Free A Dangerous Love by Brenda Joyce Page B

tongue flicked the seam of her lips. Ariella gasped, seeking his tongue with her own. He deftly avoided her, this time closing his mouth over hers for a long, deep, endless kiss.
    She spun. The fever in her body became a conflagration; she moaned and he sparred with her, tongue to tongue. She pressed against his huge hardness shamelessly now. He laughed again, clasping her buttocks through her skirts and petticoats, hard. He hiked her higher, against him.
    She moaned, clinging, lips locked. Somehow he had positioned himself exactly where she needed him to be and she felt maddened with urgency now. She moved more frantically upon him.
    The kiss raged on. Vaguely she felt his hand slipping up her leg, inside her thigh, beneath her skirts and over her silk drawers. She gasped with more wild pleasure. Vaguely, she knew that this was far more than a simple kiss and she did not care.
    Without hesitation, his fingers slid into the slit of her drawers, against her bare, wet skin. Ariella whimpered, tearing her mouth away, pressing her face to his hard, wet chest. She was blinded now. She wasn’t sure what she wanted—other than more unbearable friction. She wept.
    He spoke to her in his language, slid his entire hand inside her drawers, palming her, cupping her. She became dizzier. He spoke, rough and guttural, but in English now. “Come for me.”
    She didn’t understand. Who cared? The trees whirled and she bit down hard, tasting his sweaty skin and his blood.
    She was still spinning when she realized he had laid her down on the ground, in the wet grass. The terrible, wonderful spasms slowed and dulled. Her breathing remained labored. She felt his fingers on the bare skin of her back. She tried to understand the pleasure and passion she had just had. Now, she could comprehend why love was so highly coveted.
    His fingers skimmed lower on her spine. Ariella blinked and opened her eyes. Emilian knelt beside her, his face strained with passion. He was attempting to divest her of her dress. She seized his wrist reflexively.
    His smoldering gray eyes shot to hers. Surprise tainted the desire smoking there.
    She breathed hard. “Wait.”
    His eyes narrowed. Suspicion began.
    â€œWhat…what are you doing?” Her skirts were tangled around her waist and she lay sprawled like a ragged doll. She sat up, and some sense of modesty began. She jerked her skirts down. Her bodice slid downward, but she pulled it up and looked at him.
    He sat back on his heels, dangerously annoyed. “You wish to stop now?” He spoke far too softly.
    â€œI…I didn’t come for this.”
    â€œOf course you did.” Anger flared in his eyes. “You came for passion. You want to compare me to your English lovers. I am not satisfied,” he added in a dark tone.
    The top buttons of his breeches had come undone, as if they could not bear the strain of what lay beneath the fabric. She wanted to speak but couldn’t.
    â€œThat pleasure is nothing compared to the pleasure we will have when I am buried inside your body.” He reached out and stroked her face. “Let me make you cry out in pleasure another time. Let me cry out in pleasure, too.”
    She went still.
    He began to smile. “We both know this is why you came to me.” He reached for her bodice and gripped it.
    She clung harder. It would be so easy to give in to this man. His words, his look, were mesmerizing. But a kiss was one thing. This was another. She wanted to go further, but she also wanted to keep him at bay until she could understand what was happening. “This is a misunderstanding,” she whispered.
    His eyes went wide.
    â€œI didn’t come to compare you to my other lovers.” She held her bodice up fiercely now. “There are no other lovers.”
    He just stared at her, his expression so uncertain it was almost comical.
    â€œI’m not even married,” she whispered. Did she have to be more