Free Brazen Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page B

cruise, brushing, impossibly lightly, over her breast.
    She sucked in a tight breath as her flesh reacted, as her nipple pebbled and a wash of seductive heat swept through her.
    “I was thinking,” he said, his voice a deep, gravelly murmur, the faintest of burrs underscoring the purring quality, “that tonight I should go out of my way to thank you.”
    Out of his way?
    She stared into his eyes from a distance of mere inches, breathed in the warmth of him, sensed the latent heat of him, the muscled power, reaching for her. . . .
    No, no, no, no.
    But . . .
    Locked in his eyes, she gave in and licked her lip. “I shouldn’t.”
    He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers, then his lips slowly curved. “But you will.”
    He took one long step back. With the fingers crooked in her laces, he drew her with him, then to him. Against him and into his arms, then he bent his head and kissed her again.
    Kissed her until she forgot every jot of wisdom she’d ever known.
    Until she melted.
    Until she wrapped her arms about his neck and surrendered.

Four
    S he wasn’t surrendering to him but to herself—to that brazen self who wanted to know what more of the magic he could show her. Last night had been a revelation, but if there was more to know, more to experience, she needed to know, to learn of it.
    Knowledge, experience, understanding—she’d realized from her earliest years how important those were, how crucial to leadership. Taking risks to achieve them was, to her, second nature, simply a part of who she was.
    Once she sank against Logan, wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back—as fearless as he was ravenous—her decision was made. Made and communicated; there was no going back. She never even considered it. Stepping back from a challenge wasn’t her style.
    And his kiss—this kiss, his mouth and hers joined—was the first fascination. The first flare of heat, the first taste of passion. It was more, so much more, than any kiss she’d ever shared with any of her earlier lovers; they’d been boys, mere learners, dilettantes.
    This kiss, his kiss, was one of claiming—of challenge, of blatant promise. Of sensual threat. A statement of intention, certainly—of domination. As with lips and tongue he ravaged and sent her senses spinning, she clung and fought to return the pleasure, to match and meet his educated assault, while inwardly her brazen self rejoiced.
    Titillated, expectant, glorying in the moment.
    His arms had closed around her, his hard hands holding her, then they moved and he sculpted her curves—possessively, predatorially.
    Excitement sparked; her nerves came alive—aware, awake, as they never had been. Tense and waiting, anticipating.
    The next touch, the next flagrantly possessive caress.
    It came, his hard hand closing about one globe of her bottom, the firm curve filling his palm; his fingers kneaded as he held her to him, lifted her to her toes—then he moved, hips suggestively thrusting, the ridge of his erection riding against her mons, the hard length impressing strength, intention, and erotic promise against her taut belly.
    Setting greedy flames flaring low, swelling the hollow emptiness that had opened there.
    The emptiness she needed him to fill.
    Yet . . .
    She felt a tug—realized he’d undone her laces. Felt her bodice sag. In mere seconds he had her out of it, had drawn her arms free, pushed the gown down to her hips, leaving it to slide as it would to the floor, and his hand closed, hard and demanding, about her breast, screened only by her thin shift and even finer chemise.
    On a gasp, she pulled back from the kiss. Eyes closed, stretched up on her toes, her fingertips sinking into the heavy muscles of his shoulders as his wicked fingers found her nipple and tweaked. “ Slowly ,” she gasped.
    And immediately felt his touch ease.
    And what a thrill that was—a shiver of knowledge, of understanding, skated down her spine. She lifted her heavy lids and looked