Free The Highest Price to Pay by Maisey Yates

before her brain had a chance to catch up.
    He looped his arm around her waist, pulled her to him.
    She knew the expression on her face was quite possibly one of dumb shock, but actually having him touch her, being in full contact with his body, was a shock to her senses. Her breasts were pressed against his very hard chest, the delicious pressure working to ease some of the ache that had been building in her.
    “I thought you deserved a chance to dance, as you enjoy the music so much,” he said, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered the words. She shivered, goose bumps breaking out over her arms.
    “Oh,” she said, heart hammering so hard she was certain he must be able to feel it against his chest.
    She didn’t know why she didn’t pull away. Why she didn’t say no.
    No, she did know. It was because it felt good. And she had felt so much pain in her life it just felt…it felt so foreign and amazing to just let herself feel good.
    To revel in the warm weight of his hand on her lower back, the feeling of his other large hand enveloping her much smaller one. Swaying with him, moving in one accord with him instead of just fighting him. Instead of fighting herself.
    “Temptation,” he whispered, his cheek against the curve if her neck, his words a whispered enticement. “Such a fitting choice of costume.”
    He released her hand then, placing his on the curve of her hip, moving it to the indent of her waist, stopping just beneath the swell of her breast. She had imagined his touch earlier, felt the slide of his fingers as he’d moved it over the gown she was making.
    But that had been fantasy, just like it always was for her. But this was real. His hands on her body, the thin red lace the only barrier between his flesh and hers.
    The rhythm of the music seemed to fade and they made their own, his movements so slow and sensual, seductive on a level she could have never imagined. And when he moved nearer to her, she felt that he was as aroused as she was, the hard length of him pressed against her a proof that couldn’t be denied.
    He moved his head, hot breath tracing a line from just beneath her ear, over her scar and to her shoulder. His lips never touched her skin, only hovered there, making her body tighten with need, making her want to pull him to her so she could feel the press of his mouth on her.
    She wanted it. So much. So much that it scared her, made her feel hollow and nervous and like she might fold in on herself if she couldn’t have more of him, more of his touch. His hands on her skin, without the dress in the way, his lips, not just the impression of them.
    She swayed slightly in his arms, her breasts brushing against his chest, sensation pouring through her, drowning her senses in desire. Being in his arms, just held by him, so close, was beyond anything she’d ever experienced, anything she’d ever imagined.
    She tilted her head to the side, exposing more of her neck to him. Warm breath continued to tease her, the tip of his nose skating lightly over the delicate skin.
    He pulled away, looked at her, then gently tilted her head the other way, repeating the action with the other side of her neck. She stiffened when she could no longer feel his heat, when she lost the sense of the slow glide of his touch. She put her hand to the back of his head, felt that he was still there, touching her. But she couldn’t feel it.
    There could be pain or pleasure, heat or chill, and she wouldn’t know. The scar that distorted her skin was an outward sign of the damage that lay beneath. Nerves lost that would never be recovered, feeling she could never regain.
    She released her hold on him, jerked back, stumbling slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said, helpless to say anything else. It wasn’t really an apology, not to him. She was just sorry. More of those regrets. “We should see about that dinner, maybe?”
    His was an unreadable mask, his body stiff. “Are you hungry?”
    She was sick. Her stomach