Wicked in Your Arms Read Online Free PDF Page B

way.
    â€œHurry,” Lady Kirkendale urged, shooing them with her hands.
    The prince opened the door and shoved aside the few garments before folding his tall length inside. He extended a hand for her. She stared hard at the long, blunt-tipped fingers and broad palm for one heart-stopping moment in which she quite clearly heard the rush of blood in her ears. It seemed like forever but could only have been a moment before she placed her hand in his. He pulled her inside before him, his long arm brushing hers as he closed the door, sinking them into darkness.
    Her breath caught in her throat. Shrouded in darkness, forced into such close confines with a veritable stranger—a prince, no less—her senses skipped into hyper-awareness. Too late, she realized she should have turned around. Her back to his chest would have been a vast improvement to this. Chest to chest. Heart to beating heart.
    She couldn’t see the hand before her face, but she was keenly aware that not an inch separated her from the most wretched, arrogant man to ever cross her path . . . and that he was all male. Solid, firm, warm male .
    His breath fanned her forehead. She was tall, but he was taller. She pressed her lips shut to make sure not a sound escaped. She need only withstand a few moments of proximity and then she’d be free of him.
    They’d hidden just in time, apparently, for a mere moment passed before she heard Lord Kirkendale’s booming voice.
    â€œLucinda, what are you doing in here?”
    Grier listened closely, straining to hear what possible explanation the lady would offer.
    â€œWhy, awaiting you, husband.”
    â€œMe? We made no arrangements to meet—”
    â€œPrecisely, but I knew you’d know I was missing and take pursuit . . . Did you not find the hunt . . . titillating?”
    Heavy silence ensued. Grier held her breath and listened, wondering what was happening on the other side of the door. Did Lord Kirkendale actually believe his wife? Or was he strangling her?
    She had her answer when a long, pleasure-filled male moan scored air. Heat fired her cheeks. Holy hellfire . The idiot cuckold truly believed his wife had planned a tryst for the two of them.
    â€œCome here, you little minx. Ride me hard.”
    Mortified, Grier squeezed her eyes in a blink even though there was nothing to see. Closing her eyes did nothing to shield her ears.
    Lord Kirkendale’s groans floated on the air. His wife’s squeals came in fast succession. At that point Grier was convinced she spent a great deal of her time on a farm, for the noises she made resembled the sounds a piglet makes when being chased. A great deal of banging came next and Grier suspected they were on the bed, their actions rattling the headboard.
    â€œThat’s it, my fine filly!” A loud slap echoed on the air.
    â€œYes!” Lady Kirkendale shouted. “Spank me!”
    Grier pressed her fingers to her mouth. She wasn’t certain what sound she was trying to suppress—a groan of mortification or outright laughter.
    The broad chest in front of her shifted, lifting on an inhalation, and she stilled, biting the edge of her thumb. While she might feel a modicum of humor, that wasn’t the only sensation affecting her. Body heat emanated from the man in front of her. His nearness overwhelmed her, scraping her nerves.
    She hugged herself with both arms, hoping to make herself smaller, unnoticeable—and only succeeded in brushing against him. She squeezed herself tightly, careful not to move again, determined to merely wait out Lord and Lady Kirkendale’s trysting.
    The prince moved. Just the barest inch, but his chest brushed her crossed arms. As though burned, she arched away to escape the contact. Her balance wobbled and she had to take a step to brace herself. The clomp of her foot rang out in the tight space of the armoire. She cringed, her skin tightening in fear that they’d been