Adam Devine Quotes

My lord? Are you all right?" Rothbury inhaled the fresh, almost lemon-tinged air wafting before him, the scent seeping deep into his lungs coaxing forth an unexpected pang of responsiveness. Eyes of sapphire blurred and spun before his gaze. "'Tempt not a desperate man.'" "I believe that's enough Shakespeare for one evening, my lord." For a moment the air seemed to sparkle about her head, causing him added confusion. "Are you an angel?" he heard himself mutter.

Go on, Charlotte," came a dark whisper from her left. "Take a bite." She turned to see Rothbury smiling devilishly. Heat billowed up from her belly as she stared at his mouth. Images of their kiss swam into her vision. She blinked them away. She licked her lips. He watched, licking his own.

Dropping to his knees before her, he loved her, worshiped her with his mouth, kissing her stomach, her hips, her thighs, and finally reaching her moist, intimate center. She cried out his name and he knew she was shocked at his behavior, but he didn't care. He devoured her, holding her tightly against his mouth as he drank her. Alternating between swirls of his tongue and long, languid licks, he let her moans and sighs be his guide to pleasuring her. Her body shook and he knew she was close. He quickened his movements. He slid his hands from her bottom around to her waist, and to her rib cage. Reaching her breasts, he plucked at her nipples while he suckled the tiny nubbin of flesh hidden in her folds. She screamed. And he continued his sweet torture until her knees buckled. He caught her to him. Holding her close he carried her to his bed, his cock so fiendishly hard he thought he'd go mad if he didn't take her at that moment. In a stunningly short amount of time, he rid himself of his clothes and joined her on the bed. Her legs spread for him and he sank himself between her thighs. Her limbs shaking, Charlotte wrapped her legs around his waist and eagerly met her husband's lips for a kiss. His body was simply magnificent, she thought, running her hands down his muscled back, over the hard muscles of his arms and chest.

Do it again," she whispered, tilting her head, offering her mouth to him. Staring down at her swollen bottom lip, he gave it a little lick. A small, soft moan sounded from the back of her throat. "Ask nicely," he whispered. "Please." She gave a lock of hair at his neck an impatient tug. He came undone. Delving his tongue inside her sweet mouth, he walked her backward until her back met one of the pillars. With one hand cradling the back of her head for protection, his other hand held her hip immobilized, under his control. Rhythmically, he sank his tongue into her honeyed depths, mimicking the motion of making love. She whimpered, the sound a desperate plea. Her fingers threaded through the damp hair at the base of his neck; her other hand clutched at his forearm. He squeezed her hip, his long fingers digging into her soft bottom as he rocked her into his arousal. For several moments, she ground her hips against him as he plundered her mouth. The kiss was no longer enough. He wanted to take her. Right here, right now. His fingertips trailed down the back of her neck to caress her shoulder, her arm, her breast. His breath hitched when she pushed herself more firmly into his hand. She wanted his touch. He complied of course: he would never deny her. Gently he kneaded her through the fabric of her dress, purposely passing his thumb over the hardened tip. She made a small sound of pleasure that nearly pushed him over the edge. The manor, the rain, the mud disappeared. Reason and practicality were momentarily suspended. Nothing mattered in those moments. Nothing but the ever-escalating power of their passion.

Do you know what I think?"she asked, rearranging the blanket to wear around her shoulders like a shawl. "Not this again." "I think there's more to you than you let people believe. I think you actually do care what people think. Oh sure, it's fun having everyone think you're dangerous and cold, but inside, where it matters, you're just warm pudding." "Warm pudding?" "Quite," she uttered confidently, with a firm nod. The things that came out of that woman's mouth never failed to astound him. "Well, I'm going to... to leave now," he said slowly, as if he thought her the strangest creature on earth- just to tease her. When she laughed at herself, he smiled and muttered, "Good night, my sweet Charlotte." Fists on the edge of the couch, he made to push himself up. "Wait," she said. And he froze. Slowly, she sat up more fully, swinging her legs down. Which put her knees between his planted fists. He couldn't help but give a low chuckle. "Charlotte, if I didn't know you better, I would venture to say that you are deliberately tempting me." "Tempting you to what?" she asked, her tone utterly oblivious. He had had enough. "Remember that little problem I forewarned you about? The one about a man and a woman never being able to become friends because lust gets in the way? That eventually, one or both of us would end up wanting something very intimate from the other?" She nodded jerkily. "Well, I'm there. I've been there. For years.

Charlotte groaned feverishly, a tension building within her core that begged for release. Grunting, he lifted his hips slightly, expertly angling his body so that part of him pressed against the nubbin of flesh. She called out his name, clasping his shoulders. Her hips pumped furiously now, a building, pulsing ache growing and growing, winding tighter and tighter still. Until it exploded. And then they both cried out, surging upward and down, their bodies shaking with pleasure.

Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Just when she was about to rush back up the steps, a large, warm hand settled at her waist. She turned, giving a jolted whimper as Rothbury's lips settled atop hers. His mouth was hot, ravenous, intoxicating. She had no idea where his gloves had gone, but his hands were bare, sliding up and down her back, cupping her backside and holding her tightly to him. Charlotte groaned at his glorious siege of her senses. She wanted to touch him as well, only it took extreme concentration to do something as raise her arms. Gliding her hands up his strong arms and then his neck, she sunk her fingers into his thick hair at his nape, pressing herself closer to him, needing him to touch her more. He spun her around, pushing her back against the stone wall of the terrace. With a finger at her bottom lip, he easily coaxed her open, sinking his tongue inside to mate with hers. Surely, her bones were melting.

This kiss, this first kiss, was not subtle, soft or gentle. It was as if they were ravenous for each other. She opened so easily for him. He didn't expect this reaction from her. Truly, he hadn't expected to kiss her today. But as their mouths joined, their lips caressing, moving hungrily, steadily becoming more demanding, he wondered why he hadn't done this sooner. "I could kiss you for hours," he drawled hotly against her mouth. "Possibly for days." It felt as if he was savoring heaven. Something Rothbury never thought he would ever even glimpse let alone taste. She responded to his words by grasping at the sodden material of his linen shirt, her arms trapped in between their chests. The feel of her lush mouth under him was intoxicating. She tasted sweet, wet, the rivulets of rain upon their faces making the kiss wilder, hotter somehow. His lips moved hotly over hers. He had thought about this moment for so long, and now that it was actually happening... it was better than he ever imagined it could be.

A throbbing ache started to grow in her womb. She wanted more, wanted something... "Rothbury, please," she begged. "Please." And then his fingers were there, delving inside, spreading her moisture up and down and around her opening. Her hips circled and dipped along with his movements. She moaned, saying his name. He groaned, panting along with her. Expertly, he handled her. Rhythmically, sweetly, he tortured her. "Open my trousers," he breathed. She complied. Soon he was freed, his hardness jutting upward, seeking her heat. "Look at me," he bit out through his teeth. As if through a haze, she met his heated, intense gaze. "This is the only time in my life I will ever hurt you." Her brow scrunched and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him just what exactly he meant, when the tip of his manhood pulsed at the opening of her center. "Hold on," he said, his voice strained. Charlotte gripped his shoulders. Rothbury gripped her hips. Lifting her, he hesitated for a moment. "Do you want it?" She nodded and made some sort of noise, half whimper and half the word "yes." He bent his head to suckle one of her breasts again. For long moments, he held her poised above him as he toyed with her nipples, flicking, lapping, and gently running the bottom row of his teeth against them. When she started to wriggle, he impaled her in one smooth, swift motion. She cried out, nearly surging off of him. "Shh. Shh." He kissed her eyelids, the apples of her cheeks. "Only this time, my angel. Only this time it hurts." He kept very still, waiting for some sort of response from her, she imagined. Where there was once only pleasure, she now felt a stabbing pain. It seemed to radiate around his arousal. Her breathing slowed. This couldn't be it. There had to be more... And then she felt a sort of tickling. She looked down at their joined bodies to find Rothbury using his thumb to flick quickly against a tiny nubbin of flesh hidden in her folds. It felt... wonderful. Like magic, her hips began to move of their own accord. Her breathing increased and the throbbing, damp pleasure returned. She rocked against him. "There you are, Charlotte," he murmured against her throat. "Better?" She nodded shakily, tiny shivers shimmering down her upper body as he nipped at her earlobe. His large hands held her backside tightly against him, controlling, rolling her with him in a primal rhythm.

Rothbury," she whispered. "I need to feel you inside of me again." His eyes fluttered open, then met her gaze. Staring into her eyes, he positioned himself at her opening, then with one hand at her hip, he entered her slowly at first, thinking she must be tender from the day before. She arched against him, silently giving him leave to enter more fully. And he did, then, nearly losing himself in that second. Together they began to move, their rhythm steady and firm. Soon her moans grew desperate and her heels pressed into his buttocks. He increased the pace, pumping into her wildly now, determined to bring them both to utter bliss.

Tangled up in sheets and pillows, Charlotte scrambled rearward on her back using her elbows and heels. But the earl was too quick- even with the blindfold still in place. "Oh, no, you don't," he said with dark amusement. He crawled stealthily toward her, like a stalking panther, his tousled dark blond locks completely loose and hanging in his face. "You're not going anywhere until I find out who you are." The muscles of his chest rippled with his movements. For a second Charlotte felt paralyzed by her fascination. He was mesmerizing. Hesitating, she had to remind herself to keep moving backward, for some wicked part of her wanted to do nothing more than wait for him to catch her.

You did say you would help me find a husband." "Didn't I?" he joked, meaning himself. She grinned. "A real one." "Good-bye my wife," he said, one side of his mouth lifting, a roguish gleam in his eye. "You are coming?" she persisted. "You promised to help me." She felt suddenly desperate. Not for finding a suitor before she found herself shackled to Witherby, but for Rothbury. Desperate to know what he was thinking. "I don't know," he said. "I was thinking of coming to Town for a slightly different reason." "And that is..." "To seduce my wife." And with that he knocked on the side of the carriage, signaling the driver to go, leaving Charlotte with a curious feeling deep in her belly, a flicker of heat. It wasn't fear, however. It was anticipation.

Oh, thank you! Thank you," she chirped, surprising him by bounding across the room and clasping him tight for a quick hug. His arms hung heavy and loose at his sides during her gentle siege. Rothbury had enchanted exotic opera singers into returning to his bed time and again. He had warmed coldhearted courtesans into confessing their undying love and he had seduced a number of beautiful, feisty women who were just as fickle in picking their lovers as he was. But Charlotte's hug unsettled him, knocked him off balance, one might say. He didn't want her to let go. But he wouldn't dare bring up his arms to hold her either. Without a doubt he knew if he indulged himself, all he felt, all he thought, would be exposed in the warmth of his embrace. And then there would be no turning back. He would be bared, revealed, humiliated.

Rothbury inhaled the familiar lemon-tinged air wafting before him. He remained silent, ignoring the zing of awareness thrumming through him, and listened for the sound of footfalls instead. Whoever had entered the room, it was definitely a young woman. He'd bet one of his prized Arabians on it, but it wasn't Cordelia. She smelled perpetually of pungent roses, which he had been partial to in the beginning of their short love affair, but which now merely reminded him that the woman connected to it was just as clingy and thorny as the flower itself. But this scent- he inhaled deeply as it now surrounded him- inspired contentment, which was a miracle in itself, considering all he wanted to do presently was break free, find Lady Gilton, and throttle her elegant neck. "Who's there?" Rothbury demanded, his tone firm but quiet. He pulled at the twisted silk binds holding his wrists together behind him, noting they were finally starting to tear. "Come now," he said in a tone he used on skittish horses. "Tell me who's there.

And then in a swift, calculating move, Rothbury sprang forward, covering her body with his own. For a second her breath felt trapped in her chest and she was instantly immobile underneath his weight. His warm, hard thigh sat heavy between hers. Panting from exertion, a shameful lick of heat ignited deep in her belly. Effortlessly, he joined her wrists together, holding them above her head with only one hand while the long, blunt-tipped fingers of the other trailed a silky path down her cheek. "Who are you?" he whispered. Her breath hitched at the explosion of feeling and thought thrumming through her. He looked so dominant above her, so beautiful, like he was created specifically for seduction. None of her wicked imaginings had prepared her for the plethora of sensations he sparked with only his fingertips upon her face. Belatedly, she realized her body refused to listen to her mind. She had quit squirming. In fact, she had begun to relish the intoxicating feel of his long, lean-muscled body atop hers. His warm, bare chest pressed onto her bodice, his solid thigh planted firmly against her sex. Her eyes dipped to his mouth, which was partially open, baring his straight white teeth. All she would have to do was arch her neck and her mouth would fasten to his. She shivered, surprised and ashamed at the way her body reacted to him. She needed to escape before he discovered her identity. But her mind warred between what was right and what felt wonderful. In the end, years of dire warnings from her pious father about the sins of the flesh returned at least some of her good sense. "Get off of me," she demanded, albeit weakly. "Absolutely not," he growled, his breath feathering hotly against her mouth, her cheek, her neck. "I'll not let you get away now. Not before I find out who you are. Wanted a taste, did you?

Splatters of mud stained Rothbury's fine lawn shirt, which clung slickly to the broad expanse of his back like a second skin. Having rolled up his sleeves at the onset of his task, his muscled arms were now streaked with mud and rain as were the tall boots and tight black breeches that hugged the sinewy muscles of his long, undoubtedly strong legs. Her admiring gaze alighted upon his golden-brown hair, which now looked more brown than golden as it was wet with perspiration and mist. A few locks lay plastered to his neck in wispy whorls. Charlotte suddenly felt overly warm. Seeing him... wet... somehow embarrassed her. It felt dark, intimate. Truly, if it weren't for the mud- and clothes- she rather thought this would be what he looked like after a bath. A shiver ran down her arms as her eyes drifted to the dewy trails of rain droplets that ran over his slightly bristled jaw and neck, disappearing in the nest of his loosely tied cravat. And then her hungry gaze raised... and connected with Rothbury's. All thoughts flew straight out of her head. Looking at her from over his shoulder, he straightened, his smile twisting with arrogance. Despite the chill in the air, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. How long had he been watching her in-depth perusal? Long enough, she supposed, if the heated gleam in his eyes was any indication at all. She blinked, shaking her head hurriedly, hoping by that action she was silently telling him, "No, I definitely was not looking at you." He answered her gesture by nodding slowly, telling her he knew exactly what she had been doing and that he had caught her in the act. She gave her head another insistent shake. Still looking at her from over his shoulder, he sauntered back to the carriage, his smile broadening. He lifted his shoulder as if to say, "I don't care. Look all you want." She shook her head again, tightly. He winked. She gulped. And then he set back to work with the other men to free the carriage.

Există lucruri irecuperabile. Oamenii sunt recuperabili întotdeauna. Atunci când cineva face o greșeală, de obicei o face din neștire. Grețelile făcute în urma unui conflict de conștiință nasc un lanț nesfârșit de alte greșeli, care sfârșesc într-o înfrângere toatlă. Cea mai mare greșeală nu e prima, ci a doua, pentru că ea o întărește pe prima și devine ușa tuturor greșelilor care vor urma. Greșelile nu se repară. Orice încercare de a repara o greșeală se aseamănă cu încercarea unui copil de a șterge o pată mică de cerneală de pe o foaie albă: până la urmă el face o gaură murdară în hârtie. De altfel, o pată mică de cerneală nu ne împiedică să citim o scrisoare, iar alteori ea poate părea plină de farmec și autenticitate. Aam cunoscut oameni care și-au irosit viața în strădania de a repara o greșeală de tinerețe. A repara, pentru mulți dintre ei, a însemnat a ascunde. Ei au reușit să ascundă atât de bine greșeala tinereții lor, încât au ajuns să o uite cu totul. Un lucru nu l-au putut uita: sentimentul vinovăției. Acest sentiment, care este cel mai greu de pe pământ, i-a făcut să urască acea faptă ca pe Distrugătorul vieții lor. Dar fapta nu mai era în ei, pentru că ei au ascuns-o. Acum fapta era în ceilalți. Așa au ajuns să urască oamenii, să urască viața, să urască și să se ascundă. Atunci când Dumnezeu a întrebat-o pe Eva dacă a mâncat din pom, Eva a dat vina pe șarpe. Adam a mers și mai departe: el a dat vina pe Eva, dar nu oricum, ci zicând: „femeia pe care Tu mi-ai dat-o m-a îndemnat”, adică L-a învinuit pe Dumnezeu de faptul că i-a strecurat un intrus care l-a făcut să nu fie la fel de bun și de corect ca întotdeauna. Până la urmă, ceea ce ne împiedică să devenim mai buni este chiar dorința de a părea mai buni. Apărea - iată începutul minciunii. „Oricine dorește să-și scape sufletul său îl va pierde și oricine se va lepăda de sine va trăi”, a zis Hristos. Oricine ține la bunul său nume mai mult decât la adevăr își va pierde și numele, și sufletul, iar cine își va recunoaște vina, va avea un nou prilej de a o lua de la început. Ce altceva mai vrednic de admirație este pe pământ decât omul care nu se teme să o ia de la început? Tot așa, nu este nimic mai jalnic decât omul care adună pământ în jurul greșelilor sale, fără ca măcar să bage de seamă că se îngroapă și el laolaltă cu ele.

I didn’t ever forget you Adam, even after I married Ben. I’d sit on the roof every damn night waiting for the moon to dance.

It’s alright. You can come out now,” the feeder called, its voice sweetly, deceivingly innocent. “Those monsters are gone. You’re safe to come out. I’ll protect you.” Chills raced down Jenevrah’s spine. The voice was so gentle, so convincing. But Jenevrah knew better. She saw the bodies. She saw the blood dripping from its chin. How could something so intelligent be consumed by such evil? The feeder paused a moment longer. “Fine! Have it your way!” it hissed, innocence replaced with rage. “Lucky for me, I like my blood boiled.

I cannot dance with you because I... well..." She cleared her throat. "... That is to say..." "Miss Greene cannot dance with you," a deep, smooth voice rumbled behind her, "because she has already promised the next to me." She swallowed a lurch of dread, instantly recognizing to whom the sultry, lazy drawl belonged. Witherby recoiled from the intrusion. "I say," he replied, looking up at Rothbury with distrust, "no wonder the young lady hesitated over my offer. I know for a fact Miss Greene is not permitted to dance with you." Rothbury only chortled, low and deep. Charlotte could feel it thrum through her spine and down to the soles of her slippered feet. Turning, she stole a sidelong glance at him. He stood with his feet braced firmly on the floor, his hands behind his back. His burnished gold hair was swept back into place but for a thick lock that hung low on one side of his forehead. His hooded eyes stared down Witherby as he gave a lopsided grin that on any other man, she supposed, would appear utterly charming in a boyish sort of way. On Rothbury's handsome face, however, it looked watchful, lethal. Quite like he was silently daring Witherby to touch her just so Rothbury could have the pleasure of breaking his fingers.

Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Miss Greene?" She nodded, thinking it safe now to face him. "Good," he said, offering her a wicked grin when her eyes lifted to his. "I believe all young women, especially those timid and retiring ones like yourself, should embark on new horizons... try new things, if you will. I undoubtedly approve and, in fact, encourage you to indulge your most wicked fantasies.

Why wasn't he at his club or at Jackson's Rooms, using his fists to clear his head? Why wasn't he drinking himself into oblivion at some bachelor's private house party with some nameless, faceless trollop perched on his lap, instead of this wide-brimmed bonnet, adorned with a hideous big red poppy? "Rothbury," Charlotte called as she waltzed back into the room, tapping him lightly on the knee with her pointing finger as she passed. Oh, yes, he suddenly remembered. She's why. Abruptly, she snatched the bonnet from his lap, making him jerk in reaction. "You never answered me. Are you coming to the Langleys' soiree this evening?" His eyes dipped down, skimming her bodice, the gentle swell of her bosom, and down further to her narrow hips and firm little bottom. Well, he couldn't really see how firm her bottom was through the fabric of her dress, but he remembered. Sweet Lord, he could almost still feel her in his arms... could almost taste her...

Her bottom lip started to tremble and she made a tiny, heart-breaking squeak of a sound. "Shhhhh," he said in a whisper of air, sounding, even to his own ears, like a wolf comforting a lamb right before he devoured her.

He watched her retreating form, his sinful mind fixating on her small, pleasantly rounded bottom, which had a wiggle that was definitely unintentional, but quite engaging. Apparently deeming it safe to come out again, his stallion, Petruchio, came out from hiding. The beast nudged Rothbury in the back, breaking his concentration. "I beg your pardon," he muttered to the horse. "I do not have the attention span of a butterfly when it comes to women.

Let's pretend for a moment that I find you attractive. Let's pretend that your very virtue is sorely threatened at this very moment." "Unlikely," she scoffed. His warm gaze dropped down to the hand that rested against his warm, bare skin. Then he looked up at her, his eyes showing an emotion she did not recognize. "I want you," he said, then swallowed hard. "And every time you are near me, your scent, your voice, seeps into my soul." "Oh my," she muttered with a giggle. "You're good at this. You almost sound as if you believe it yourself." "I do." Sighing, she supposed the only thing worse than being pursued by a sinfully attractive, manipulative rake, was having one for a friend. "Stop this, Rothbury. It's not funny." Feeling flushed, she looked down at her hand with a start, realizing she was still touching his chest. She retracted it quickly, then made a great show of studying the tip of her index finger, where a tiny dot of blood had beaded. A thorn had jabbed her earlier during her perilous climb. She hoped it would draw his attention and distract him. But it only made it worse. He covered her hand with his own in a movement that could only be called a caress. She swallowed. "Give me back my hand, you depraved hound." "Mine." Slowly, he drew her toward his mouth, lips parting slightly. Good Lord. Was he going to put her finger in his mouth? All her breath seemed to sink down to her knees, if such a ludicrous thing was possible. This had to stop. She thought to shove him away, only her muscles refused to respond. "Now, what would you do?" He leaned down, his lips parting, giving her a tiny glimpse of his tongue.

A feeble cry pricked Jenevrah’s ears. Off to her left, a lanky figure hunched on its hands and knees, its bloody mouth buried in a young girl’s neck. A long black cloak, like devil’s wings, wrapped around the feeder. Beneath it, the poor girl was still alive. She writhed under its jaws and clawed helplessly at its back. Then, she fell still.

A scream to the right, a quiet alley to the left. Jenevrah turned left and froze. A woman lay dead in the street, blood still oozing from the teeth marks on her neck.

Two guards. A little boy. A tiny toddler. All dead. All victims of the feeders.

Visions of a slumbering Miss Greene drifted through his thoughts. He imagined that her wheat-colored hair would be unbound, streaming across the pillow like a golden banner. He rather thought she'd toss around in her sleep a lot, which would cause her nightdress to become rucked up to her hips, revealing her thighs, smooth as cream, and her silky-

Charlotte slid a glance at Rothbury. Diagonally across from their little cluster, he lounged on an ornate garden chair that looked as if it was designed specifically for the dainty bottom of an English miss- not the long-legged grown man who was currently occupying it. Indeed, it looked in danger of crumbling under his weight. Charlotte pressed her lips together, suppressing the need to smile. There was nothing like delicate furniture to make a man seem even more incredibly masculine than he already was.

If you don't watch yourself, you'll be bound to turn yourself into a gentleman. With or without my help." Closing his eyes for a moment, Rothbury inhaled her light lemony scent. At this moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than for every single guest in this ballroom to disappear so that he could pull Charlotte against him, rip off that silly bonnet, and sink his hands into her hair while sinking his mouth onto her throat. Christ, why did she have to smell so damn good? Silently, he cursed himself for not realizing just who exactly it was that he had caught in the library when he had her squirming beneath him. Damn, he would have relished the moment, however brief it would have been, had he known it was Charlotte. He did concede, however, that it was a good thing for her that he hadn't known it was Charlotte writhing beneath him at the time. He would have been decidedly, and happily, obliged to expound, in lavish detail, upon the intricacies of an authentic kiss. "Oh, I doubt I'll turn into a gentleman anytime soon," he drawled from behind her, "if at all.

Sitting in a wing-back chair, his long legs stretched out before him, Rothbury nodded slowly at all the appropriate times, elbows on the arms of the chair, long fingers steepled. And then, possibly because he hadn't had his tea yet, her father's lecture veered wildly off course, delving into the sins of the flesh. Charlotte nearly groaned. But then she stopped. Quite suddenly, she realized Rothbury had found her gaze in the crack of the door. He knew she was there, listening. He winked. And for all her past misinterpretations of that particular gesture, she knew without a doubt just what that wink promised.

Charlotte stood, her gaze instantly connecting with Rothbury's. A zing of awareness tingled down her spine. Dripping with sensuality, the earl stood with his back to the wall, his stance, as always, exuding a lazy confidence. The damp spring air in the crowded room caused his dark-blond locks to curl slightly where wisps had escaped the velvet queue secured behind his neck. He wore no costume, no mask, which of course wasn't required, therefore catching the eye of every warm-blooded female within a two-hundred-foot radius. It wasn't an exaggeration. The sighs of feminine appreciation surrounded Charlotte. Though she found it slightly ridiculous, she could not find it in herself to blame them. He was simply that fetching. His expertly cut dark gray coat hugged his broad shoulders, and his stark white cravat, frothy with elegant folds, emphasized his chiseled chin, gold with faint bristles. And his mouth- oh, that glorious mouth- both haughty and wicked, curving with his ever-present sagacious grin. Lord, what it must feel like to have those lips touch one's own. Charlotte gave an appreciative sigh, drinking up the sight of him. For a masquerade, his plain evening clothes on any other man would have lent him to fade into the background. But not Rothbury. Dear heavens, no. It only added to his sinful, blush-inducing appeal.

Just as he was about to grasp the door handle, the toe of his boot nudged something that clunked. He looked down, astonishment washing over his face. The light scent of lemons. As he stood there staring down at the damning shepherd's crook, a myriad of feelings coursed through him. He was bewildered. Shocked. Mystified. In a state of disbelief. And, he might as well admit, incredibly aroused. His mouth quirked with a lopsided grin as he bent to pluck it from the floor. Sweet Lord, he had found his mystery woman.

Am I dead?" A beat of silence, then came the soft hush of rustling fabric. It sounded as if she surrounded him. Her scent certainly did, delicate citrus and warmth. Mmm. He smiled. "You smell like sunshine." What a ridiculous thing to say. Maybe he was dead... and in heaven.

I can scarcely believe you remember me telling you about her obsession with the metaphysical." One broad shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I pay attention, Miss Greene, to every single syllable that passes over your lips. perhaps you should add that to your list of required attributes in potential husbands.

Music would mean nothing without silence.

Even in the dim light emanating from the few illuminated windows of the mansions, Charlotte could see that this man's body was athletic and pleasing to the feminine eye. This was no young, besotted whelp declaring his undying love. This was a man. A clearly stubborn one, but a man just the same. Long and lean muscled, a trim waist and narrow hips, and strong legs encased in black breeches that he must have inched his way into. Inexpressibles. Charlotte almost sighed.

Men and women cannot be friends. It is impossible." Her brow furrowed. "And why not?" He bit back a smile. Lord, she was an easy one to fool. If he had a mind to fool her, that is. She was so gullible; he had no idea how she made it through life so far without being compromised, fleeced, or coerced into buying a three-legged horse at least a half a dozen times. He cleared his throat to keep a cynical grin from creeping in. "Because, my sweet, sweet naive creature, lust would, undoubtedly, get in the way. You've heard of lust, correct?" Pressing her lips together, she nodded. "Of course." "Damn. I should have liked to explain it to you in excruciating detail. Showing you examples, of course." "Lust is a sin." "Yes, indeed it is. My favorite one.

After months of searching for the perfect gentleman, you now crave a steady dose of wicked men and you've decided to start with me." He patted his lap, knowing she couldn't see the gesture in the dark. "I don't think I should like you finding another, so I shall work hard to hold your attention.

What are you doing here?" she asked, taking the flowers from him. Some of their petals had fallen off from the bumpy climb. "I mean, I'm happy to see you, but why aren't you home?" "Wherever my wife sleeps is my home.

Lemons." He smiled. "Is this why you always smell like lemons?" "I-I suppose." She sat on a blue-striped bench at the foot of her bed. "It's a concoction my mother and I made. It keeps freckles at bay. I didn't know you noticed how I smelled." He turned, his steady gaze on her. "I wager there are a lot of things you didn't know I noticed about you.

With the ease of a man who could size up a woman and her worth within seconds, Rothbury's gaze raked the wispy-thin Miss Greene, from her pale ringlets dangling from a bonnet made droopy by too many lacy ribbons down to her silk slippers peeking out from under her frilly hem. "She is more like a meek lamb than her costume suggests," Tristan remarked with a chuckle. "Perhaps." Rothbury watched as she caught his smile and then looked behind her, apparently searching for what, or rather whom, he was looking at. "No, sweetheart," he murmured under his breath, "I'm looking at you.

There, on a spindle-legged chair positioned against the far wall under the warm glow of the twin sconces, Lord Rothbury, blindfolded with his own cravat, his hands tied together, secured behind the back of the chair. In vain, she tried to swallow, only it felt as if her throat had been doused with sand. Good Lord! Why on earth was he tied up? His shirt lay open, displaying the tawny skin of his broad chest, his flat nipples, and the sparse golden hairs that brushed the plane of his muscled stomach. Her greedy eyes remained fastened on that sleek, bare stomach, mesmerized by the rise and fall of each breath he took. A voice in the back of her mind told her she should look away. After all, he was sin embodied. But what a sight he was for her starved eyes. His dark blond locks lay in splendid disarray and he gave his head a quick jerk, tossing away the hair that fell across his forehead. He was unsuccessful, the silky strands sliding back into their former position. He blew out his frustration with a low growl.

The thunder rocked her almost instantly, a tortured scream buried within. Jenevrah didn’t look back. Twice more, lightning illuminated the flatland, the shockwave rustling the leaves around her. Her eyes blurred with tears as she ran. She didn’t even have time to say I love you. Her last words had been You’ll die.

Let's get weird.