What is he doing?
Kissing me, idiot.
And kissing her very well. Make that thoroughly with a dash of pleasurably and a whole lot of give-me-more. Except someone wasn’t on the same wavelength.
He mumbled, “No, I must resist,” and tried to pull away.
Excuse me? Sorry, but she wasn’t letting him escape so easily. He’d kissed her first. He’d lit her blood on fire and, now, too bad. He wasn’t stopping until she said it was done. However, she couldn’t have said in that pulse-pounding, panty-wetting moment where done would end up.
Crazy, but, then again, no crazier than this entire evening. Her desire for him was probably the only thing that made sense right now. Attractive man rescued her from certain death. In relief, they cling to each other in passion and a need to reassert their link to the living.
Blah, blah, blah.
Psychology mumbo jumbo. She kissed him back because it felt damned good.
Better than good. Right.
Such an odd thought to entertain, given, how would she know? She didn’t recall any past embraces or lovers, so how could she be so certain this was the best kiss of her life?
In a sense, though, wasn’t it?
It was the first kiss she remembered feeling—hot and melting.
The first touch she recalled—sizzling her nerve endings.
The first, and only, man she ever desired—the only man I want …
While he might have initially resisted, he caved at the sensual demands of her tongue. His mouth opened at her insistence, but while she might have initiated the next step in their embrace, he quickly tried to take over.
Their tongues met in a sinuous duel, each determined to provide the most sensual slide, the most decadent suck, the most anything of everything.
Her fingers weaved through the strands of his hair, tugging and pulling at the thick and dark mass. She traced the hints of silver at his temples that enhanced his rugged looks rather than detracted from them.
While she pegged him in his forties, he was fit. Solid. A man who took care of himself and his body. She could feel all this as she pressed herself against him. Could feel the true hardness of him—and she should add largeness—as his hands cupped her bottom and partially lifted her that he might grind himself against her mound.
Liquid heat pooled between her thighs. Hot, decadent desire. She barely felt her back hit the wall as he pushed her against it. She eagerly parted her thighs and loosely wrapped her legs around his waist so that he might properly rub against her.
The layers of clothing did not take away from the erotic sensation at all. On the contrary, the fabric raised her level of awareness. The friction had her gasping as he ground himself against her, the erect promise elevating her arousal.
His lips left off the plundering of her mouth, traveling the line of her jaw to her neck, then farther downward to other treasures.
Her breathing hitched as his hand cupped the swell of her breast and his thumb stroked over the erect nipple that protruded through the material.
“So perfect.” The words were spoken low, husky. Words meant for her.
She gasped as he dipped his head and caught the erect nub. He teased it with his lips, moistening the fabric, tugging at the nipple, each suck sending a jolt of pure pleasure to her sex.
She cried out. She clutched at his shoulders and arched her back to silently beg him for more. His hands skimmed under the hem of her shirt, sliding over her skin, upward toward her breast until he cupped her, skin on skin. He dropped down in a crouch and let his lips follow the path of his hand. Fiery kisses on her tummy, up her rib cage, his warm breath tickling her breast. His mouth sliding toward her—
Knock. Knock. Knock. The rap at the door took a moment to process. Talk about inopportune.
She wasn’t the only one to think so.
The mouth that had almost reached its treasure was torn away—sob.
“This better be fucking important,” Fabian snapped as he righted himself, his eyes again emitting that odd golden glow.
“Milord, the men you sent searching have returned and are ready to report their findings.”
How nice that his men were on the ball when it came to tasks. However, someone needed to talk to them about their terrible timing.
While a part of her wanted to hear what they had to say, another part wanted to yell, Go away! so she could finish what she and Fabian had started.
For a moment, she thought Fabian might actually do that. He seemed so torn, his eyes riveted on her lips, which throbbed still from their intense kiss.
Instead, with a strange growl of frustration, he turned away from her. “We shall discuss this later.”
Discuss? She had a better idea. “Or finish it.”
Did he shudder? Good. There was something powerful and primitively pleasing about knowing she affected him.
Before she could drag him back and see if she could change his mind, he crossed the room quickly—almost too quickly—and opened the door.
“Where are they?” he asked the butler, who apparently didn’t sleep.
“In your office, milord. Would you like me to tell them to wait?”
“No. I want to talk to them.”
“Me too,” she said, pushing away from the wall, hoping her wobbly legs would hold her.
“I’ll give you a report in the morning. Get some rest,” he ordered without a backward glance. He left and closed the door behind him.
Like hell. She wanted to hear what his men had found. Except that wasn’t part of the plan, apparently, she soon discovered, as the knob under her hand refused to turn.
He’d locked her in.
“You son of a bitch!” she yelled. “Let me out this instant.”
Apparently, he lingered in the hall, because he replied, “Sweet dreams, vixen.”
Screw his dreams. She was about to become his nightmare.