Scandal's Bride Read Free Page B

skittered wildly, informing her, in breathless detail that she was
pressed, breast to thigh, against a man.
    Not just any man—one with a body like warm, flexing steel. She had to
lean back to look into his face.
    Blue blue eyes met hers.
    Catriona stilled: she stared. Then she blinked. It took half a second to
check—arrogant mien decisive chin—it was he.
    Narrowing her eyes, she fixed them on his; if The Lady had made no
mistake, then it behooved her to begin as she meant to go on. "Put me
down."
    She'd learned the knack of commanding obedience at her mother's knee;
her simple words held echoes of authority, undertones of compulsion.
    He heard them; he angled his head, one black brow rising then the ends
of his long lips lifted. "In a minute."
    It was her turn to listen and hear the intent in his deep purr. Her eyes
flew wide.
    "But first…"
    If she'd been able to think, she'd have screamed, but the shock of his
touch, the intimate warmth of his palm as he framed her face, distracted her.
His lips completed the conquest—they swooped, arrogantly confident, and settled
over hers.
    The first contact stunned her; she ceased to breathe. The very concept
of breathing drifted from her mind as his lips moved lazily on hers. They were
neither warm nor cool, yet heat lingered in their touch. They pressed close,
then eased, sipped, supped, then returned. Firm and demanding, they impinged on
her senses, reaching deep, stirring her.
    She stirred in his encircling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat
surrounded her—even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her,
then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking
release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold
it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.
    And couldn't. She was facing ignominious defeat—with not a clue of what
followed—when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip, one
thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.
    Her jaw eased, her lips parted.
    He entered.
    The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled
her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was
feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the
surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seductively physical need. And hold hard
against the temptation that streaked through her.
    Even while he took arrogance to new heights.
    She hadn't thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely,
imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident,
he angled his head and tasted her—languorously, unhurriedly—as if he had all
the time in the world.
    Then
he settled to
play.
    To advance and retreat, to artfully entice her into joining the game.
The very idea shocked her to her toes—and sent shards of excitement flying down
her nerves. They stretched, tightened. His lips and tongue continued their
tantalizing dance.
    She responded—tentatively; instead of the aggressive response she
expected, his lips softened fractionally, encouragingly. She dared more,
returning the pressure of his lips, the sensuous caress of his tongue.
    Without even knowing it, she sank into the kiss.
    Triumph streaked through Richard; he mentally crowed. He'd laid waste
her starchy resistance; she was soft and pliant, pure magic in his arms. She
tasted like the sweetest summer wine. The heady sensation went straight to his
head.
    And straight to his loins.
    Staving off the burgeoning ache, he feasted, careful not to startle her,
to let her wits surface enough to recognize his liberties. He wasn't fool
enough to think she wouldn't break away if he gave her sufficient cause. She
was no simple country miss, no naive maid—her three words, her attitude, had
reeked of authority. And she wasn't young; no young lady would have had the
confidence to command him, of all men, to "
Put me down
." She
was not girl, but woman—and she