Free Cheryl Holt by Too Hot to Handle Page B

“There’s no harm in it.”
    “Not to you, you seasoned libertine.”
    “And not to you, my little beauty.”
    She scowled and blurted out, “Have you any idea of how much I enjoy being with you like this? Or how anxiously I’d hoped you would kiss me again?”
    So . . . she’d been pining away, had she? He laughed. “You’re a veritable slattern.”
    She punched him on the shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”
    “I’m not.”
    “You assume that I’m loose.”
    He was surprised that her assessment was so off the mark. “You’re wrong. I think you’re very fine.
Too
fine for the likes of me.”
    “It’s so difficult to be here in your home, to be around you, and to . . . to . . .”
    He silenced her by resting a finger on her lips. He couldn’t tolerate her protests, not when he was aware of how horridly he was transgressing. Nor could he listen to her objections, for he respected her very much. She could easily discourage him, when he wouldn’t be dissuaded.
    “I want to know you this way,” he told her. “Give this part of yourself to me.”
    “You make it so hard to say no.”
    “Good.”
    “Especially when I like everything you do to me! I’d have to be a saint to resist.”
    “And you’re not one—you’re very human—so it’s a waste of energy to try.”
    He bestowed another kiss, quickly leaping far beyond where they’d journeyed previously. She’d admitted to being eager for a repeat of their madness, so he intended to show her how it could be between them. He would have her so overwhelmed that she’d never hesitate to philander.
    He shifted them so that she was beneath him, and he was struck by how perfectly she fit. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, and her legs had widened so that his torso fell between her lush thighs.
    He fussed with the pins in her hair, yanking them out and tossing them on the floor. The luxuriant auburn tresses flowed free, and his lust spiraled higher. He was so desperate for her!
    “I’m going to touch you,” he advised.
    “Where?”
    “Under your dress.”
    “You shouldn’t.”
    “I have to.”
    “Oh, I can’t refuse,” she wailed. “I really
am
a slattern.”
    “I see nothing wrong with engaging in a bit of wicked conduct every so often.” He grinned. “It builds character.”
    His naughty hand wandered down to dip inside her bodice, to cradle her breast. It was soft, supple, and he caressed and petted it. She did nothing to hinder him, but even if she’d complained, he wouldn’t have halted. He pinched the nipple, which sent her into a dither of squirming and exacerbated the pleasure for his phallus. He was so close to dragging up her skirt and deflowering her that he scared himself.
    Of what might he be capable? She drove him to newheights of licentiousness. Any appalling peccadillo might be committed.
    He tugged at the front of her gown, drawing it down so that her breast popped from corset and chemise. The silky mound was creamy white, the nipple a delightful shade of rose, and he licked his tongue across it.
    “Oh, oh my.” Panting, breathless, she arched up. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m making love to you.”
    “Well, stop it! I can’t abide this . . . this . . .”
    As a maiden, she had no vocabulary to convey her titillation, and he chuckled, then wrapped his lips around the tempting bud and sucked it into his mouth. The effect was abrupt and potent, as she gripped his neck and jerked him nearer, urging him to feast. He was tickled by her response, elated by her sexual nature, by her willingness to allow it to flourish.
    He kept on as long as he dared, until he was too inundated by desire. With great reluctance, he eased away, taking a last, covetous glance at her nipple, and vowing to himself that he’d see it again very soon. He wouldn’t let her avoid him.
    She frowned. “Are we finished?”
    “For now.” As if in farewell, he placed a kiss at the center of her cleavage.
    “But . . . but . . . you can’t