Page 39 of A Recipe for a Rogue (The Beautiful Barringtons 5)

Torrington dribbled a bit more chocolate along her naked hip. His finger painted something there.

“B for Bram,” he growled possessively. Then his mouth fell to her hip, licking and nipping at the chocolate.

Bram.Torrington’s given name.

“Short for Abraham?” She stuttered as his nose nuzzled into the soft hair of her mound.

“Yes.” His reply hummed into her flesh, his tongue flicking out to taste her.

A low sound left her throat, one Rosalind didn’t even know she could make.

He painted more chocolate over her thighs, licking and nipping as he did so, but came no closer to the one part of Rosalind which required his attention. The illustrations in her father’s books had been highly educational, but their descriptions of this act and her imaginings paled in comparison to the reality. Her eyes opened, peeking down at the dark streaks painting her thighs and stomach.

For one thing, no chocolate whatsoever had been mentioned.

Torrington’s dark curls, laced with silver, tumbled over his cheeks as he licked at her skin. “I adore cherries, Rosalind,” he whispered against one plump thigh.

“So you’ve claimed many times.” Her fingers tangled in the silk of his hair.

“They often”—his tongue sank into her wetness—“top the finest desserts.” Torrington’s mouth closed over the tiny aching bud hidden in her folds. The edge of his beard chafed pleasurably along the inside of her thighs.

Rosalind’s back arched off the table, her mind nearly incoherent with pleasure.And all this time I thought it was my nipples he meant when he spoke of cherries.

Curls twisted against her fingers as her hips pushed up. He had such beautiful hair. As marvelous as the rest of him.

Torrington paused and looked up at her. “Go ahead and give it a tug, Rosalind. Just so you can assure yourself it isn’t a wig.”

“I’ve apologized—” The word ended on a whimper as he sucked her back into his mouth, his tongue making the most divine circles. She pulled at his hair, urging his mouth to give her the release she so desperately needed. The sensation only hinted at those nights when she’d been alone in her bed.

Torrington flung one of her legs over his shoulder and Rosalind dug her heel into the muscles of his back. What an idiot she’d been to assume he’d worn an ounce of padding.

“I want to see you naked,” she whimpered. “No clothing.”

A satisfied grunt came from him. His tongue swirled and sucked, driving Rosalind into a near frenzy. His palm settled on her stomach, stretching possessively to hold her in place.

Another moan left her.

Torrington is my spark.

She cried out, startling poor Bijou, as her pleasure peaked sharply, bursting before her eyes like dozens of tiny stars all flaring at once. It was far more marvelous than she’d ever imagined. “Bram.”

Her hips writhed on the table, thrusting herself more firmly into his mouth as his tongue coaxed every bit of bliss from her trembling, bucking form. Just as it retreated, he forced another wave upon her, pulling so much pleasure from her throbbing body, Rosalind was sure her heart had stopped. She knew nothing but him in that moment, wanted nothing else but Torrington, as dangerous and unwelcome as that thought would become. Once the last of the waves receded, leaving her spent and panting, Rosalind glanced down her body, unsurprised to see herself stretched across the kitchen worktable as if she were being prepared for a feast.

“Spectacular.” He nipped the inside of her thigh.

“Yes, it certainly was.” She sat up on her elbows and looked down at him. He’d let go of her legs and propped his chin up on top of her stomach, watching her.

“Ruin me further,” Rosalind choked out. She might never allow herself to be so close to him again once her body had calmed and her mind became less muddled. “This isn’t my mother’s dining room.”

“No. It’s my kitchen.” Curls danced against his cheeks. Torrington looked so solemn. Conflicted.

“Bram.” Rosalind sat up as he reluctantly stood. Her hands slid across his stomach, but his hand circled her wrist before she could go further.

He shook his head, looking far more pensive than Rosalind expected. She reached for him again, but he took a step back.

“There are things we should discuss, Rosalind,” Torrington said quietly. “Important things. I won’t take your virtue in my kitchen.”

How bloody disappointing.

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