Read Online Your Wicked Heart by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Meredith Duran
Tags: Romance
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lighter than a breath, warmer than the sun. His lips parted hers, and he tasted her.
A soft, hot prickle moved through her, a sudden relaxing of . . . everything: her muscles, her wariness, her wits. His lips were persuasive, confident, as alive as his laughter. He moved into her, crowding her against the wall, his body warm and solid, his mouth intoxicating. He tasted of the wine, but on his tongue it grew delicious. His tongue toyed with hers, flirting with her teeth, the sensitive lining of her lips.
Her stomach seemed to lift and then fall away. He smelled like sweat and soap and spices. He smelled edible .
Her arms tightened around him. Just right. She had kissed other men before—her erstwhile fiancé, and once, a cheeky shop boy in Little Darby—but never before had a man’s body felt so right .Low in her belly, something pulsed and ached, and her body told her that he was the cure for it.
His mouth broke from hers. “You’re delicious,” he breathed into her ear—two simple words that made a shudder run through her.
“I thought I was a criminal.” How strange she sounded! Sultry, not at all like herself. She turned her face into his throat to take another deep breath of him. So foolish. Stop this at once.
But his palm was stroking the small of her back, warm and firm and soothing. Her brain chattered uselessly in the background, supplying all the proper warnings, but they seemed to slip away without effect, like raindrops off a smooth glass pane.
“Let’s try that again,” he whispered, and then, praise God, he did. His mouth was all the sweeter now that she knew it was coming. His lips moved urgently over hers, persuading her, and the pulse in her belly suddenly dropped lower, concentrating between her legs.
You’re behaving like a harlot. With your kidnapper.
But he’d had good cause for kidnapping her! He’d thought she had cozened him, helped an impostor whose fraud was costing him precious time in his search for his cousin.
This is beyond stupid of you.
His tongue slipped again into her mouth. Exactly where it belonged. A lazy tangle of mouths as her hands felt down the hard planes of his back. Muscled, lean. So tall. He was built, in fact, very much like her fraudulent betrothed . . . only his kisses were so different. So much hotter. Wild, ravishing. Nothing like her former fiancé’s. He loved his family, protected them, was searching for his cousin, kissed like an angel . . . or a devil . . .
A guttural shout. He spun, putting himself squarely in front of her so she was sheltered from view—her heart skipped; what a gentlemanly posture!—and she rose on tiptoes to peek over his shoulder.
The police had found them. “English?” asked one of the men, his hand on the pistol at his waist. “Come. You come now!”
Ripton took her arm, pulling her into step with him as they followed the man. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “Let me handle this.”
She nodded. How curious! With him beside her, she felt not the least bit afraid.
* * *
Crime did not appear to be a thriving business in La Valletta. The police station was little more than a whitewashed hut furnished with a rude desk and two wooden pens, one of which held a snoring man whose alcoholic reek traveled the length of the room. The other pen stood empty, and the sight of it prepared Spence to rage, condescend, or bribe, as needed—for he had no intention of them spending the night here.
But as it turned out, the inspector in charge had no interest in that, either. After barking a sharp dismissal to his sergeants, he offered Spence a handsome apology and the only chair in the room. Spence demurred and insisted that the lady take the chair.
Miss Thomas, blushing prettily, settled into the seat with an elegant flip of her skirts. She really did look like a Clementine. Once one got past the sharp bite of the first consonant, the syllables were soft and singing. Clementine. Lush. Almost plush .
A soft, hot prickle moved through her, a sudden relaxing of . . . everything: her muscles, her wariness, her wits. His lips were persuasive, confident, as alive as his laughter. He moved into her, crowding her against the wall, his body warm and solid, his mouth intoxicating. He tasted of the wine, but on his tongue it grew delicious. His tongue toyed with hers, flirting with her teeth, the sensitive lining of her lips.
Her stomach seemed to lift and then fall away. He smelled like sweat and soap and spices. He smelled edible .
Her arms tightened around him. Just right. She had kissed other men before—her erstwhile fiancé, and once, a cheeky shop boy in Little Darby—but never before had a man’s body felt so right .Low in her belly, something pulsed and ached, and her body told her that he was the cure for it.
His mouth broke from hers. “You’re delicious,” he breathed into her ear—two simple words that made a shudder run through her.
“I thought I was a criminal.” How strange she sounded! Sultry, not at all like herself. She turned her face into his throat to take another deep breath of him. So foolish. Stop this at once.
But his palm was stroking the small of her back, warm and firm and soothing. Her brain chattered uselessly in the background, supplying all the proper warnings, but they seemed to slip away without effect, like raindrops off a smooth glass pane.
“Let’s try that again,” he whispered, and then, praise God, he did. His mouth was all the sweeter now that she knew it was coming. His lips moved urgently over hers, persuading her, and the pulse in her belly suddenly dropped lower, concentrating between her legs.
You’re behaving like a harlot. With your kidnapper.
But he’d had good cause for kidnapping her! He’d thought she had cozened him, helped an impostor whose fraud was costing him precious time in his search for his cousin.
This is beyond stupid of you.
His tongue slipped again into her mouth. Exactly where it belonged. A lazy tangle of mouths as her hands felt down the hard planes of his back. Muscled, lean. So tall. He was built, in fact, very much like her fraudulent betrothed . . . only his kisses were so different. So much hotter. Wild, ravishing. Nothing like her former fiancé’s. He loved his family, protected them, was searching for his cousin, kissed like an angel . . . or a devil . . .
A guttural shout. He spun, putting himself squarely in front of her so she was sheltered from view—her heart skipped; what a gentlemanly posture!—and she rose on tiptoes to peek over his shoulder.
The police had found them. “English?” asked one of the men, his hand on the pistol at his waist. “Come. You come now!”
Ripton took her arm, pulling her into step with him as they followed the man. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “Let me handle this.”
She nodded. How curious! With him beside her, she felt not the least bit afraid.
* * *
Crime did not appear to be a thriving business in La Valletta. The police station was little more than a whitewashed hut furnished with a rude desk and two wooden pens, one of which held a snoring man whose alcoholic reek traveled the length of the room. The other pen stood empty, and the sight of it prepared Spence to rage, condescend, or bribe, as needed—for he had no intention of them spending the night here.
But as it turned out, the inspector in charge had no interest in that, either. After barking a sharp dismissal to his sergeants, he offered Spence a handsome apology and the only chair in the room. Spence demurred and insisted that the lady take the chair.
Miss Thomas, blushing prettily, settled into the seat with an elegant flip of her skirts. She really did look like a Clementine. Once one got past the sharp bite of the first consonant, the syllables were soft and singing. Clementine. Lush. Almost plush .
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