Lord of Scoundrels (Scoundrels #3)

And this time, the grown man asked, with the same despair a little boy had asked, decades ago: Why will You not help me?

This time, he felt as lost and helpless as that little boy had been, trying to understand why his Heavenly Father had made him wrong

And this time, the grown man asked, with the same despair a little boy had asked, decades ago: Why will You not help me?

This time, he felt as lost and helpless as that little boy had been, trying to understand why his Heavenly Father had made him wrong inside and out and wondering what prayer must be prayed, what penance must be paid, to make him right.

“I am not a pocket watch,” she said tightly. She told herself she ought not feel in the least surprised that the cocksure clod pole proposed to settle matters by making her his mistress. “I am a human being, and you will never own me, no matter what you pay. You may have destroyed my honor in the eyes of the world, but you will not destroy it in fact.”

“I wanted to lick you and kiss you and touch you… everywhere.” He kissed her forehead.“Everywhere it’s white. Everywhere it’s pink. Everywhere else.” He trailed his tongue over one sleek eyebrow. “That’s what I’m going to do now. And you must lie there. And take it.”

She held up her fan in front of his face, to display the masculine scribbling upon the sticks. “Look carefully,” she said. “Do you see ‘Beelzebub’ written there?”
“I’m not shortsighted,” he said, extracting the fan from her tense fingers. “You needn’t hold it so close. Ah, yes, is this the one?” He pointed to a stick. “Rouvier?”
“Yes,” she said, looking past him. “Here he comes.”
Dain turned. A Frenchman was warily approaching, his countenance pale. Dain fanned himself.
The man paused. Smiling, Dain pressed thumb and forefinger to the stick with “Rouvier” written on it. It snapped.
Rouvier went away.

The desultory plops of rain were building to a steady patter upon the trottoir. Droplets glistened on her hair and shimmered on her pink-washed cheeks. One drop skittered along the side of her nose and down to the corner of her mouth. “Damnation,” he said.

And then he didn’t care what he crushed or broke. He reached out and wrapped his monster hands about her waist and lifted her straight up until her wet, sulky face was even with his own.

And in the same heartbeat, before she could scream, he clamped his hard, dissolute mouth over hers.

The heavens opened up then, loosing a torrent

”…wizened olive thing with large black eyes, ill-proportioned limbs, and a grossly oversize nose.”