MB SAUCY SIDE #1: Kenna Version

Regency Period Romance (oh my!) 

Featuring: Kenna and Button 

Kenna Zarneki was not a lady.

Polite Society determined a lady by two things: her dowry and her ancestry. Kenna, as the daughter of Polish immigrants, lacked the latter and, as a “widow” whose husband no scandal sheet had successfully confirmed the prior existence of, had no need for the former. She was, thus, widely considered by the ton to be “an upstart,” new money earned not through inheritance, as was proper, but by (horror of horrors!) gambling. Being in possession of IOUs from half of London meant, however, that she was too powerful to snub and was thus invited to even Lady Cowper’s famously exclusive soirees.

But make no mistake: Kenna Zarneki was definitely not a lady.

And thank God for that.

After all, a lady would never have cornered you in Lady Cowper’s library. A lady would certainly never have pinned your arms above your head against a bookshelf, thrust her leg between yours, and proceeded to take (very welcome) liberties upon your person. And no lady’s lips could ever feel as hot as Kenna’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 Kenna migrates to the small, previously overlooked, divot above your left collarbone. You strain against her grasp, wanting your arms free to dig your fingers into her shoulders and pull her closer. Her tongue darts out, tasting and teasing, before she 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 considered Kenna’s eyes to be cold and distant. Never could you have imagined how her grey gaze darkened to navy, like storm-tossed ocean waves, or how her 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 Kenna Zarneki.

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

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

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

“Temptress,” you whisper.

Her lips seal yours. Kissing Kenna 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s asking for your ruin.

Kenna senses your hesitation. She steps back, dark eyes cooling like molten steel quenched by water. She straightens her rucked-up skirts without meeting your eyes. Her collar is missing a button. It wasn’t when you first met her here.

“I own this town,” she 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—” her 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.”

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

The door closes, leaving you weak-kneed and disheveled. It’s your choice, she said. To go with her, 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.