he said, taking her in.

She wore only her thong and a pair of purple socks with a Powerpuff Girl on each side. She’d bought them for Delilah, who hadn’t liked them because she was going through a pink phase. “I do know my lingerie.”

“No argument there.” He stood in the center of the faded old floral rug and began tossing aside his clothes. When only his jeans were left, she rose and walked toward him. “Let me.” She hooked a finger over the fastener and began toying with it.

“Need help?” His voice caught in a husky rasp.

“No, thanks.” His skin warmed the backs of her fingers. She trailed her thumb over his zipper. He was thick, hard, and—another of his surprises—very large. Nose. Hands. Feet. She should have been prepared.

Her need was as urgent as his, but she couldn’t bear the idea of having this over too quickly . . . or of making it too important. “You should never have given me a D on my Charlotte Brontë paper.”

He expelled his breath in a warm hiss against her neck. “Perhaps we could discuss this later.”

“I don’t think so.” She fiddled with his zipper tab. “I worked real hard on that paper.”

“And turned it in a week late, I’m sure.”

She lowered the zipper half an inch, then stopped to pout. “Still . . .”

“I’ll change it to a C. I promise.”

She released the tab. Ignoring the sweet lethargy in her limbs, she took a step back and regarded him sulkily. “I want an A.”

She wasn’t the only person in the room who knew how to play games.

That you’ll have to earn.” He gestured toward her feet. “Give me one of those socks.”

“Only one?”

“I’m nothing if not reasonable.”

“I guess.” She propped her foot on the edge of the bed and leaned slowly over her thigh. She drew the Powerpuff sock off as if it were a fishnet stocking, then stuck it in the waistband of his jeans.

“Very nice, indeed. I’ll take that thong now.”

“An A plus.”

“For your body alone.”

That was nice, especially since they both knew she was too thin and her thighs hadn’t been near a StairMaster in forever. Still, long legs counted for a lot with men. “Only if you kiss me first.”

“My pleasure, indeed.”

This kiss was even slower than the others, more intense, world-class. He tunneled his fingers in her hair. His jeans abraded her flesh. She could feel herself reaching the breaking point even before he hooked his thumbs in her thong, pushed it down, and went on his knees.

She let her head fall back as he buried his face. He inhaled her in the way good men did. And bad ones, too, for that matter, but no need to worry about that when she was the only sinner in the room. He pushed open her thighs. One of his hands cupped her bottom.

He devoured her.

Her legs lost their strength, but he held her in place with his massive palm, keeping her right where he wanted, open and accessible.

Her orgasm caught her by surprise. She let out a strangled cry.

He stayed with her through the waves, then laid her on the bed as if she were a doll. He got tangled in his jeans, and his unusual clumsiness made her lips curve in a slumberous smile. He’d come prepared, she noticed, as he dragged a thoughtful, but unnecessary, condom from his pocket.

Finally naked, he pushed her to her back and trailed his mouth from nipple to belly and then below. Who could have predicted such earthy generosity from so fastidious a man? She dug her hands into his thick hair, rough silk under her fingers. He toyed with her, bringing her to the brink again, but never quite letting her tumble over. She rolled to her side to return the favor.

Drunk on sensation they explored—touching and tasting, trading sweet smut and breathy groans, making themselves crazier and crazier. She tried to close her legs so she could torture him more, but he would have none of it.

“Don’t even think about it.”

He caught an ankle, the one still wearing the sock, and pressed it high on the bed. Then he clasped her opposite knee, pushed it wide, and thrust himself deep inside her, not being brutal about it—he was too big for that—but not being all that careful either. Just as if he could read her mind.

She wrapped her legs around him, and their bodies locked in the rhythm of longtime lovers. The muscles in his back quivered beneath her hands. He angled his hips, cupped her bottom, found a new spot to please her.

She arched, cried out. Their gazes locked. For one startling moment, a shock of recognition passed between them, something soul deep and very important. But before it could find a name, the cataclysm swept them away.

“I declare, I could kill Vidal! It is so unthinking of him to ravish honest girls . . .”

G

EORGETTE

H

EYER

,

Devil’s Cub

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sugar Beth rolled to her side. “I’m done with you. You can go.”

His breathing hadn’t yet returned to normal, so she was probably rushing him, but she was a lot more shaken by what had just happened than she intended to let him see. Meaningless sex was allowed to feel good, but it wasn’t allowed to feel important, and that’s what might have happened if she hadn’t kept up her guard.

She felt Colin watching her as she walked naked across the room. She remembered his threat to fire her and told herself not to entertain even the possibility that he’d stick to his guns.

“That was only a warm-up, my dear,” he said, in his royal family drawl. “I’m definitely not done with you.”

“No man ever is. But I have things to do, and, alas, none of them involves you.”

“Is that so?”

Just looking at him propped against her pillow, chest damp with sweat, that dramatic dark hair even more rumpled than usual, made her want to climb right back in and let him work his magic all over again. But she needed to get her barricades back in place, so she picked up his jeans and tossed them on the bed. “You were fabulous. Inspired, even. Go home and recuperate. I’ll see you in the morning.”