21. Rule No. Two

RULE NO. TWO

A melia's knees barely held her weight, but she wasn't about to back down.

He called this a game. Had they been playing it all along?

Although some deep part of her conscience clawed and screamed in her ears, she deliberately ignored it. Was it her actual conscience, even? Ever since he'd cut her out of her stays, she'd begun questioning the rules she'd been taught to abide by.

She'd begun to question everything. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Love and hate.

The only thing that felt real was this constant dragging and tugging she felt toward this man. Mr. Beckworth . She imagined a piece of thread tied to each of them, winding itself into two spools, pulling them closer and closer together.

It drew her across the space between them, until she had planted her feet between his.

A pinging echoed around her insides like a bullet. This was oh, so very, very inappropriate.

He remained sitting, and since she was on the tall side, he had to tilt his head back to meet her eyes.

"You said that was rule number one. What are the others?" Amelia hardly recognized her own voice. It was low, thready.

But not unconfident.

She'd never wanted to be kissed so much as she wanted to be kissed by this man.

"Rule number two." His midnight eyes bored into hers. "You stop when you want to stop. I stop when I want to stop. No exceptions. No expectations." And then he added, "No crying."

It was crystal clear that his rules were definitely not the same as the rules of society. In society, once a match was set in motion, both parties were committed.

More than two dances at a ball, and poof! You're engaged.

Caught alone in a room— poof! It's a betrothal.

Change your mind at the altar? Too bad. It's too late.

Anyone who refused to adhere to the ton's expectations would be cut out—shunned.

In light of all that, Mr. Beckworth's rules contrasted in a most appealing way. But she'd have to examine them more closely later. When she wasn't so distracted by his hands, or his shoulders, or any of the other places she wanted to examine more closely instead.

She dipped her chin. "Very well."

His arm snaked around her waist, and before she realized his intentions, she found herself seated on his lap, her legs across his thighs, hard and hot. And something else.

Something that couldn't possibly be his pocket watch?—

She hadn't been this close to him since he'd thrown her over his shoulder.

She didn't understand why it felt so natural to slide her hand around his neck. But it did. And holding him like this drew their faces even closer together.

Engulfed in his hard warmth, all her senses came to life.

His rugged good looks stole her breath. Her heart pounded in her ears and his breath teased her nostrils with a scent that was raw and warm.

And spicy—not in a foreign way—but an exciting one.

The spools kept spinning, stretching the thread. Something must give soon lest it break.

Studying his eyes, she searched for something—anything—that would convince her that she was making a mistake. Finding just the opposite, she parted her lips.

You come to me .

"Rule number one?" she whispered, her confidence wavering. Following this rule felt strange, definitely foreign. In society, ladies flirted with potential husbands. Men wooed potential wives.

But this wasn't a courtship. It was a kiss.

She had been kissed in the past. She had even invited a few. Before she'd attended her first ball, she'd known kissing was one of the steps of the marriage mart dance. One of the later ones, one of the more final ones, but it was only a step.

She'd been innocent, but she'd also been curious. In the end, however, none of those kisses had satisfied her. They had, in fact, left her feeling dreadfully disappointed.

Hopeless.

But for all that flirting and dancing, Amelia had never once initiated a kiss. She had never wanted to.

Until now.

"Amelia?" If she didn't act now, she might lose her chance forever.

The spools kept spinning, and this time, after a hard swallow, Amelia succumbed to the tension.

Leaning forward, she kept her eyes open as her mouth landed on his. But kissing him and staring at him at the same time was quite beyond her capabilities.

She could see him in her mind instead.

A kiss wasn't something to watch, but to feel. And, with his mouth against hers, Amelia wanted to feel everything.

His lips were firm, inviting, and that spicy aroma was even more exciting this close.

She instinctively tilted her head, touching her fingertips to the side of his face.

Marveling at the bristly texture, she dragged them along his jaw, and then higher, diving into his hair. The strands slid through her fingers like silk.

Just like the man himself—a combination of textures.

Amelia parted her lips. She wanted more of that spice. She wanted to taste it. She wanted to taste him.

Everywhere.

And then Mr. Beckworth took over.

He would never underestimate this woman again.

When he'd told her the first rule, he'd half-expected her to express outrage and then order him out. When he'd told her the second, he'd expected her courage to falter.

Amelia Crowley had not been deterred by either.

And now, her delightful little bottom all but cradled his cock, her hands were pulling on his hair so hard it stung, and her curious tongue drew lines along the seam of his mouth.

What she lacked in skill, she more than made up for in enthusiasm.

He may have stolen her from her father, but tonight, she had come to him.

She wanted him.

And Leopold, generous man that he was, would give this woman anything she wanted.

Gathering her closer, he wondered. What if she hadn't been willing to follow his rules? What if she'd needed him to do more coaxing?

What if she'd wanted bloody wooing ?

Would he have played by her rules? Ah, hell. Most likely. Yes.

Her hand teased its way inside the collar of his shirt, and the flame he'd thought was under control leapt and jumped, raging into more of an inferno.

Enough with all his thinking. It was overrated.

"Amelia." He barely recognized his own voice. Not my lady . Just… "Amelia."

She gave a little gasp, and Leopold tightened his arms around her, his moves more desperate than deliberate. Hell, his hands practically shook as he smoothed them over her arms.

His chest tightened, because he was finally kissing her.

Finally tasting this woman.

And she was sweeter than he imagined. Hotter. Sexier.

When he thrust his tongue past her lips, she let out a little groan.

So damned sexy.

Her teeth were slick, and as he searched the tender flesh inside her mouth, the silky texture unleashed wild urges for more intimate kisses.

Keeping one arm clamped around her waist, he explored her unrestrained curves. He couldn't help but recall the moments after he'd cut those damned laces. Even then, bastard that he was, he'd been aroused as hell.

And although he'd realized she wasn't the spoiled debutante he'd believed her to be, he'd never even imagined the danger she posed.

To his organized life. To his missions.

To his sanity.

He palmed her breast and of course, it fit his hand perfectly. Her nipple was already hard. She'd been waiting for his touch. Longing for it as much as he had.

He abandoned her mouth for the delicate curve of her jaw, and then tasted his way around and down the length of her neck.

She twisted, facing him. They both all but tore at her skirts so she could straddle his lap. And although it felt clumsy, it felt right. Two people from different worlds, wanting the same thing.

Her fingers tugged at the roots of his hair, and he loved it.

"Mr. Beckworth…" Her voice trembled.

"That's right." He didn't want her to hold back. He never wanted her to think she had to hold anything back from him.

Like a blind man, he memorized each dip and swell. Dragging his mouth across the slender ridge of her breastbone, he watched the pulse flutter in her neck. It matched the pounding of her heart.

He thrust up with his hips as though asking a question. She answered with a little wiggle.

There were too many clothes between them, but when he trailed a hand under her skirt, her fingers loosened in his hair.

"Mr. Beckworth?" There was a question in her voice. And although he still cradled her breast in his hand, he'd checked himself.

He wanted to correct her, to insist she use his name, and yet, there was something incredibly sexy in how she said it… Mr. Beckworth .

She wasn't squirming anymore, so Leopold lifted his head.

Her neck and cheeks were flushed deep pink and her mouth was parted. She stared at him with startled eyes. Something swirled in the depths of those sapphire orbs, but this time, he couldn't quite read them. Frustrated as hell, he dropped his forehead to rest on her shoulder.

Was she afraid?

Or had she simply come to her senses?

Holding himself absolutely still lest he embarrass himself, Leopold required almost a full minute to find that control he'd let go of.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. Even though he wasn't, really.

"No, I'm sorry." She echoed his apology.

Leopold lifted his head. "Are you?"

Her throat moved and she blinked, but didn't answer.

"Are you?" he asked again, more intently.

"I don't know."