Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1)

by Lisa Kleypas

There seemed no way to accurately describe Kathleen. He could say that her hair was red and that her eyes were golden-brown and tip-tilted like a cat’s. He could describe her fair skin and the rosy undertone that rose to the surface like a winter sunrise. The way she moved, her supple athletic grace constrained by laces and stays and layers. But none of that explained the fascination she held for him . . . the sense that somehow she had the power to unlock some altogether new feeling inside him, if only she cared to try.

I’ve never been a hero, nor do I have any wish to be.”

Dimly she realized that she was no longer trying to escape but fighting to press closer and hide against him. Her arms clutched around his neck, her face against his throat as she sobbed too hard to think or breathe. Emotion came in a deluge, impossible to separate into its parts. To feel so much all at once seemed a kind of madness.

He stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight. The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before.

Dear God . . . he wanted her beyond decency.

No one had ever sought comfort from him before, and the act of giving it had felt more unspeakably intimate than the most torrid sexual encounter. He’d felt the force of his entire being wrap around her in a moment of sweet, raw connection.

Anything was worth having her. Anything. He couldn’t explain his obsession with her, even to himself. But it seemed as if it had always been there, woven through the fabric of his being, waiting to be discovered.

His reply was soft. “You always have my attention.”

It had been the most exquisite torment he had ever suffered, standing there with Kathleen pressed against him. She had trembled like a newborn foal straining to stand. He’d never wanted anything in his life as much as he’d wanted to turn her to face him, and take her mouth with long, searching kisses until she melted against him.

Burning with lust and tender amusement, Devon slid his mouth to her ear. “No,” he whispered, “let me taste you . . . let me feel how soft you are inside . . .”

Those kisses . . . the impossible, terrible pleasure of them . . . how could he have done that to her? How could she have responded so wantonly?

He was impatient to see Kathleen again, hungry for the sight of her and the sound of her voice. He had missed her smiles, her frowns, her endearing frustrations with impropriety and pigs and plumbers.

Kathleen was his fate, his. He would defy all the hells that ever were to stay with her.

His lashes fell and his hand slipped from her face. He managed one more whisper before he fell asleep. “The last moment, I thought . . . I would die wanting you.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, “your skin, your shape, every part of you.” His hand insinuated between her thighs, easing them apart. “Open for me . . . a little more . . . yes . . . God, how soft you are, here . . . and here . . .”

Breathing hard, he pressed his lips to the anxious lines of her forehead. “No, don’t worry. You become wet . . . in here . . . when your body is ready for me . . . it’s lovely, it makes me want you even more . . . Ah, sweet . . . I can feel you holding me.”

“Stop,” she whispered through dry lips. “Please . . . I’m going to faint . . .” His taunting whisper tickled her ear. “Then faint.”

Devon grinned and let out a ragged breath, willing the raging heat of the past several minutes to retreat. Having Kathleen there, in his bed, had been the most exquisite torture imaginable. His body was a mass of aches, stabs, and cravings. He’d never felt better in his life.

As her gentle voice continued, Rhys had the sensation of floating, the red tide of fever easing. How strange and lovely it was to lie here half dozing in her arms, possibly even better than fucking . . . but that thought led to the indecent question of what it might be like with her . . . how she might lie quietly beneath him while he devoured all that petal softness and vanilla sweetness . . . and slowly he fell asleep in Lady Helen’s arms.

Devon’s head lowered, and he kissed the side of her throat. “I want you in my bed again,” he whispered.

How easy it would be to let him have whatever he wanted of her. To yield to the pleasure he could give her, and think only of the present moment.

“You,” he said in a voice that carried out into the hallway.

“Say something,” he commanded gruffly. The shy glow of her smile gilded the air. “I’m glad to see you in better health, Mr. Winterborne.” Helen’s voice.

She was more beautiful than starlight, and just as unattainable.

Devon was wily enough to understand how the sound of that would affect him. Lady Helen Winterborne . . . yes, Rhys bloody-fucking-well loved that.

All his ambition and determination had converged into a single desire . . . to marry Lady Helen Ravenel.

“Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.” He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, “And I’ll make you come for me again.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and another, as she stared into the darkest eyes she had ever seen, a brown so deep it looked black, shadowed by thick lashes and set deep in a complexion of rich umber. His brutal handsomeness unnerved her. He could have been Lucifer himself, sitting there.

God, the way he stared at her, harsh and tender, his gaze devouring. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice was slightly hoarse.

He had become obsessed with Kathleen, so fascinated by everything she thought and did that he couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Half the time he wanted to do everything possible to fill her with happiness, while the rest of the time he was tempted to throttle her. He had never known such agonizing frustration, wanting her, wanting far more than she was willing to give.

“You could take up an instrument,” she suggested. Slowly Devon brought her forward and whispered against the sweet, full curves of her mouth, “But you’re the only thing I want to play.”

God, how madly he loved her.

“I hope you’ll consider marrying me sooner rather than later.” Another kiss, slow and devastating. “Because I long for you, Kathleen, my dearest love. I want to sleep with you every night, and wake with you every morning.”