“Her skin was warm beneath his hand, and he could feel the ripe curves beneath the lawn nightdress. She wanted his mouth, she wanted his heart, she wanted his soul.” She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin against hers, and she felt a dark burning deep inside her that she knew only he could assuage. Oh, God, she did want him, as terrifying as that notion was.

'Do you want me, Emma?' he murmured, his voice low and insistent. It would have been the only sign of his arousal, had it not been for the heat pressing against her hips. His mouth was wet from hers, and his breathing was slightly labored. He broke the kiss, rising up over her as she lay on the bed, staring down at her with a hooded expression in his eyes. No way, God help her, that she wanted to stop him. He was hard against her, she belatedly recognized that fact, and the knowledge panicked her.e wanted her, his body wanted to claim hers, and there was no way she could stop him. His hands were on her petticoats, slowly drawing them up her long legs, and her hips cradled him. He kissed her nose and her chin, he bit her earlobe, and then he covered her mouth once more, kissing her with a devastating thoroughness that had her damp and trembling in his arms. He kissed her eyelids, the side of her mouth, the beating pulse at the base of her neck. It wasn't one kiss, it was twenty, it was a long series of unending kisses, leading one into another, so that she barely had time to begin to regain her sanity when he stripped it away once more. She told herself it meant absolutely nothing as his tongue pushed into her mouth, and the moan that came from deep inside her had to be one of displeasure, didn't it? She told herself that as her body trembled and melted beneath him, as her mouth opened to his skillful insistence. She told herself it meant nothing, it was a trick, an act, a small skill that anyone could acquire.

She told herself she was being kissed by a practiced rake. He opened his mouth over hers and kissed her, using his tongue, his teeth, and all the clever weapons he had in his arsenal. This was no chaste salute, nor was it the wet awkwardness of an untried boy or a randy old man. This was no slow, sensuous caress of mouth and lip. “And now, dear Emma, I'll show you just what you have to be wary of,' he said, and his head moved down, blotting out the light.

To love a dark lord by anne stuart