Free The Wicked One by Danelle Harmon

asked.
    "Unbutton your cuffs."
    He did.
    "And stand still."
    She came around in front of him, never removing her hand from his body, letting it draw a slow, seductive line from hip to the front of his hard, muscled thigh.  He gazed down at her, a watchful predator, his eyes very, very black beneath heavy lids.  Eva met that heated stare, letting her hand rest right where it was.  He gave a slow smile of invitation — and moving her hand, Eva let her fingernail graze his thigh through the thin veneer of his breeches, exulting in the control he had granted her.  She wondered what he would ask in return.  Or better yet, what he would give in return . . .
    Her fingers found the buttons of his drop front, and one by one, slid them through the holes.
    She looked up into his face.  The lazy smile had faded, and in its place was something darker, something more intense; something far, far more dangerous.
    Eva undid the last button, and the breeches slid down his thighs and around his knees.  Immediately the long hem of the shirt floated down to preserve his maleness from her triumphant gaze; Eva looked up, stared into those black, black eyes for a long moment, and then ran her hand over the rigid bulge beneath the shirt.
    She was unprepared.  For the fierceness of his arousal, for the size of it, for the shock waves that simple touch flung through her own body.  Prickly heat suffused her.  It was all she could do not to throw him to the carpet and have her way with him right then and there; but no, she was surely more civilized than that.
    He smiled, noting her momentary confusion.  "If you are trying to torture me, madam, you are doing a damned fine job of it."
    Big, bad wolf, indeed , she thought shakily — but managed to muster her most feline smile.  "Perhaps some wine will take the edge off your impatience?"  She palmed him through the shirt, seeing his nostrils flare, his eyes growing fixed and dark and deadly.  "After all, you still have to undress me."
    "I am within inches of taking you right here, right now."
    "Do so and I'll —"
    "Kill me?" he murmured, lips twitching.
    "Something like that."  She let her fingers fall away from him.  Then, casting an inviting smile over her shoulder, she went to her dressing table, where bottles of perfume, jars of cosmetics, pots, brushes, and boxes were arranged around a vase of flowers.  A bottle of champagne stood nearby, nestled in a bucket of ice.  Eva uncorked it, poured two glasses, and brought them both back to the duke.
    She kicked off one slipper and handed him a glass.  She hooked a toe around the other, kicked it off as well, and raised her own glass to her lips.
    "A toast," she murmured, eyeing him from over the rim.  "To . . . peace."
    His dark gaze held hers.  "To peace," he echoed, leaving her wondering whether they drank to peace between the two of them — or to his country and hers.
    She put the glass down.  "And now you may undress me."
    For answer, he merely gave a dangerous smile, set down his half-finished champagne, and with a skill that unnerved her, went to work on her own clothes.
    She shivered as he unclasped the choker of emeralds, his warm fingers grazing her neck, caressing the sensitive flesh as the heavy metal setting dropped away.  It was soon apparent — more than apparent — that he knew his way around a lady's gown better than her own maid did, deftly unhooking en eye there, untying a tape there, his fingers making short work of buttons, ties, and fastenings.  Off came her beautiful gown of dark raspberry velvet, off came the stomacher of rich rose satin, the tightly laced stays, the petticoats belling out over her hoops, until she stood before him, her skin pocked with gooseflesh, in just her chemise, garters and stockings.
    She was burning up inside.
    Absolutely on fire.
    And then he reached out and pulled her close, his hands molding her waist, pressing firmly against the small of her back, holding her hard against him.