Free Frontline by Alexandra Richland

to do, Mr. Merrick? Punish me for stumbling upon your deep, dark secret?” I bat my eyelashes.
    He scans my body, his eyes lingering on my breasts a little longer than other places. I smile inwardly. I’m glad I decided to wear the sexier dress tonight.
    “Don’t tempt me.” Mr. Merrick towers over me, his expression set with disapproval. “Now, tell me why you left the parlor.”
    “You were late.” I shrug, trying to pretend his intensity doesn’t thrill me. “I got bored so I went for a walk. I’m not going to apologize for entertaining myself in your absence.”
    The hint of a smirk drifts across his lips. “So you were pleasuring yourself in my absence. Is that it, Miss Peters?”
    Wow, he’s good at making even the simplest things sound dirty.
    I square my shoulders. “Yes, Mr. Merrick.”
    He leans in and brushes his lips to my cheek. The wine glass quivers in my trembling hand.
    “You look exquisite,” he whispers against my skin.
    “Uh, you too.” I cringe at my lame reply.
    Mr. Merrick chuckles softly and pulls back.
    “What are you drinking?” He eyes my glass. “I hope you liked my selection.”
    The name of my drink slips my mind. I feel embarrassed and uncultured.
    Mr. Merrick notices my hesitation. With a devious smile, he takes my hand and dips my forefinger into the wine glass. “Let’s see, shall we?”
    He lifts my hand to his lips and slides the entire length of my finger into his warm mouth. A low growl reverberates in his chest, shooting a sensual vibration through my finger, down my arm, and directly between my thighs. I whimper and try to pull away, but his hand tightens around my wrist. His eyes darken as he purses his lips and removes my finger from his mouth, leaving my skin gleaming.
    “It tastes sweet, like nectar.” He brushes my moistened finger along his bottom lip. His eyelids droop, his gaze fixated on my mouth as he teases me with his tongue again. “It’s rich, exotic, and feels smooth as it slips down my throat.”
    Mr. Merrick squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing as though he’s fighting some sort of inner battle. He turns his head toward my hand and places a soft kiss to my open palm. I moan. His breath feels warm and ragged against my skin.
    He pulls away and locks his smoldering eyes on mine.
    “The 1978 Montrachet.” His voice sounds huskier than normal. “Excellent choice.”
    I swallow hard. “I agree.”
    Mr. Merrick clears his throat and takes a step back. At the same time, our eyes drift to the closest display of swords on the wall.
    “So you collect these because . . .?” I’m desperate to break the erotic silence between us. If I don’t, I’m going to beg him to take me to bed.
    “It’s merely a hobby of mine,” he says, his voice controlled again. “I’ve been collecting antique swords since I was eighteen. In this room are weapons that were used by ancient Romans, Celts, Egyptians, Greeks, and many others.”
    “Where do you get them? eBay?”
    Mr. Merrick smirks at my joke. “I buy them at auction or when I travel.”
    I arch my eyebrows. “You really go all-out, don’t you? It must’ve been quite a task to obtain all these weapons.”
    Mr. Merrick steps closer. I inhale a sharp breath as he brushes his knuckles down my bare arm.
    “When I know what I want, I do whatever it takes to get it, no matter how difficult the task,” he says, following his hand with his eyes. “I live for the challenge and the rush I feel when I finally attain what I desire.”
    “And you never give up? Even when your best efforts are not enough?”
    “Never,” he says, continuing his sweet caress. “I possess a steadfast commitment to those things for which I’m passionate, and this collection is one of my many obsessions, Sara.”
    Steadfast commitment.
    It’s an interesting choice of words, considering his quote on dating from the Associated Press article I read earlier.
    “My collection is very rare. National Geographic even featured it in