Reckless Viscount by Amy Sandas Page B

hands to his shoulders and rose up on her tip-toes, mindlessly seeking to assuage the curiosity he inspired.
    He obliged by wrapping his arm more securely around her, crushing her against him. For a second, she lost her breath and dizziness threatened. Then the lovely pressure of his lips on hers softened the rigidity of her spine, and it seemed only natural to relax against him and allow the steady flow of warmth through her limbs. And when the tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, sparks floated behind her eyes.
    She turned her head away, breaking the kiss. “It’s too much,” she gasped.
    “It’s nothing,” he murmured against her temple, though the swift pattern of his breath proved he had not been unaffected.
    Abbigael didn’t argue. Knowing she shouldn’t, she remained in his arms for another long moment. She simply didn’t want to deny the pleasure of being held so firmly, the warmth of his body, the intimate sense of connection. No matter how inappropriate.
    Had it been so long since she had known the comfort to be found in the closeness of another human being that even a rogue’s scandalous embrace could be preferable to nothing at all?
    A lump of emotion rose in her throat and she swallowed hard, trying to dislodge it. Tears pricked at her eyes and she tensed with the influx of painful reality.
    As heady as the moment was, he was right. The embrace meant nothing. Abbigael wanted so much more.
    “You must let me go.”
    He did, though with obvious reluctance.
    “Irish…” he began, but Abbigael interrupted him.
    “Don’t,” she whispered desperately as she stepped around him. “Don’t speak to me again. Don’t approach me, don’t acknowledge my existence. You are not what I want.”
    Then she found the handle of the door and opened it only far enough to glide through the opening into the stark and glaring light beyond.

Chapter Six
    Leif Riley rolled onto his stomach, shoving aside the silk brocaded pillows and velvet tasseled coverlets that shared the bed. Satin sheets chilled his skin and the scent of the previous night’s companion still clung to the pillow beneath his head.
    The lady was an old friend, a rapacious young widow with enough wealth to scorn the need for a regular protector. And enough sexual appetite to seek Leif out every now and then for a little bed sport.
    He shifted again and felt the exhaustion that weighed down his limbs. He furrowed his brow against the thick knot of a headache behind his eyes.
    A lot of bed sport. And a lot of champagne.
    For all of the liquor and wine Leif had consumed in his lifetime, one would think he would reach a day when he could wake up without the evil aftereffects of overindulgence. On the contrary, Leif was perpetually doomed to the suffering of horrid hangovers. Certain libations were more dangerous to him than others. And as much as he enjoyed it for its light and bubbly characteristics, champagne always settled in his skull like a dry, pulsing rock by the next day.
    He must have been exceptionally tired, or thoroughly foxed, last night to stay in this room even after his guest left. To think on it, he didn’t even recall the lady’s departure.
    He flopped heavily onto his back, throwing a forearm across his eyes. Not that he needed to shield them from any intruding light. He had carefully designed the room to keep its occupants blissfully ignorant of the passing of time. His gesture was more an attempt at restraining the disturbing thoughts that ran rampant through his throbbing skull.
    His twenty-eighth birthday was swiftly approaching.
    And he felt old.
    Not old in years, nor even in the stamina and strength of his body. His income depended upon his physical attributes and he did what was necessary to maintain a clean muscled physique.
    No, he felt his age in his experience.
    In some respects he had lived far more than a man thrice his age. The years of drunken dissipation, sexual license and social irreverence had long been