Free Any Wicked Thing by Margaret Rowe Page B

substitute for the real thing.
    â€”FROM THE DIARY OF FREDERICA WELLS
    F rederica marveled at her composure. She had barely batted an eye when she found Sebastian poking about her room. Poking was the operative word—his member looked like a dowsing rod that had located a vast underground river. She had fixed her eyes on his damp midnight hair, but the rest of him was all too visible. To think he had come naked and gleaming to her rescue, when all he would do in the end was bring her to grief.
    She was used to the peculiar noises of Goddard Castle but had not thought to warn the new duke. Maybe she should have claimed an army of ghosts resided here to drive him south. But he didn’t strike her as a man who feared much of anything. He was certainly fierce enough now, looking at her as though he wanted to gobble her up.
    Frederica was acutely aware of her threadbare nightgown and her childish hair. She had wanted to deter him with her appearance, but it seemed she’d have to be covered in sackcloth and ashes to repel Sebastian Goddard. He was hard for her standing half a room away. She ought to be flattered, but as evil Mrs. Carroll had said, he fucked anything.
    She’d been a naïve child the last time she’d seen him naked, and had been hopelessly impressed with every decadent scrap of him then. If the planes and angles of his face caused her heart to stir now, his body had more than lived up to its early promise. He was broad and well muscled, without an ounce of fat. He looked as though he could defend her from ghosts or dragons or anything inconvenient. Except for himself.
    Oh, she was naïve now , entering into this ridiculous agreement with him. And for what? The uncertain roof over her head? But it was too late. She took another step forward. And then another.
    He pressed his thumbs to her cheeks, his fingers resting lightly on her temples. His pupils were huge, black as his soul—if he still had one—ringed in dark, fathomless green. She longed to touch the bump on the bridge of his nose, the only imperfection she could detect in his shadowed face. He was whispering something scandalous, but she couldn’t listen for watching his lips move. Then he smiled and slanted them over hers, the soft strength of them warm and insistent. Her mouth opened in protest and his tongue traced the seam of her top lip slowly, as if he were measuring by touch, calculating the inches of pink. He did the same to her bottom lip, shocking her with his gentleness.
    When they’d last kissed, he’d tasted of too much brandy and smelled of sweet smoke. Tonight there was the merest hint of wine. His clean skin was scented with the rose petal soap she had made herself from the overgrown canes that tumbled over the outer wall. What should have been feminine had been converted into something else altogether—he’d captured the briar as well as the bud. She hoped to steady herself with a deep breath, but instead was swept away to the wild roses and the heat of last summer. Her skin beneath the pressure of his fingertips tingled as he drew her closer, his mouth skimming effortlessly over hers, brushing, savoring. There was nothing to do but meet his tongue and shiver as he tore her defenses down lick by wicked lick.
    She felt herself sway, and reached for something to hold on to, although she was still sweetly trapped between his hands. She should touch him, if only to feel his smooth brown chest or span his narrow hips or tousle his curling dark hair. But there was no safe place to touch that wouldn’t scorch her as he brought her to him, his velvet mouth angled expertly so that even the corners of her lips received attention.
    Frederica had dreamed of kisses like this, though doubted their existence. How odd that her oldest friend and newest enemy was the man to prove her wrong. He lulled her into discomfiting comfort, banishing all thoughts with the steady skills of his tongue and teeth. His