She imagined him on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his thighs drawing hers apart, the deep build of pressure and need as he pushed into her. Seph’s skin burned with sensitivity, with the need to be touched.
“Stay still.” Her cape was deftly wrapped around her, clearly acquired from the cloakroom – something he had no leave to do. Then he ushered her down the hall and off to the side into a small service corridor.
The wall hit her back as she was pressed against it sending shards of need through her body. Do it again.
Her heart pounded, her body a pulsing beat of desire.
Throbbing.
Wanting.
Not for Marsden, not for the Russian, but for the erotic nature of what she saw.
It would have affected anyone.
It was definitely not for the Russian.
Seph glanced up at him, his finger ran along her jaw and her breasts grew heavier, desperately needing his touch.
His face didn’t wear the rakish arrogance of earlier. Instead it held a need so raw that it made her nipples burn with awareness. It’s just the erotic tableau, not him, she chanted in her thoughts, not him.
“What was he doing?” Seph, glanced back to where her friend was doing things she hadn’t imagined he would. Peered back so she wouldn’t do something foolish with the Russian rake.
“You know what he was doing.” His thumb grazed her lips leaving a trail of fire.
He bent down to her ear and she stilled. “He was kissing her…lips.” He whispered so close she felt the warmth of his breath on the shell of her ear. “Kissing, sucking, and biting her tender flesh. Did you hear how she crooned for him, crooned for more?”
Her hand somehow managed to follow her instruction and pressed at his chest. He lifted away from her, yet he still stood far too close.
“I didn’t expect….” She swallowed, frowned. “A kiss?”
“Do you like kissing Seraphina? Shall I kiss your lips? Make you sing?” His eyes held a raw, heated look that triggered all kinds of sensations in her. “I could demonstrate.” Intensity blazed out of his eyes; he was serious.
Seph swallowed, reached desperately for some composure.
“Oh please.” She did her best to collect herself. “As if I’d choose you for a dalliance.” She rolled her eyes and gave his chest a little push to have him move. But even to herself she had to admit she didn’t push hard enough to convince anyone.
His hand came over his heart. “I am wounded.” But he wasn’t, he grinned like a wolf.
Voices came from the other side of the curtain leading back to the gambling hall. It opened.
The Russian blocked her from view with his body as two gents walked down the hall and past their position in the service corridor, his wonderful broad chest, and lean legs, standing so close she felt the full heat of him radiating over her. His cologne sat in his jacket, woody, earthy and so very dangerous.
“Your eyes are black orbs.” He murmured in that accent she was getting far too susceptible to; moved forward again making her all too aware of the way her body responded to him.
“Ridiculous.” Her voice, suddenly tight in her throat.
The Russian’s eyes trailed over her skin, picking up on who-knew-what telltale signs.
“You like me,” his deep voice purred.
She shook her head, no, heart thumping.
He smiled.
And blast it, the look sent pleasure flowing over her skin like warm honey.
“I think you do,” he said in another one of those melting murmurs.
She again shook her head. No, she didn’t…she didn’t want to. He was everything she detested, a man who thought women were for sport, that women were disposable. And yet her body traitorously burned with his proximity, burned for more of him, more of his touches, as much as it smarted for her to admit it.
The Russian rake leaned in, his fingers lifting her chin. “Your face is so transparent.”
“You’re mistaken. I really don’t like you at all.” She whispered even as her eyelids grew heavy, and her skin flamed with sensitivity.
“Your eyes are full of want, little bird. That is the kind of ‘like’ I see.” His glorious thick accent brushed her like velvet.
Her breath stumbled.
Little Bird… Her story. A Christmas fable she’d written that ended up with such a dark and erotic twist for the wolf and the little bird.
“You were bored.” She whispered. He was not a man for prose or poetry.
“Never,” he murmured.
Her gaze fixed on his full masculine lips. A shadow of black bristle darkened his upper lip, chin, and cheeks. She imagined his face pressed between her legs, the soft abrasion, and quickly looked away.
“Be careful of wanting the forbidden, little bird, someone may come along and give it to you.” He whispered above her lips drawing her eyes back to his.
Her mouth loosened.
Waited. Even as she hated herself for it.
He muttered something in Russian and then his lips touched hers…perfect, so soft and claiming. All her attention honed on his touch. He lured her with the unexpected, with gentleness. Soft. Sensual. Touches that said she was precious, special. That he would cherish her with each stroke, each touch, each kiss. He couldn’t have used a more devastating approach.
His lips were firm, his touch skilled and knowing…and yet, he was patient as he waited for her to open for him, waited for her to acquiesce.
Instead she slapped at him all but half-heartedly. He didn’t break the kiss and, blast it, neither did she. Her lips were set on fire. And the blighter showed her all too clearly that she wanted him. It wasn’t just that she didn’t break the kiss, her Russian rake wasn’t even holding her.
No.
He held his body away.
She could duck away from him at any time, slide past and be free.
Yet she didn’t.
Of course, she didn’t as his lips moved on hers, coaxing, luring, promising. Turning her mouth into a source of smoldering need.
Instead she chose to thump him with her palm, thump him for proving how shallow she was, how like every other woman he charmed she was, to want his kisses as much as they.
He simply kissed her deeper, slipped his tongue in, explored her mouth, ran it over her teeth, her tongue, until her tongue started to dance with his. Every swipe, every tangle was an elixir that both ignited and soothed. Until finally her fingers anchored on that broad chest, curling into his fine military coat, drew him closer and kissed him back.
The man groaned his approval bringing his whole body to press against hers which exploded with unprecedented need. Need that had been building and building all night. In reality, building for years as she read the poets and the passion they promised existed.
His mouth demolished her. Resistance left along with those much-needed threads of control. Each tangle of his tongue made her body glow with want.
“I’m burning,” she said between kisses. “My wings are burning.” Her fingers traveled into his hair, holding him there. “Burn me, turn me into a blaze.” The words came from nowhere and she murmured them against his lips, drawing a flurry of Russian in response.
“You consume me,” she whispered sliding her hands down his back. Muscles, broad and hard glorious under her palms.
He pulled her closer and his hips moved against hers. She grew lightheaded as she tilted hers forward, felt—even through the fabric—the hardness of him and her core clenched. Ached so much she wanted to sob.