Page 63 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
“Stay.” Her lips moved again, a siren whispering in the night. “Stay and be my protector until dawn.”
He swallowed, fighting, battling his own urges as well as her. “The armchair,” he croaked. He felt amazed he’d managed even that much.
Without easing her grip, she shifted and swung around, then smoothly rose onto her knees. Fisting her free hand in the other side of his robe, she held him. Anchored him.
She held him even more tightly with her eyes.
The green was deeply shadowed, but he could still feel her power, the heated caress of that passionate fire that was such an intrinsic part of her.
“Here,” she said. “With me. In this bed.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Her lips curved; intent and more burned in her eyes. “That isn’t a request.” She tugged with both hands, hauling him to her. “You’re mine, and I need you.”
She pulled him the last inch and pressed her lips to his.
CHAPTER 10
He was hers—hecouldbe hers—for tonight.
For just one night.
He told himself that even while he closed one hand over hers, clamped it against his chest and fought her for control—of the kiss, of the engagement that was already spiraling out of control, either hers or his.
Dangerous.Beyonddangerous.
But oh, so very needed.
So necessary.
For them both.
Some part of him recognized that. The rest didn’t care—not about anything but having her in his arms.
Her lips holding his captive, hands clenched in his robe, she tipped backward. He started to topple, realized, and sank one knee onto the edge of the mattress, held back, held fast, and caught her against him.
Not a wise move, yet the alternative would have been much worse. He could feel passion’s fire licking over his skin, heat flaring everywhere her lithe body pressed to his. Then, leaning back against his hold, she hauled his robe wide, released the sides, and her hands were on him.
On his skin, palms like hot silk sweeping across his chest—burning him.
Branding him.
Alarmed, some part of him tried to pull back; the rest rejoiced and gloried.
Dipping his head, he wrenched control of the kiss fully from her. Pressing her lips wide, he ravaged her mouth. For one finite instant, he caught her full attention and held it—seized her senses and trapped them in the hot melding of their lips. Focused them both on the heated communion, on the evocative plundering—and her hands, those greedy hands, stilled.
He almost caught his mental breath, but temptation whispered. Locking one arm about her waist, he raised his hand, cupped and held her face, angled her head, and took the kiss one step deeper—into the realm of more primitive possession. He held her trapped, his to take from as he wished, and he took—claimed—more.
And wondered if she would take fright and retreat.
Vain hope? Or unwelcome fear?
Regardless, he should have known better. She barely paused to find her feet in the sensual maelstrom he’d unleased before she met him, boldly matched his aggression with her own fire, her tongue dueling wantonly with his.
She plunged them both into a battle for supremacy, one it seemed neither could win. Despite his expertise, whatever move he made, she was there, countering, enticing—forever tempting, challenging, and luring him on.
Deeper into the madness.
