Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride Read Free Page A

her naked body thudded into contact with the heat of his. Shirt, waistcoat, breeches might as well not have existed.
    Furious, Laurel wrenched one hand free and slapped him hard across the cheek. He made no move to avoid the blow, but his eyes, stormy grey, darkened in the moment before he caught her wrist in one hand and fisted his other into the tumbling mass of her hair, tugging back her head for his kiss.
    She had never been kissed on the mouth before. He captured hers with contemptuous ease. His tongue pushed between her lips and possessed her mouth, and the shock snatched the air from her lungs and the strength from her struggling limbs.
    Patrick smelt hot and angry, he smelt of musk and man and his mouth tasted of coffee and brandy and of him. His teeth nipped at her lower lip and she shuddered as the pull on her hair bowed her back so he could drag his teeth down the tendons of her throat, a low, possessive growl vibrating against her skin.
    Her anger built and burned and then, as he came back to her mouth, sucking her tongue into his, it flared up into pure heat, aching desire. Oh, lord, he knows what he is doing and he is so good at it…. Shocked out of shyness, every inhibition unshackled by rage, Laurel pressed against the hard body that had captured her, pressed against the thrust of Patrick’s erection. He froze.
    â€˜Laurel?’ He lifted his head and looked down at her, his eyes questioning. She had the impression that women did not often leave Patrick Jago confused.
    â€˜Yes,’ she whispered with reckless courage. She wanted this man, needed him. She was afraid, although not of him. Of herself, perhaps. The fear itself was arousing, as though they were about to embark on a dangerous adventure together.
    Patrick let his hand trail down her breast, and the nipple peaked and hardened under his palm. He pulled her to him with his other hand, cupping the soft weight, fretting the tight bud with the ball of his thumb.
    â€˜Yes,’ she whispered again. ‘Patrick…yes.’ The touch of his hands tormented her breasts. They felt heavy, swollen. His touch was almost pain, almost unbearable, sending shafts of sensation down into her belly where there was heat and a strange aching desire. ‘It feels so…strange.’
    â€˜Trust me,’ Patrick murmured, even as the torture made her moan and writhe. ‘Can you trust me?’ Their eyes met and she saw the heat that simmered behind his. Laurel nodded.
    He put her from him and she lifted her hands to her aching breasts in a futile gesture of shyness, shamefully wanting to rub, to stroke, to ignite those feelings again as Patrick untied his neck cloth and began to unbutton his shirt.
    â€˜Help me,’ he said, his voice harsh with an urgency that she did not mistake now for anger. Laurel put up her hands to push the shirt from his shoulders. They wanted to linger, to cling to him as she leaned into the protection of his body, yet she also wanted to touch all of him. She slid her palms down his chest, imitating what he had done to her, and his eyes darkened and clouded as she flicked at his nipples, catching her breath as they tightened in reaction. So much to learn…
    She had never been so close to an unclothed man before. She had not expected such well-defined muscles. What, she wondered, biting her lip as she took in the elegant power of his torso tapering to slim hips and the slide of muscle under his skin, did he do to be so fit?
    Clothed in his good, plain, unobtrusive coat and breeches, he looked gentlemanly but not dominating—no doubt that was part of his investigator’s cover. But now, so close and so male, she began to realise why she had been so drawn to him in Martinsdene. Was that all it was, a basic feminine recognition of masculine sexuality and strength? Laurel swallowed. All? That was not the word for the way he drove the breath from her lungs.
    His hands went to the fall of his trousers and