Cheryl Holt by Complete Abandon Page A

without becoming overly upset, but this slander of his masculine abilities was too much. Especially that she would question his aptitude in front of his brother. He was obviously conceited as to his reputation with the ladies, but from the apathetic copulation she’d seen, she didn’t understand why any lover would rave.
    “Come here, Miss Fitzgerald.”
    She’d egregiously poked at his ego, and she’d reap the consequences, but she was anxious to have this inaugural foray terminate on a bold note. Oozing bravado, she sauntered around the desk and approached him until they were toe-to-toe. His body was taut as a bowstring, and she supposed that he would roughly grab her, that he would maul her with a punishing kiss.
    Astonishingly, he placed his hands on her shoulders so lightly that she could scarcely feel them, then he bent down and tenderly melded his lips to her own. It was the most chaste, most precious, moment of her life. His breath brushed across her cheek, it was warm, he tasted like . . .
    Abruptly, it ended. He pulled away, concluding the embrace before she’d had occasion to shut her eyes.
    Their gazes linked, and the strangest sensation of connection and affinity leapt between them. He’d noted the sweetness, too, and he was bewildered and confused.
    Hastily masking his perplexity, he cleared his throat. “I trust that wasn’t too . . .
repugnant
?”
    “No,” she tartly replied, “just disappointing.”
    “Disappointing!”
    “You seem like such a virile fellow.” She let her assessing regard meander down his torso, then back up. “I’d imagined you might imbue it with a little more . . .
passion
. . . I guess.”
    Why did she persist with baiting him? Wasn’t it enough that she’d triumphed in every instance? She’d already garnered most of what she’d hoped to gain and they hadn’t even begun their struggle toward a resolution.
    The knave made her willing to do or say any crazed thing, merely to see the rise she could get out of him. Absurdly, she felt a burning desire to provoke a response, as if the Good Lord had specifically sent her to shake him awake after a lengthy slumber. Yet, her prodding was very much like nudging at a sleeping giant.
    He was glaring at her with such cool, controlled fury that she grew apprehensive. Behind her, Mr. Clayton was guffawing jovially, making veiled, sarcastic observations about Wakefield’s sexual prowess, but Emma couldn’t decipher them. The intimidating strength of Wakefield’s concentration was deluging her, and it was like being sucked into a whirlpool.
    “Ian,” he said quietly, not bothering to turn about, his tone brooking no argument. “Leave us be.”
    “I really can’t bear to.” Mr. Clayton was still chuckling. “This is more fun than I’ve had in an eternity.”
    “Go!” Wakefield commanded softly, but the vehemence with which he’d pronounced the word was so fierce that it reverberated off the walls like a shout.
    The room grew silent, and Mr. Clayton pushed back his chair and stood. Emma could hear nothing but the tick of the clock over the mantel, and the thudding of her pulse in her ears. Mr. Clayton passed by them andhe paused, bothered by the level to which she’d elevated Wakefield’s ire.
    “If you need me, Miss Fitzgerald—” Mr. Clayton gallantly proclaimed, fretting about her being alone with the angry nobleman.
    “I won’t,” she confidently retorted. “I’m not afraid of Viscount Wakefield. He’d never hurt me.”
    He might grumble and roar, but he’d lash out with no more than his caustic tongue, and she’d beheld how verbally vicious he could be: not very.
    Mr. Clayton looked from one to the other, then strolled out.
    They were caught in a mind-boggling staring match, until the door latch clicked after him, and the second it did, Wakefield swaggered in, his body impacting with hers all the way down. Chests, stomachs, thighs, feet, they were tangled together, and the surge of stimulation that