Wicked lessons by the rogue

Her secret desire

*Odette*

I feel a quick spurt of panic as Tempest strides purposefully toward me, his large hands, resembling a workman's, dwarfing the flute he carries. His expression shouts that he is challenging me, and I fear I may have misjudged his mood tonight. Managing him might prove more challenging than expected, but I will not be cowed. Not by him, nor by any other man.

He is a commoner with common beginnings, despite his outer appearance as a gentleman. Deep down, I have no doubt he is a scoundrel, with scoundrel's ways and a penchant for sinful behavior.

I don't know why that thought makes me uncomfortably warm. Perhaps it's the crowded room, the gaslit chandeliers, the layers of petticoats, and the tight corset. I certainly am not imagining his hands exploring my body. I am not a woman off the streets. I am a ranked she-wolf, and ranked she-wolves do not entertain such thoughts.

But as he approaches, something within the dark depths of his eyes twinkles, as if he knows precisely where my errant thoughts have wandered and is willing to accompany me on a journey into wickedness.

He may not be classically handsome; his features are rugged, shaped by an angry Goddess. His nose is a little peculiar, his brow too wide, and his jaw not smooth. I notice the beginning of shadow, bristles that lack the decency to wait until later to appear. Why am I wasting my time cataloging every inch of him when there are plenty of gentlemen willing to give me attention?

As he comes to a halt in front of me, his gaze leisurely strolls over my person. Breathing becomes difficult, and I fear he may find me lacking. I draw back my shoulders. What do I care about his opinion of me when it holds no worth?

"Your champagne," he says.

His rough, deep voice weaves something dark and sensual around the words. I suspect he isn't a silent lover, that he whispers naughty things into a woman's ear.

"You were so remarkably slow in retrieving it that I'm no longer in the mood to drink it," I say.

"Surely you'll not deny yourself the pleasure of allowing these bubbles to tickle your palate," Lupo replies, wrapping a wealth of meaning around the word "pleasure." That he would be so bold as to speak to me with such disregard while others are near... it is not to be tolerated. But for the life of me, I can think of no witty rejoinder because he is studying me as though he could well imagine me tickling his palate.

"With your tarrying, I believe it has gone flat," I say before turning my back on him. "Riverdale, I believe you were discussing..."

Lupo Tempest has the audacity to wedge himself between me and the Alpha. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw taut. "Miss Odette, I must insist that you take the champagne."

"You, boy, are in no position to insist on anything where I am concerned," I retort sharply.

His gloved finger taps the side of the flute, while his gaze bears into mine, and I can fairly see the wheels of reprisal turning in his mind. I don't know why I seek to provoke him, yet something about him unsettles me, always has. I want to put him in his place, to remind him... and myself... that he is beneath me.

My father had taken a belt to my backside and bare legs when he once caught me speaking with Tempest. I had been twelve at the time, but it isn't a lesson easily forgotten. I am not to associate with anyone not of pure blood.

"So be it," Lupo murmurs, lifting the glass. He tilts back his head and downs the golden liquid in one long swallow. I can see only a bit of his muscles at his throat working because a perfectly tied cravat hides the rest from view. But his neck, like the rest of him, is powerful. Moving aside the glass, he licks his lips, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "Not at all flat. Quite pleasant, actually, like the kiss of a temptress."

Anger, hot and scalding, shoots through me. He is mocking me, ridiculing me. It doesn't matter that I had begun this little drama with my earlier request. He was supposed to scurry away when he realized I no longer had an interest in the champagne. He isn't supposed to make me wonder if any lingers on his lips, if I might taste it there. "Boy..."

"It's been a good long while since I was a boy," he interjects.

I angle my chin defiantly. "Boy, perhaps you would fetch us all some champagne."

"When hell freezes over, sweetheart," he retorts, taking a step toward me. Instinctively, I take a hasty step back. Triumph lights up his eyes. Blast him. I will retreat no further.

A servant passes by, and without breaking our gaze, Tempest places the flute on the silver tray the servant carries. Then, he takes another determined step forward.

I fight to hold my ground, but now I can inhale his intoxicating fragrance. Earthy and rich, the scent of tobacco or perhaps sin. He eases closer...

I take half a step back.

"Dance with me," he says, his voice low and commanding.

"I beg your pardon?" I respond, my voice laced with incredulity.

"You heard me," he asserts, his gaze unwavering.

I angle my chin up, trying to maintain my composure. "I don't dance with commoners."

"What are you afraid of?" he challenges.

"I don't fear anything," I retort, my voice filled with false bravado.

"Liar," he counters.

I dart my gaze to the left and then to the right. Without me even noticing, he has maneuvered us into the shadows of an alcove, blocking my way. The people I had been talking to earlier are nowhere to be seen.

Riverdale and Langdon must have sided with this blackguard and escorted my friends onto the dance floor, into the gardens, or off for refreshments. Blast them! Nevertheless, I refuse to be intimidated by the likes of Lupo Tempest. "You, sir, are despicable."

"And you're a haughty miss who needs to be taught a lesson," he retorts, his voice dripping with disdain.

"I suppose you think you're the man to do it," I challenge, my voice trembling slightly.

His eyes darken, his gaze dropping to my lips, and I find myself involuntarily taking three quick steps back. "Don't you dare," I whisper, hating that my voice sounds more like a plea than a demand.

"You've been poking the tiger for some years now. You can't always expect him to remain docile," he warns, his tone filled with an unsettling intensity.

He has a point. I don't know why I have continually singled him out.

Perhaps it's because I sense a darkness in him, one that calls to me, one that is dangerous to welcome.

"You're making a spectacle of us," I point out.

"We're in the shadows. No one is paying us any heed at all," he dismisses with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Like some great hulking predator, he advances toward me. Though I know it to be unwise, I retreat farther into the alcove until my back hits the wall. My heart beats out an unsteady tattoo.

Within my gloves, my palms grow damp. "If you do anything untoward, I'll scream," I threaten.

He laughs darkly. "And risk being caught with a guttersnipe? I think not."

"You're a black-hearted rogue," I accuse.

"Which is exactly why I intrigue you. You're bored with all the fancy gents hovering around you. They'd never think of touching you with ungloved hands," he taunts.

I catch my breath as his warm, rough hand cradles the left side of my face. His hand is massive, his fingers easing into my hair, the edge of his palm against my jaw, and the pad of his thumb stroking my cheek.

"You're bored with gentlemen running about doing your bidding," he continues.

"I'm not bored," I deny, though I hate how breathless and weak my voice sounds, as though I have been running up a never-ending hill. My chest feels tight, painful.

"You're spoiled because everyone gives you what you want. You've never had to work for anything, not even a gentleman's attention or affections," he accuses.

"You know nothing at all about me," I retort, my voice coming out small and frightened. Deep down, I know he wouldn't physically harm me or do anything to damage my reputation. Faye would never forgive him, and if I've learned anything over the years, it's that he desperately wants to please Faye and her family. But I fear he has the uncanny ability to glimpse into my shattered soul. Light calls to light, dark to dark.

"I know more than you think, Miss Odette. Understand more than you can possibly imagine. You'll marry some proper gentleman, but I suspect you would very much like to waltz with the devil first," he challenges.

"You're quite mistaken," I reply, trying to regain my composure.

"Prove it," he demands, his voice laced with provocation.

Before I can respond, he presses his pliant mouth against mine. Surprisingly, it is softer and hotter than I had anticipated. His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, repeatedly, as if it were an integral part of the kiss.

I feel the tracing of his tongue along the seam of my lips, then along the outer edges. First once, then twice, before returning to the center. But he is no longer content with surface contact. With an insistence that should have frightened me, he urges me to part my lips. His tongue slides through, gliding over mine with a velvety and silky texture. It invites me to explore, to discover the intricacies of his mouth as he explores mine.

I should have been repelled, horrified. However, instead, I am captivated, drawn into sensations I have never experienced before. He possesses a remarkable skill for evoking pleasurable responses that start at the tips of my toes and ascend in a tingling rush, a languid warmth that weakens both my knees and my resolve to push him away.

Amidst the haze of pleasure, I hear a deep groan and feel a vibration against my fingers. I realize I am clutching the lapels of his coat, desperately clinging to Lupo Tempest to prevent myself from dissolving into a puddle of bliss at his feet. It is merely a kiss, an ancient dance of mouths, and yet it proves to be my undoing.

He pulls back, triumph glittering in his eyes. "Five more minutes and I could have you divested of your clothing and at my mercy..."

Crack!

My gloved palm connects with his cheek, startling both him and myself. I refuse to allow him to make me feel like a w***e. "You are not only disgusting, but you overvalue your talents. I did not enjoy your touch, your kiss, not in the slightest."

"Your moans implied otherwise," he retorts.

I raise my hand to deliver another blow, but he grabs my wrist, his long and thick fingers securely encompassing my delicate bones. He could easily snap them. I am left breathless, while he seems to have no trouble finding air at all.

"One slap is all you get, sweetheart. I would have ceased my advances with the slightest protest from you. You can't be angry now because you wanted what I was offering," he states with a smugness that makes my blood boil.

"I want nothing to do with you. Now, unhand me," I demand, my voice filled with determination.

His fingers slowly release their grip. Snatching my hand free, I ball it into a fist at my side. "You are no better than the filth I wipe off my shoes."

"Methinks the she-wolf protests too much," he sneers.

"May you rot in hell," I snap, sidestepping around him. I am greatly relieved that he doesn't attempt to stop me, but there's also a slight pang of disappointment. What is wrong with me? It's absurd to realize that with him, I had felt... safe. Completely, absolutely safe.

Which is ludicrous. He doesn't like me. I don't like him. He is merely trying to teach me a lesson. I can only hope that I have taught him one as well: I am not a she-wolf to be trifled with.