Regency Risks, Book Three
By Natasha Blackthorne
She opened her mouth to deny him.
He brought his mouth down on hers, cutting off her protest. He thrust into her mouth, the taste of his hot, wet tongue more fiery than the best whisky. She shook, not with fear but with anticipation for the next stroke of his tongue against hers.
It came and delicious shudders quaked through her. Another stroke and another. Ruthlessly, he gripped her head and angled it, thrusting deeper. Taking her breath. Sucking her very soul and taking everything.
She didn’t care.
Every inch of his long, lean body pressed hers. She could feel the whipcord strength of his powerful muscles. Could feel his trembling as though he were holding back his ardour. His erection throbbed against her stomach, huge and hard. Heated.
A feeling of letting go, as though a tremendous weight had suddenly lifted from her. As though she’d been waiting forever for this moment. Tenderness burst within her. Her limbs went weak. Her fists unfurled and she grasped his shoulders, learning his feel, breathing in his scent, glorying in his taste, his strength, his forcefulness.
If she could, she would simply melt into him. She clung desperately to his hard body, surrendering herself wholly.
He tore his mouth from hers.
She cried out in protest.
He swept her up into his arms then lowered her. Her backside touched the table and the rickety wooden frame groaned and creaked.
He swooped down on her then gripped her chin in his large hand, gently yet firmly holding her in place. His eyes bore into hers, predatory, determined. “Now, tell me that you don’t know me.”