to."
"I don't. I really, really don't."
He stared at her, aloof and firm in his resolve to resist, and the more adamant he appeared, the more determined she became. If it killed her, she would drag a reaction out of him!
She took his hand and placed it on her breast, and the stimulation was so intense that she was surprised her knees didn't buckle. The effect was potent for him, as well.
Whatever restrictions had held him in check, whatever wall he'd erected to keep her at bay, it came tumbling down.
He picked her up and carried her to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress. Then he tumbled down atop her, his body stretched out the length of hers.
She'd never lain with a lover, so she hadn't known how it would be, and she was ecstatic to discover that she enjoyed it very much. He was crushing her in a way that should have been suffocating, but he didn't seem heavy. He felt extremely welcome, and suddenly she was contemplating all sorts of conduct that she had no business contemplating.
"You are playing with fire, Caro," he claimed.
"Fire, hah!" she taunted. "I exposed myself to you unclad, yet you're completely indifferent. You're naught but a hearth of burnt ashes." "Am I?"
"Yes, and after my ordeal with John, I'm tired of throwing myself at men who don't want me. Perhaps I should seek my ruination elsewhere. There must be a male somewhere in this accursed city who'd be glad to have me."
"You'd seek another man's bed? You are out of your bloody mind."
He dipped down and kissed her, finally giving her the attention she'd yearned to receive. With a groan of pleasure, he molded his lips to her own, and she shut her eyes and reveled.
This ... this ... was what she'd been seeking, what she'd craved. This frantic rush of need and hunger was a balm to her weary soul. She didn't want to think or fret. For a short while, she simply wanted to be.
He was touching her everywhere, riffling through her hair, down her shoulders and arms. She joined in the fray, exploring as she'd always longed to do. She hadn't realized that a man's anatomy could be so perfect, and merely from caressing him she was growing agitated. There was tension building inside her, tension she didn't comprehend and didn't know how to assuage.
His crafty fingers went to her breasts, and he massaged them, the sensation so delightful that she squirmed and writhed in agony. He clasped the nipples, applying pressure so that her skirmishing increased.
His torso was wedged between her thighs, and instinctively, she flexed against him, her hips working in a rhythm that he instantly matched. His loins were connected to hers, only the fabric of her drawers and his trousers separating them, and she could feel the hard ridge at his center, about which her married acquaintances occasionally whispered.
She hadn't unraveled its purpose, but she was dying to learn more about the naughty rod. How was it used? Why was it necessary?
She hadn't a clue, but she recognized it to be an indication of heightened ardor, so despite how he might snap and bark, he still fancied her.
"You've missed me," she charged.
"I haven't."
"You desire me; I can feel that you do." "You're mad." "Quit pretending." "I'm not."
She tried to reach down and touch what she was so curious to investigate, but he grasped her hand, preventing any examination.
"Let me!" she protested.
"No."
He captured her wrists and trapped them over her head. The restrictive position was thrilling, and it placed numerous sensitive spots into closer contact with his masculine parts.
He slid to the side, his thigh draped across her crotch and holding her down. Without her being aware, he'd loosed her corset, and he slipped under the edge, his palm covering her bosom, bare skin to bare skin.
She gasped and arched up, wrestling to get away, but to move nearer, too.
He shoved at the frilly lace, and her breast popped free of constraint. Grinning, he was insolent and smug, as if this was what he'd planned all
"I don't. I really, really don't."
He stared at her, aloof and firm in his resolve to resist, and the more adamant he appeared, the more determined she became. If it killed her, she would drag a reaction out of him!
She took his hand and placed it on her breast, and the stimulation was so intense that she was surprised her knees didn't buckle. The effect was potent for him, as well.
Whatever restrictions had held him in check, whatever wall he'd erected to keep her at bay, it came tumbling down.
He picked her up and carried her to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress. Then he tumbled down atop her, his body stretched out the length of hers.
She'd never lain with a lover, so she hadn't known how it would be, and she was ecstatic to discover that she enjoyed it very much. He was crushing her in a way that should have been suffocating, but he didn't seem heavy. He felt extremely welcome, and suddenly she was contemplating all sorts of conduct that she had no business contemplating.
"You are playing with fire, Caro," he claimed.
"Fire, hah!" she taunted. "I exposed myself to you unclad, yet you're completely indifferent. You're naught but a hearth of burnt ashes." "Am I?"
"Yes, and after my ordeal with John, I'm tired of throwing myself at men who don't want me. Perhaps I should seek my ruination elsewhere. There must be a male somewhere in this accursed city who'd be glad to have me."
"You'd seek another man's bed? You are out of your bloody mind."
He dipped down and kissed her, finally giving her the attention she'd yearned to receive. With a groan of pleasure, he molded his lips to her own, and she shut her eyes and reveled.
This ... this ... was what she'd been seeking, what she'd craved. This frantic rush of need and hunger was a balm to her weary soul. She didn't want to think or fret. For a short while, she simply wanted to be.
He was touching her everywhere, riffling through her hair, down her shoulders and arms. She joined in the fray, exploring as she'd always longed to do. She hadn't realized that a man's anatomy could be so perfect, and merely from caressing him she was growing agitated. There was tension building inside her, tension she didn't comprehend and didn't know how to assuage.
His crafty fingers went to her breasts, and he massaged them, the sensation so delightful that she squirmed and writhed in agony. He clasped the nipples, applying pressure so that her skirmishing increased.
His torso was wedged between her thighs, and instinctively, she flexed against him, her hips working in a rhythm that he instantly matched. His loins were connected to hers, only the fabric of her drawers and his trousers separating them, and she could feel the hard ridge at his center, about which her married acquaintances occasionally whispered.
She hadn't unraveled its purpose, but she was dying to learn more about the naughty rod. How was it used? Why was it necessary?
She hadn't a clue, but she recognized it to be an indication of heightened ardor, so despite how he might snap and bark, he still fancied her.
"You've missed me," she charged.
"I haven't."
"You desire me; I can feel that you do." "You're mad." "Quit pretending." "I'm not."
She tried to reach down and touch what she was so curious to investigate, but he grasped her hand, preventing any examination.
"Let me!" she protested.
"No."
He captured her wrists and trapped them over her head. The restrictive position was thrilling, and it placed numerous sensitive spots into closer contact with his masculine parts.
He slid to the side, his thigh draped across her crotch and holding her down. Without her being aware, he'd loosed her corset, and he slipped under the edge, his palm covering her bosom, bare skin to bare skin.
She gasped and arched up, wrestling to get away, but to move nearer, too.
He shoved at the frilly lace, and her breast popped free of constraint. Grinning, he was insolent and smug, as if this was what he'd planned all
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