Midnight at the Oasis: His Majesty's Mistake. Jane Porter

      His nostrils flared. A small muscle popped in his jaw. “No?” he repeated, his voice velvet-soft. “Did I hear you correctly?”

      Her lower lip quivered. “Yes.”

      He moved toward her, a deep hard line between his black eyebrows. “That’s insubordination, Miss Smith.”

      “I won’t be bullied.”

      “I’m not a bully, I’m your boss.” He was before her now, and standing so close that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “Or have you forgotten?”

      She’d always thought his eyes were a cool silver-gray, but with him just inches away, she could see that his eyes burned and glowed like molten pewter.

      “Haven’t forgotten,” she whispered, her courage starting to fade, as he dwarfed her, not just in height, but in sheer size. His shoulders were immense, his chest broad, his body muscular and strong. But he overpowered her in other ways—made her feel fragile and foolish and terribly emotional.

      “Perhaps you’d care to apologize?”

      There was a lethal quality to his voice, a leashed tension in his stance. It crossed her mind that she’d pushed him too far, demanded too much. “I’m sorry.”

      “Sorry for what?” His voice was so rough and deep it sounded like a growl.

      She was mesmerized by the tiny gold flecks in his gray eyes. That’s why up close his eyes looked warmer. His eyes weren’t a cold gray. They had bits of the desert’s gold sun and sand in them. “I’ve botched it all up.” Her voice dropped and the air caught in her lungs. “Again.”

      He was silent, and then he gave his head the slightest of shakes. “I can’t do this with you.”

      She squeezed her eyes closed, nodded her head.

      “But I do accept your apology,” he added.

      Eyes still closed, she nodded again.

      “Hannah.”

      She couldn’t look at him, she couldn’t, not when she was so overwhelmed by everything.

      “Hannah, open your eyes.”

      “I can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because you’ll see … you’ll see …”

      “What?” he demanded, tipping her chin up with a finger.

      She opened her eyes, looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. “Me.”

      For a long, endless moment he simply stared into her eyes. “And why would that be a bad thing?”

      The unexpected tenderness in his voice made her heart seize. “Because you don’t like me.”

      He exhaled hard. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

      “Am I?”

      “Absolutely.” And then his head abruptly dropped, blocking the moon, and his lips covered hers.

      It was the last thing she’d expected. The last thing she wanted. She froze, her lips stiff beneath his. For a second she even forgot how to breathe, and the air bottled in her lungs until her head began to spin and little dots danced before her eyes.

      His lips traveled slowly across hers, in a light, fleeting kiss that was more comfort than passion. Her back tingled. She shivered and lifted a hand to press against his chest, intending to push him away, and yet her hand seemed to like the feel of his chest, her palm absorbing his warmth, her fingers splaying against the smooth, dense plane of muscle that wrapped his ribs.

      Emmeline found herself leaning forward, drawn to his warmth and the heady spice of his cologne and the coolness of his mouth on hers. He nipped lightly at her lower lip, coaxing a response from her and sending a frisson of feeling zipping up her spine. Emmeline shuddered with pleasure, lips parting slightly with a muffled gasp.

      Makin’s arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her close so that his hard frame pressed against the length of her. He was powerfully built, hard and muscular, and heat radiated from him in waves.

      Teasingly his tongue parted the seam of her lips, sending a shock of hot, electric sensation throughout her. She shuddered again, her lips parting beneath his, as her breasts grew heavy, aching, nipples exquisitely sensitive.

      She’d never been kissed like this, never felt anything remotely like this. Makin’s mouth tasted of spearmint and his spicy cologne filled her nose and his hard jaw was smooth, the skin soft from a recent shave. Her senses swam with the pleasure of it all.

      Again he traced the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue so that she gasped, opening her mouth wider for him. His tongue slid across her soft inner lip even as she felt his hand in the small of her back, a slow, leisurely stroke down over her hips. The lazy caress sent a hot new streak of sensation through her. It felt as if he was spreading fire beneath her skin. She tingled and ached, her womb tightening in need, and she lifted her hands to clasp his face, kissing him back, feeling more urgency.

      Makin responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to taste her, his lips biting at hers, moving across hers, making every nerve dance to life. She gasped and arched, her hips pressing helplessly against his, making her aware of his thick hot erection. The rub of his erection between her thighs turned her legs to jelly, making her weak.

      She’d only been kissed by Alejandro before, and it was that night he’d taken her virginity. His kiss had been hard, and she’d felt no lick of fire in her veins, no deep hot ache between her thighs. She’d felt pressure. A grating and grinding of jaw, lips, tongue and teeth. But there was no grating of anything here. No, Makin was making her melt, dissolving her bones into puddles of thick sweet honey.

      Honey of want. Honey of need.

      He was driving her wild. He slowly swept his hand back up her bottom to cup the curve of her breast, the palm of his hand so warm against her sensitive skin. She pressed closer wanting a satisfaction she couldn’t even name, her fingers tangling, tightening in his shirt.

      She heard a hoarse, desperate moan and then realized it was her. She’d whimpered aloud, and if she heard it, he did, too.

      Heat rushed through her, a rush of embarrassment and she started to pull away and then his hand found her breast, his fingers catching, kneading the taut nipple and she shuddered and curled back against him, hips, breasts, thighs pressed to him, giving herself over to the hot, intense sensation.

      He could have her, she thought, as he sucked the tip of her tongue into his mouth and drew on it, a slow, sensual rhythm that made her pulse throb and her knees press together. She felt hot and wet, her satin thong slick against the softness between her thighs.

      He made a rough sound, a sound both primal and male, as he caught the back of her head in his hand, holding her still to kiss her more deeply.

      She was drowning in desire, overwhelmed by need. And as he took her mouth, she didn’t think she’d ever felt quite so frantic. He could do anything he wanted with her. He could do anything as long as he didn’t stop touching her, didn’t stop tasting her. She’d never felt so much sensation, never felt such sweet, wild pleasure. He could lift her onto the table and press her against the dishes and cutlery, crushing her into the flowers and she wouldn’t protest. He could lift the hem of her dress and slide his fingers beneath the satin edge of her thong and between her thighs where she ached and ached.

      He could fill her.

      He could.

      And then she felt his hand draw the chiffon fabric up over her thigh, and his fingers slide across warm bare skin. She shuddered, and reached up to clasp his nape, and then grab at the ends of his dark, thick hair.

      She was empty, so unbearably wet and empty, and she needed him to warm her, needed him to fill her, needed—

      “No.”