She blinked, and he realized that her lashes were so long that they tangled at the corners. “A kiss?”

It wasn’t an invitation exactly. But it would do. In one smooth movement, he slid to the edge of the bed, swung his feet to the floor, grasped the woman’s arm, and pulled her into his almost-bare lap. It was unfortunate that the sheet had tangled about his hips or there would have been naught but her skirts separating them.

Without giving her time to react beyond a simple gasp, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue pressing between her lips. He tasted, teased, poured every ounce of his longing and desire into that one touch.

She stiffened, but didn’t move, neither welcoming nor fighting off his embrace, though he could feel her heat thundering beneath his hands as he held her close. Could taste the wanton desire that answered his own.

A soft moan sounded in her throat, and Devon deepened the embrace. But even as he did so, she went limp in his arms, her face turning away from his as she gasped for breath.

It was an unbelievably sensual moment, the feel of her in his arms, her taste on his lips, her heart beating so fiercely that his own raged in response.

Devon held her tight and didn’t move. After a long moment of fighting off the heavy wave of desire that made his loins ache and his throat tighten with need, he caught his breath enough to lift his head and look down into her face.

He expected shocked surprise. Or perhaps a pretense of outraged virtue, all of which he was prepared to kiss away.

But instead, despite her flushed cheeks, she met his gaze directly enough and said in a rather breathless voice, “Bloody hell, not again.” To his further astonishment, she seemed to school her expression into one of supreme disinterest.

Of all the hundreds—nay, thousands—of kisses he’d delivered, none had met with a reaction anywhere close to this—disinterest tinged with boredom. Nor was he used to seeing a tedious expression on the faces of the women he gifted with his expertise. Bemusement, yes. Wonderment, yes. Even awed excitement. But boredom?

He pulled back a little more so that he could see fully into the maid’s face. “I beg your pardon, but did you say ‘Bloody hell, not again’?”

“Aye,” she said, her gaze even with his. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen slightly, her chest still moving rapidly up and down—those few things assured him that she was a pretender.

But still, it was intriguing that she could manage such a disinterested look and tone. “What do you mean ‘again’?” he demanded.