MB SAUCY SIDE #1: Kent Version

Regency Period Romance (oh my!)
Featuring: Kent and Button 

Kent Zarneki was not a gentleman.

Polite Society determined a gentleman by two things: wealth and ancestry. And though Kent possessed the first in abundance, as the son of Polish immigrants, he was decidedly lacking in the latter. He was, thus, widely considered by the ton to be “an upstart,” new money earned not through inheritance, as was proper, but in (horror of horrors!) gambling halls. Being in possession of IOUs from half of London meant that he was too powerful to snub and thus invited to even Lady Cowper’s famously exclusive soirees.

But make no mistake: Kent Zarneki was definitely not a gentleman.

And thank God for that.

After all, a gentleman would never have cornered you in Lady Cowper’s library. A gentleman would certainly never have pinned your arms above your head against a bookshelf, thrust his leg between yours, and proceeded to take (very welcome) liberties upon your person. And no gentleman’s lips could ever feel as hot as Kent’s as they trail down your neck.

“Sir Clarence noticed me sneak away,” you manage to say. “If anyone saw you depart as well—” Your feeble protest cuts off in a gasp as Kent migrates to the small, previously overlooked, divot above your left collarbone. You strain against his grasp, wanting your arms free to dig your fingers into his shoulders and pull him closer. His tongue darts out, tasting and teasing, before he presses another kiss at the junction that is quickly becoming your new favorite body part.

When you’d first been introduced at Lady Keith’s ball several months ago, you’d considered Kent’s eyes to be cold and distant. Never could you have imagined how his grey gaze darkened to navy, like storm-tossed ocean waves, or how his eyes could burn with desire. Desire for you.

Illicit desire, that would see you exiled to the countryside if anyone found out. Your status as child of a duke wouldn’t protect you from society’s censure of being caught in the embrace with the scandalous, common Kent Zarneki.

You attempt to speak once more, but Kent presses a thumb against your parted lips. “Clarence will keep quiet,” he murmurs. “The baronet owes me four-hundred pounds.”

You nip his thumb with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches and his other hand tightens around your wrists at your audacity. Kent likes to be in control; it’s not often that you succeed in turning the tables.

“Brat,” he says. His thumb strokes your bottom lip in a feather-light touch that nonetheless scorches and brands your very soul.

“Devil,” you whisper.

His lips seal yours. Kissing Kent Zarneki is like being caught in a cyclone—the world blurs in tumultuous colors, and you’re positive at any moment you’ll be lifted off the ground and carried away.

Kent kisses you so deeply that he forgets about your captured wrists. His grip loosens, and you’re free. Free to press him closer, demand him closer, and encompass him in your own storm. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and he moans low in his throat but doesn’t withdraw.

“Brat,” he groans against your cheek. “Impudent, reckless, irresistible brat.”

“I’m not a—” you begin, but he cuts you off with another fierce kiss, and you forget whatever it was you’d planned to say. After a breathless eternity, he pulls away, his teeth dragging your lower lip in his retreat.

“My carriage,” he says. “Five minutes.”

You blink, still dazed from the lack of oxygen. It takes a few moments for his words to register: Kent is asking you to leave with him. To go back to his flat. Where you’ll be alone.

He’s asking for more than stolen kisses in a library.

He’s asking for your ruin.

Kent reads your hesitation. He steps back, dark eyes cooling like molten steel quenched by water. He grabs his discarded cravat off a bookshelf, slinging it over his bared neck. His jacket’s missing a button. It wasn’t when you first met him here.

“I own this town,” he says, back turned and shoulders stiff. “But you—you owe me nothing. If you stay by my side, it will be of your own volition. Not—” his voice breaks then hardens. “Not by obligation.”

You can’t reply, uncertain even of whether your answer should begin with a simple “yes” or “no.”

Kent opens the door to the library, still not looking at you. “My carriage in five minutes,” he repeats. “And then I leave.”

The door closes, leaving you weak-kneed and disheveled. It’s your choice, he said. To go with him, and risk society’s ostracization and your family’s disapproval. Or to remain at Lady Cowper’s ball, safe and content in your current position as Duke Golightly’s youngest child.

Your eyes dart to the nearby grandfather clock. Four minutes to decide.