Several hours later Prince Brad was deep in conversation with the last lady, a princess both erudite and beautiful, when she asked him how he best liked frog legs prepared.
There was an awful silence.
The frog opened her mouth indignantly, but Prince Brad beat her to it. “I’m afraid I do not care to dine upon frog legs as I consider this frog my friend.”
And he swept from the room—with the frog.…
—From The Frog Princess
Three hours later Adam silently walked down the hall to Sarah’s room. After the commotion of rushing Kirby out of the house—and then gathering his possessions and tossing them out with him—the members of the party had decided to retire for the night.
Adam had spent the last several hours pacing his room, waiting until it was late enough that everyone would be asleep.
This was folly. Seeking Sarah out in the dead of night. She’d said she didn’t trust him. A quick romp in a hidden room hardly changed that.
He wanted to change her opinion of him. He wanted—
A sound came from down the hall.
Adam slid into the deep shadows by a statue.
He heard a door closing.
After five more minutes of silence he continued on his way. Sarah’s room was at the end of a corridor.
He reached the door and tried the handle.
Unlocked.
Carefully he eased the door open and slipped into the room. A banked fire burned low on the grate, giving a glowing, flickering light. Sarah slept in a curtained bed. He approached it quietly and stood looking down at her. She lay on her side, her golden hair spread upon her pillow like silk, one hand curled by her chin, and at the sight he realized something.
He didn’t want this to end.
Didn’t want to walk away and never see Sarah again except as an acquaintance, passing by her at a dance or on Bond Street. Didn’t want her to become a memory—a lost, regretful dream.
He wanted forever.
Which meant he shouldn’t be here tonight. He needed to show her that it wasn’t simply an animal impulse for him.
He turned to go, but it was too late.
He saw her eyes flutter open in the mellow light.
She stretched out her hand to him. “Adam?”
And he was lost.
Sarah woke from a dream of Adam to find him standing by her bed.
She had no idea why he was there, but in her dream-laden state she didn’t care.
She wanted him. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
He groaned low and then he was leaning over her, pressing his lips to hers almost sweetly.
She opened her mouth, licking across his lips tentatively. Her hands slid over his shoulders and she realized he was fully dressed while she was only in her chemise.
She didn’t want that.
“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging at his coat sleeves. It felt as if this spell would not break if she only whispered.
He straightened to tear off his coat and waistcoat and throw aside his neckcloth. When he placed a knee on the bed beside her hip, bending to her, she pulled his wig off as well.
She shoved aside her coverlet. “Come to me.”
“You’re a siren,” he whispered as he lay atop her. “You’ll drive me mad.”
This seemed doubtful. It was she who would be driven mad. He was heavy on her, his hard chest pressing against her soft breasts, his stomach and pelvis aligned with hers, his legs sprawled, one between her thighs. And she could feel his penis, heavy and thick, probing her belly even through the cloth of his breeches.
She wanted.
She slipped her hands inside the collar of his shirt and heard a button pop as she wrapped her fingers over his bare shoulders. He was warm and male and she could smell his heat.
His desire.
He palmed her breast and she lost her breath. His hand was big and certain, his fingers splayed over the mound of her breast, her nipple caught between his thumb and forefinger.
He brought his fingers together, squeezing her nipple between.
She called out softly, the sensation was so new, so wonderful.
He lifted and pushed himself down her so that his face was level with her breast and took her nipple into his mouth right through the chemise.
It was a crude act. A sensual act. She could feel him drawing on her, could feel the material of the chemise chafe her skin.
He drew back and blew on the wet material and she could feel her nipple harden into a small, pebbled bud.
Then he moved to her other breast.
“You’re so lovely,” he whispered before he took her into his mouth and sucked.
She ran her fingers across his shorn head, feeling the prickly short hair, the strong neck, the working jaw.
She wanted him. Wanted him so much it was a physical ache. “Make love to me.”
He froze for a second, and then he was sliding even farther down her body, bunching her chemise up around her waist.
He parted her legs and threw them over the crooks of his arms.
And then he bent his head—
“What are you—?” she started.
He licked her. With his tongue. Between her legs.
She clutched the sheets, her toes tightening, her insides quaking. She’d never felt anything like it, so soft and yet so relentless, his tongue lapping at her folds, circling her bud, driving inside of her.
It was unbelievable.
It was wonderful.
She felt him spread her with his fingers and she wanted to object to his…familiarity. To the way he seemed to feel he had the right to do this to her. But she was flying, so light with the pure pleasure he was giving her that she couldn’t speak.
All she could do was feel.
And then she was reaching that point, her legs moving without her will, her hands twisting in the sheets, the heat building and building until she could no longer hold it back.
She fell, bursting from within, beautiful warmth flooding her belly and limbs, radiating from her center, reaching her fingertips and toes.
He licked her a few more times, lazily, and then he was climbing up her like a great cat cornering its prey.
He spread her legs even wider and she felt something big and blunt at her entrance.
His cock.
She opened her eyes, looking up at him.
“All right?” he grunted, looking strained. He was holding himself still, waiting on her answer, and she knew that he would pull away if she told him to right now.
He’d stop himself for her.
A wave of affection washed through her. As it happened, she didn’t want him to stop.
She twined her arms around his neck and whispered, “Put yourself in me.”
He jolted at that, his hips surging forward just enough to breach her.
She waited for pain but felt none.
She watched as he inhaled. Pulled back. Nudged carefully into her again.
A little more.
Inch by tender inch he pressed into her, widening her. Stretching her for his thick, hard flesh.
She tilted her hips, wanting more, impatient.
And then suddenly he jolted home.
He lay for a moment between her spread thighs, on her, pinning her down with his greater weight and bulk, impaling her with his penis.
Then he looked at her, and when she smiled he began to move.
Tiny waves. Small nudges. His hips hardly shifting at all.
It was quite, quite maddening.
She squirmed, trying to make him move, wanting more.
He pulled back then and shoved into her. A solid, hard thrust that made her see stars.
And then he did it again. And again. Watching her with unsmiling eyes, much too intently.
She couldn’t look away from his gaze. Couldn’t hide her face. Couldn’t do anything but lie beneath his hard thrusts and feel.
And when he bowed his head over her, his lips pulled away from his teeth, his nostrils flared, his eyes tragic and aware, she felt something inside her open.
He was in the throes of orgasm. Lit. Stricken. Wracked.
But she was the one who lost her heart.