Alaric stood transfixed, his cold rage swirling into a blazing wall of lust. His hands fisted at his sides. His loins flooded with heat.

“I see you two are acquainted,” Marieur said with a smirk.

“Get out,” he said.

“Oui, Your Grace, but as you have intervened in my, ahem, wardrobe selection for Miss Kendall—”

“I’ll take an entire wardrobe for Miss Kendall here.” Alaric saw Emma wince at his use of her assumed name, and his anger flared white-hot. How dare she put herself in such a dangerous position? “See that we’re not disturbed.”

“Excellent, Your Grace.” The bawd scraped and bowed her way out.

The door closed with a click. The tension in the room climbed.

Perched on the edge of the dais, Emma had her hands clamped over her sex. His blood pumped with outrage and hunger. Devil take it, her getup might have been summoned from his darkest fantasies. A naughty red corset held her breasts up like an offering to the Gods, her dusky nipples playing peek-a-boo behind black lace. Displayed in black silk, her shapely, slim legs beckoned with outrageous eroticism.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she said.

“No?” Jaw clenched, he strode to her. Stopped an inch from her knees. “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to explain what you are doing dressed like a bluidy harlot in a bawdy house!”

He caught his slipping accent. Never a good sign. With monumental effort, he held onto his temper. Emma turned even rosier—by God, she blushed in the most interesting of places ...

“I didn’t know this was a place of ill repute. I was following a clue, you see, and—”

“Clue? Explain,” he said through his teeth.

She fidgeted, and the corset shifted. His breath rammed in his throat. Christ’s blood, he had a prime view of her nipples from this angle, and the taut little berries were full, maddeningly ripe. They would taste so sweet on his tongue ...

“I, um, interviewed your staff. Before you get all hot under the collar about it,”—she raised her chin, and his temperature did rise, though lower than where she suggested—“I discovered something extremely useful. Your missing maid was an actress at a theatre called The Cytherea; her real name is Lily White. She was a regular visitor to Madame Marieur’s.” A furrow appeared between her brows. “Apparently not for the purpose I initially believed, however.”

He stared at her. He didn’t know what dumbfounded him more: her ingenuity or her recklessness. “You interviewed my maids—and then you came here on your own?”

“There’s no need to shout. How was I to know that this was a den of iniquity? The sign outside clearly stated that this was a shop for ladies’ apparel—false advertising, if you ask me.” She had the gall to sound disgruntled. “And Madame seemed quite convincing as a dressmaker.”

“Your dressmaker is one of the most notorious bawds in London,” he clipped out. “Her matchmaking skills are sought by every light-skirt and courtesan in Town. Just now, she was about to enter the gentlemen’s bidding chamber to auction off your favors.”

Emma’s lashes swept up. “Bidding chamber? Auction?”

“Your favors were about to be sold at the starting price of five hundred pounds.”

Her pupils dilated. She bit her lip and looked worried. Finally.

His hands fisted on his hips, he leaned over her. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did, it could have been any man who walked into the room just now. What do you think would have happened then?”

The notion of another man seeing her thus, lusting over her, touching her—

No one lays a hand on what is mine.

As his fury boiled over, he was simultaneously struck by scorching clarity. Like it or not, he wanted Emma Kent. Fighting that fact was a damned waste of time. He’d given her plenty of warnings; she’d ignored them all.

Now it was time for both of them to face the consequences.

“I’m sure I would have thought of something. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” She peered up at him with feminine awareness in her wide eyes, a new breathy edge to her voice. “If you would just, um, hand me my clothes ... ”

He took a step forward, his knees parting hers in a forceful movement. She gasped as he insinuated himself between her spread thighs. Her hands sprung upward in an instinctive attempt to ward him off and, in the process, she exposed her womanhood.

Ach, she looked as pretty and soft as she’d felt.

His nostrils flared, and she gasped again, her hands flying back to shield her little cunny.

“No more hiding,” he rasped. “All my warnings have fallen on deaf ears. You’ve pushed your luck one too many times, Emma.”

Her cheeks turned pink. “Stop acting like a heathen. Let me go at once—”

His response was to tumble her back onto the carpeted dais. He kept his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her, yet his aroused body pressed against her every curve. Her softness molded instantly to his rigid form and the result was … sublime.

A bluidy perfect fit.

“Tell me, pet,” he said silkily, “why have you disobeyed me at every turn?”

“I’ve used my best judgment. You have no right to tell me what to do ...”

She broke off with a whimper when he ground his hips, circling them deliberately against her bared sex. Molten lust poured through him as her dew soaked through the barrier of his trousers. His burgeoned cockhead butted against the confining fabric, straining for home.

“I think you want to be told what to do,” he said.

The hitched cadence of her breath told him that, whether or not she realized it, he’d hit the nail straight on the head. Anticipation bloomed in his gut. By God, she was the perfect mate to his desires.

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not some weak-minded miss,” she whispered.

“You, Emma, are the most stubborn female I’ve ever met.” He rolled his hips again, and her gaze grew unfocused, heavy-lidded. “It takes strength to choose surrender. You’ve tested me time and again because you know I’m the man who can give you what you need. Because you want me,” he said, “as much as I want you.”

By all rights, he couldn’t expect a virgin to understand the intricacies of power and sex. Or to admit her own carnal impulses. But he would begin as he meant to go on: he would never allow her to hide her passion—hide anything—from him.

She was his. The question was whether or not she was ready to admit it.

A myriad of emotions flitted through Emma’s wide, clear eyes.

In a muffled voice, she said, “But I shouldn’t want you. We’re wrong for each other.”

Triumph surged through him.

“Nay, lass,” he said huskily, “let me show you how right we are ...”

He took her mouth, and she gave it to him with an eagerness that underscored his claim. Cupping her jaw, he drank of her sweetness, headier than the finest spirits. He licked into her mouth, leaving nothing unexplored. When she sucked shyly at his tongue, he knew he’d lit the tinder, her inhibitions going up in flame.

Even as he burned for her, he knew that he had to remain in control. He wouldn’t take her maidenhead in a rush of unthinking lust the way he had with Laura. At her engagement party to his brother, Laura had seduced him, used his desire against him, and he’d fallen into her trap, betraying Will in the process. He’d not make the same mistake twice.

Then and there, he made up his mind: he wouldn’t bed Emma until they were wed. In this relationship, he would be in charge. He would gain her submission, make her come again and again until she begged to be his duchess ...

He pressed open-mouthed kisses down her neck and shoulders, reveling in the downiness of her skin. Her fingers slid against his scalp, urging him closer. His nostrils flared at the sight of her breasts, the cherry peaks peeping above the line of black lace. He drew his thumb across a stiff bud, and she moaned.

“Like that, Emma? Do you want me to do it again?” he inquired.

“Mmm,” she sighed.

“Answer me properly, pet.” He gave her nipple a light tweak.

Her breath caught in surprise, yet her eyes melted like chocolate. “Yes ... please?”

“Aye, my good lass.” He rolled the plump bud between his thumb and forefinger, and she gave the sweetest moan. Damnation, he should have taken this approach with her from the outset and spared them both the trouble. “What pretty breasts you have. I can’t wait to taste them.”

“T-taste?” Her voice quavered.

Loosening the corset, he yanked it down to free her firm, rounded tits and bent his head. Her startled cry sent satisfaction humming through his veins. Emma was so responsive—she could never hide her response from him, lie to him. She clutched his shoulders, her breaths coming in rapid pants as he tongued her ripe berries. He adored how proudly they stood, how sensitive they were. When he suckled one deep into his mouth, her back bowed off the dais.

He ran his palm possessively up one silken thigh and cupped her cunny. His cock pulsed to find her soaking for him. With reverence, he delved into her little nest, petting her slick folds. She moaned low in her throat when he circled her pearl. He played with her, his touch light, dancing over her delicate flesh, teasing her toward orgasm and retreating when it loomed too close.

In this way, he kept her on desire’s edge.

Her head tossed frantically. “Alaric, what are you doing? Please ...”

“This is mine,” he said as he stroked her nub. “Your pearl belongs to me. Say it.”

She bit her lip.

He stopped.

“My pearl … it’s yours,” she whispered.

He cupped her entire mound, massaging her peak with the heel of his palm. “Your sweet cunny is mine.”

She moaned, her hips arching in entreaty. “Yes, yes.”

He stilled his hand. “The words, pet.”

“My … cunny is yours,” she said bashfully.

He plunged a finger inside her, his bollocks drawing tight as her passage squeezed him like a vise. Christ, this was only one finger. What would it feel like to have his cock buried inside her snug little sheath?

You’ll find out after she’s your wife.

Grinding his teeth, he worked her clit, taking her to the precipice. “Then come for me, sweeting.”

Her pants and gasps were a symphony of feminine surrender, the most sensual music he’d ever heard. As tremors shook her limbs, he went to his knees. Spreading her thighs, he leaned in and gave her the kiss that burned in his dreams.

* * *

Emma’s shocked cry was swept into the wildfire ignited by Alaric’s kiss. His hands kept her thighs splayed, pinned to the dais as he put his mouth on the most intimate place on her body. Of their own volition, her hips bucked against his mouth, his searing lips melting away her protests, leaving nothing but a strange, blazing truth.

Who knew that capitulation could be so blissful?

Then her thoughts burned to ashes, and there was only the moment, the sensations, the bone-melting swirl of his tongue.

“Your pussy is like honey.” His guttural lilt thrilled her. “I could feast on you all day.”

She would never survive it. Her nerves were taut from her last climax, stretched on a rack of delight. Yet the pressure at her center was already building again.

“Do you like my mouth on you, pet? Do you like me licking you, eating your cunny?”

She couldn’t answer that. She couldn’t.

“Emma.” He lifted his head, and the authority in his glittering pale gaze was oddly ... soothing. Calming. As if she didn’t have to fight for pleasure the way she had for so many things in life—she had only to ask for it.

“Yes, I like it,” she whispered.

“There’s a good lass,” he said with husky approval.

Her head flung back as his tongue flicked her sensitive bud while his touch delved inside her. Stretching, opening her to more rippling sensation. The pressure in her belly shot up another notch, and she was so close ...

“You’re so fucking tight, squeezing my finger,” he grated. “Take another and take it deep ...”

He drove into the core of her, and she exploded once more. Heavenly warmth spilled over her insides. She was floating, steeped in relaxation when his deep command reached her.

“Again, Emma.”

Is that possible?

His face was above hers, stark with arousal and determination. He continued to work his fingers inside her, her own slickness easing the way. He thrust deeply with sudden force, and the sharp slap of his palm against her mound reawakened her satiated nerves. He did it over and again until she was rocking her hips to meet his touch, panting his name.

Ecstasy rolled over her once more, deeper this third time, an endless, languorous wave.

“Christ, you’re bonny.” His voice was deep.

Through her euphoric haze, she noticed the sheen on his forehead, the tight lock of his jaw. Once she’d interpreted his control as a sign of a cold, unfeeling nature; now she wondered why such a hot-blooded man would so tightly leash his passions. Whatever the reason, she had a flash of insight into what his willpower cost him—and she wouldn’t stand for it.

He grew still when she reached up, brushing away a dark, tousled lock.

“What about you?” she said.

His eyes glittered. “What about me?”

“Don’t you want to ... ?” Blushing, she couldn’t force out the word.

“Do you want me to come, sweet?”

She gave a shy nod.

His nostrils flared. He shifted onto his knees next to her, his hands going to the waistband of his trousers. His eyes never left hers as he lowered the flap. Her eyes widened as she took in his rampant manhood. His big, thick pole stood boldly erect, the engorged purple crown reaching several buttons up on his waistcoat. Her intimate muscles clenched as he slowly ran a fist from root to tip. As he stroked himself, the turgid shaft jerked with a life of its own, the veins pulsing along its length. At the base, his sac hung like a ripe, heavy plum.

“Have I shocked you, pet?” he said silkily.

Was she shocked? Yes. But even more so, she was curious.

Feeling very bold, she said, “May I ... touch it?”

His smile was slow, brimming with sensual promise. “No, this time you watch.”

She leveraged herself up on her elbows to get a better view. He handled himself firmly, the motion swift and strong, his bicep bulging beneath his jacket. Arousal sharpened his features, and within his grip, the rosy brown skin of his cock rippled over its rigid core. He was a study of control, of primal male power contained by equally potent self-discipline.

Watching him pleasure himself had a profound effect on her. Her nipples stiffened, her mouth watering at his magnificence. She wet her lips, and his gaze hungrily followed the path of her tongue. When he drew the skin back on his shaft, she watched, transfixed, as dew seeped from the slit in the exposed head. The fluid was swept up by his palm, and more leaked out, quickening his strokes. She could tell he liked the sensation from the way his jaw clenched, as if he were biting back a shout of pleasure.

He looked so powerful—and alone. A solitary, savage god. His loneliness, even in this, pulled at her heart.

“Come for me, Alaric,” she whispered. “Please.”

He jerked, his eyes blazing with pagan fire. “Feel me then. Feel my seed.”

An instant later, he exploded, his teeth gnashing. Her breath stuttered as droplets pelted her breasts, marking her with his heat, his scent so masculine and arousing. One pearly bead landed on her nipple and clung to the hardened tip, before sliding leisurely down the curve.

Heart pounding, she saw his gaze following that languorous trail.

“My God, Emma,” he said hoarsely.

Yanking her to him, he claimed her mouth with fierce possession.