Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (15)

I hold her gaze. She seems so endearing and sweet that I’d expect a woman like Lark to back down the longer I stare. At least give me a blush. A nervous nibble of her full lips. An unsteady breath. But she doesn’t do any of those things. Her half-smile remains unchanged.

I lean closer. If anything, her eyes glitter with amusement.

“Maybe toward me kissing you. Or, more accurately, you asking me to.”

“How bold,” she says with a tsk, but I can tell by the bright glimmer in her eyes that she likes it. “You think I’d want that?”

I grin and look down into my glass as I swirl the liquor across the ice. The image of my hands on her skin returns, my tattooed fingers gripped tight around her flesh. I take just a moment to indulge in that fantasy before I lift my gaze to hers and shrug. “I do own an impressive collection of feathers.”

Lark laughs and I take a long sip of my drink, my eyes soldered to hers over the lip of my glass. She glances away, but her attention returns as though drawn back to me despite her best efforts to sever the energy that crackles between us. I hear the moment she gives in to it, the way she sighs. I even see it in the fog that escapes her lips and rises on the cooling breeze.

“Despite the rumors, you don’t seem like too much of an asshat,” Lark says as she unlaces her fingers to grip the railing.

“I might be a little bit. Sometimes.”

“That’s probably not a bad thing.”

“You think?”

Lark lifts a shoulder. “Sure. If you’re too nice, you might get roped into making doilies on Sundays.”

“Feckin’ Fionn,” I say, my lip curled in a derisive grin. “What I wouldn’t give to find out what Rose was about to say before he cut her off. He’s probably the treasurer of their little club. It’s definitely the kind of thing he’d find himself sucked into. He’s always been a sweet kid. Too feckin’ sweet for his own good.” Lark smiles but her brows flicker as though she’s working out a complex problem. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she replies as she shakes her head, her expression smoothing as her gaze bounds between mine. “I just … I dunno. Something about you seems familiar. It’s probably just because I’m getting to know Rowan and I see the likeness in you.”

I chuckle and nudge her elbow before I take another sip of my drink. “Now there’s an asshat. Don’t compare me to that reckless little shit.”

“Oh stop,” she chides, giving me a gentle backhanded whack on my arm. “He’s great. So perfect for Sloane. Don’t be an asshat.”

I grin, my eyes locked to her full lips. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

She snorts. “‘Ma’am.’ Please don’t.”

“Miss?”

Her nose scrunches.

“Madam?” I offer. Lark shakes her head. “Yeah, that’s not much better than ‘ma’am,’ I guess. Wait, I’ve got it. Duchess.”

“Ooh I like it. Somehow it works with the feather thing. Regal, yet saucy.”

Saucy. I don’t know why that word does something to my blood when she says it, as though she’s plugged herself into my veins and hit them with a jolt of electricity. Images fly through my mind of Lark in all kinds of regal, yet saucy scenarios, and even the ones that inexplicably involve Marie Antoinette wigs are sexy as fuck.

“You okay there?” Lark’s voice is soft but the amusement still colors every note. “You look like you’ve gone full brood mode.”

“Yeah,” I say as I clear my throat and force my hand to relax around my glass before I crush it. “I, um … I’m good.”

“You sure …? Maybe you’re not so bold after all.”

The heat of Lark’s body creeps into mine as she steps closer. When I turn to face her fully, a faint smile plays on her lips. Even though I can’t see the details of her features clearly at this near distance, the crystalline shade of her eyes is still piercing, cutting through the dimmest light.

“Seems like something I said has you a bit … flustered,” she whispers. Her head tilts as she regards me, her gaze falling from mine to fix on my mouth. “Was it the ‘regal’ comment I made? Maybe you have a thing for corsets and tulle to go with the feather fetish.”

Christ Jesus. Now corsets. “Not really—”

“Shame, that would have been super hot.”

“I mean, not really just corsets and tulle. Also wigs.”

Her rich, melodic laugh surrounds me.

Lark Montague crawls right into my brain and injects unexpected, wild fantasies into my thoughts every time she opens her feckin’ mouth. She’s taken control of some part of my mind I’m not sure I even knew existed, and I have no idea where she’s going to send me next. I just know I’m going to follow whatever trail she lays down. It’s unnerving. But it’s also irresistible.

“I think you could pull off a waistcoat and breeches,” Lark says with a grin as she takes a final step, closing any space between us. Her fingers curl into my shirt, one after the next, each touch a gentle rasp against my chest until she’s balled the black fabric in her delicate fist. “Those tattoos on your neck would look pretty hot peeking out from beneath a cravat.”

I swallow, my breath caught in my lungs as Lark rises on her toes, her eyes locked to my lips, my heart a hammer beneath her hand. Every one of her exhalations pours an electric warmth into my flesh. “Rakish, yet debonair,” I finally say on a gravelly whisper.