Page 43 of Dark Rival

She tensed, swallowing, desire hollowing her, at war with her morals, her mind. Did her sudden hesitation mean that she cared for the medieval Royce, too?

Allie was afraid to answer her own question. But she didn’t want to railroad him now. It didn’t feel right.

“Royce, you’ll be angry when I do. And…you’ll take me to bed.”

He smirked. “Ye canna seduce me with a scrap of lace.” His eyes burned. “Aidan has seen the garment.”

“Not on me,” she said quickly.

“Show me.”

Her mind drummed. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and she sensed a part of it was that Aidan knew the joke. But damn it, if he didn’t resist her in that thong, she was forcing him to her will—and her bed—and he’d be really angry when they were done.

“I’m losin’ patience,” he said harshly.

And Allie realized some degree of pride, for God’s sake, was at stake. This was all her fault. Filled with uncertainty, she reached under her skirt and slipped her lace boy shorts down. As swiftly, she slipped on the thong. She unzipped the skirt and dropped it.

His stare was wide and surprised. He hadn’t had a clue.

So much tension filled the room she felt the blast of his sex and heat and she staggered.

He made a harsh sound. His leine swelled and lifted high up his thighs. “Turn around.” His gray eyes didn’t turn silver—they turned lightning white.

In spite of having misgivings, she was taut and breathless. It was almost impossible to think now. She turned slowly.

He was breathing hard when she faced him again. “Ye win.”

She inhaled.

“Ye wanted to seduce me. Yer the victor here. Yer weapon is the scrap of lace.” He strode to her and seized her waist; Allie cried out. Not with fear—she wasn’t afraid—but he was furiously angry and furiously aroused. He jerked the tunic out of his way.

Allie looked at his huge, gleaming manhood and she was faint. She knew what he felt like; she knew every detail of being in his bed, of riding him for hours and hours. But this wasn’t what she intended. Everything was spiraling out of control. “Royce,” she tried, “I didn’t mean this.”

His eyes blazed. “Aye, ye did. Ye meant to seduce me. An’ yer seduction will destroy us both.” Suddenly her back was against the wall.

He caught her face in his hands and it was déjà vu. Allie was trying to decipher what he meant, but when she met his blazing gaze, she gave up. He kissed her.

Hot, hard, hungry, deep—and anger filled his kiss.

His thigh lifted hers high. She seized his arms. “No, wait!”

He pushed against her, slick and hot, huge, and her body spasmed uncontrollably.

But she clawed his arms. “I can’t do this—this way!”

He tensed, panting against her mouth.

Allie slid her hands to his linen-clad chest and his heart thundered there. Suddenly she was ill. “Not this way. Not with anger.”

He lifted his face and stared at her, his expression taut and angry. “Now ye tell me to wait? When I am ready to come inside ye?” He was incredulous. “I dinna like yer games.”

She was ready to faint and come, too. It would be so easy to give in. They’d both find pleasure, rapture, ecstasy—and then he’d be furious with her for her seduction.

Something had begun that morning—in spite of his death yesterday—in spite of his medieval macho chauvinism. Something wonderful had begun between them in the village. He’d stood behind her, defending her so she could heal. It had been so right.

“Royce, I’m sorry.”

He stared at her and his grip tightened; Allie thought he wasn’t going to listen. Instead he pushed her back and released her, stepping away. “Dinna ever play me again.”