The Den Of Iniquity. Anabelle Bryant

her fingers flat against his chest, the rapid rise and fall of his breath a reminder he was as affected as she. Somewhere in her dissolving better sense, a voice reminded she should fight against the liberties he sought, but whoever committed those rules of etiquette to feminine moral conduct had never been kissed by Maxwell Sinclair, bastard proprietor of London’s Underworld. How could she resist?

      She was no fool, not so lost in the moment to neglect consuming passion. Drawing on scarce knowledge and innate instinct she rubbed her tongue against his and he groaned into her, the reaction an exhilarating rush of power. She relaxed in his arms, a pulse of rare courage and heady control coursing through her veins.

      He changed too. Sometime during their kiss his posture eased, his tight hold turned into tender embrace and when he stepped back, he took her with him until he sat on the corner of his desk, his legs spread in a vee with her deposited between them.

      Still the kiss continued. His hands framed her face to lock her to him. His teeth nipped, tongue rubbed and teased, all to lure her against his body, her breath high and fast, her weak legs threatening mutiny. A wave of light-headedness caused her to sway.

      At last he pulled back and she used his shoulders for support, her hands set firm atop solid muscle.

      ‘Vivi.’ He spoke the word with aching tenderness and exhaled deeply. For a brief moment when she looked into his eyes she saw a different man.

      Then it was gone. He straightened his posture and pulled in another long breath as if he braced for something. She watched with dubious concern.