Page 94 of The Devil in Her Bed
“I said stop!” She dug her heels in. “I can’t go out there. Not like this!”
He whirled on her, his teeth bared in a snarl as if he were a beast who would bite her, no doubt ready to thoroughly dress her down.
But there was no need. She was already mostly naked.
And she could tell the exact moment that fact reached through his single-minded anger and arrested his notice. The fury never drained from his eyes, but it transformed into something else. Something equally as violent and ultimately more perilous.
What she read in his gaze caused her to step back.
Had she not retreated, she might have been safe. She might not have activated the primal, predatory instinct inside of him.
But she had.
He lunged, knocking aside the hands she’d held up to ward him off as he gripped the back of her neck and pulled her in for a punishing kiss.
Francesca trembled as his arms locked her against his inflamed body, one hand behind her head, threading into her hair, and the other ripping at the single cord that kept the diaphanous robe secured.
The thought occurred to her somewhere in the back of her mind that she should stop him. That there was a raid going on in the distance, and they might be discovered. She wanted to know why he hadn’t informed her of his plans. To demand where he’d been all day.
And why he’d lied to her.
But as his mouth devoured her with almost violent ardor, he kissed the questions out of her head and she felt helpless to do much but allow him to meld her body to his in wordless demand.
Sometimes, submission was the best strategy.
The moment she became pliant, his kiss didn’t gentle so much as it altered. He made wet, delicious promises against her mouth with animal sounds. His heart pounded in his chest like a sledgehammer against her breasts. His body was hot and hard even through his clothes, and she felt a frenzy in him that was barely human.
He needed to claim her. And she needed to let him.
He growled as she began to kiss him back, his hand curling in her hair, pulling her head back and imprisoning it there.
He broke the seal of their mouths, his eyes appearing demon black in the near-darkness.
He was a man who owned the dark. Who wore it on his skin and wrapped his soul in it. And Francesca knew in that moment she was going to meet his darkness; he was about to pour some of it into her.
She had it coming.
He lowered his head to run his mouth down her neck, using his teeth in little scrapes that made her gasp and jerk.
They had so much to say to each other. So much anger to analyze and enmity to examine, but first… this. None of it would matter until this was satisfied. Until she no longer drowned in a pool of her own longing.
A pleading sound she never would claim as her own escaped her throat and snapped whatever tenuous tether he’d had on his self-control.
Much as he’d done the other night, Chandler lifted her, wrapped her limbs around his waist, and staggered forward a few paces until he could press her against the cold stone wall.
His arm around her back shielded her from as much of the grit as he was able, even as his body ground against her.
Without preamble, he reached between them with his free hand and wrenched his trousers open. His knuckles brushed against her sex as he did this, andeven that insignificant touch electrified her, releasing a flood of moisture in readiness.
She wrapped her arms around his straining shoulders, her nails biting into his long, predatory muscles as the blunt head of his cock drove into her with such force, her body gave a feeble resistance.
She arched toward him, needing to have him, to take him all, creating incredible friction.
A low, desperate noise rose to the stones, echoing back at them with ephemeral fractals of pleasure and pain. She couldn’t tell which of them originated the sound.
And it didn’t matter as he began to move.
Before he drilled her against the wall, his hand rose to cup the back of her head, protecting it from the stone.
