A Regency Courtesan's Pride. Ann Lethbridge

She looked up into his face.

      ‘My bed or yours?’ he asked.

      ‘Yours.’ She laughed. ‘It is closer.’

      ‘A sensible woman indeed,’ he murmured, his dark eyes hazy with passion and glinting with amusement.

      He was so bloody handsome. It wasn’t fair.

      But he was hers for now. And she would make the most of the one night he’d granted.

      He frowned.

      Had he sensed her regrets?

      She smiled and licked her lips. ‘What now, you great gormless statue?’

      At that he threw back his head and laughed out loud. He strode for the bed, pressing her back against the mattress, and gazed into her face. ‘Did I tell you how much I adore that tongue of yours?’

      ‘For what it says?’ she asked, fluttering her lashes. ‘Or what it can do?’

      ‘Hades,’ he muttered under his breath and swooped down for a kiss. Their mouths melded, blissfully fitting together. Her thoughts scattered as he plundered her mouth and she clasped her hands around the back of his neck, holding him tight, as she devoured the slick silkiness of his tongue in her mouth. She sucked.

      He stilled.

      Had she been too bold? Gone too far? Would he think her completely wanton? Her heart beat hard against her chest as he broke the kiss. She let her hands fall away as he drew back, his low-lidded gaze sweeping her body, his lips curving in a sensual smile of approval. ‘You are a feast for the senses.’

      The words struck a chord low in her belly. Flutters tormented her feminine core. What was he waiting for? Suddenly shy, she twisted her fingers in the curls falling over her shoulder, staring at the strong column of throat emerging from his robe, at the rise of his angular cheekbones. In daylight they made his face look hard and stern, but now they made him look like a fallen angel.

      Her angel. For one night. A yearning she did not expect pulled at her heart. Such yearning had no place in her life. She pushed it away and opened her arms to him.

      He untied the cord at his hips, and discarded his robe in one easy movement. The scar across his chest gleamed white in the candlelight. It crossed sculpted muscle and striated ribs, missed his navel by an inch where it sliced a path across a stomach ridged with tight muscle to come to rest at his hipbone.

      And below, the evidence of his desire, the engorged member jutting from wiry black curls, a dark tip. Proud and very male.

      She sucked in a breath and raised her gaze to his face. His expression was dark, harsh and full of seduction.

      She reached up and traced a finger down the scar’s length, from just above his left nipple to his right hip, where the skin jumped beneath her touch.

      ‘Ticklish?’ she asked.

      Mischief gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘If so, be prepared for repayment in kind.’

      Her skin tingled as his hot gaze seared every inch of her body. In a moment of weakness, a slight edge of fear that this dark angel would steal more than she was prepared to give, she covered herself, her breasts, her groin.

      His brows lowered. ‘Unlike you to be shy, sweet Merry.’

      What could she say? She hid behind rough words, yet none came to her tongue. She felt weak with yearning.

      ‘Will you stand there all night looking, then?’ Perhaps not completely undone. She brought her arms up, stretched like a cat, feeling the peaks of her breasts against the soft muslin of her nightgown.

      He grinned. ‘Ah, sweet tormenting witch.’ Leaning over her, a hand each side of her head, he brought one knee up on to the bed, a tall man, with no need for the step. He nudged his knee between hers, a gentle insistent pressure of warm skin and hard bone.

      No going back. She opened her thighs. Gave him room. Gave him leave. Her breath left her in a rush of anticipation.

      Half-on, half-off the bed, he hung over her, his dark eyes searching hers, seeking assurance? Permission? She raised her hands, cupped his cheeks, felt the roughness of beard and drew him down.

      Blissful kisses rained from his lips, a touch on her mouth, her chin, her cheekbone, her eyelids, between her brows. Each kiss fired heat low between her legs, her body ached to feel him within her, her breasts longed for his touch and all the while featherlight kisses seared her face.

      ‘Lovely, Merry,’ he murmured in a low growl at her ear. His tongue traced the swirls. Her skin thrilled and her insides shivered. Never had kisses felt so sweet, yet the brush of his lips promised so much more.

      Panting, she tugged at his shoulders, wanting him closer, hard against her, his bulk weighing her down. She ached.

      The strength in his shoulders resisted her feeble attempts to drag him on top of her. She raised herself up to press against him, feeling the prod of his erection against the softness of her belly, the press of his chest against her breasts. ‘Charlie,’ she moaned.

      ‘Yes, love?’

      The amusement in his voice flared her temper. She struck at him with her fist and fell back against the pillows. She glared up at him. The muscles in his upper arms bulged with the effort of holding his weight. She shoved at his arm. ‘Don’t tease.’

      Dark lashes swept down and rose again, revealing wicked laughter in their depths. His mouth curved in a smile so sensual her insides tightened beyond bearing. ‘What, Merry? Is this to be naught but a hurried encounter, a quick nibble, when I would savour the banquet before me?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ she whispered in sultry tones, ‘the table is cleared before you can taste.’

      ‘A threat, Merry? Are you playing the tease?’

      The edge to his tone gave her pause. This was not a man she could manipulate. He liked to be the one in charge as much as she did. Mayhap more.

      If she wanted him, she would have to take what he offered.

      She clawed her fingers through the rough hair on his chest and tugged. His jaw flickered. Curving her lips in what she hoped was a smile as seductive as his own, she peeped up at him from beneath lowered lids. ‘This is a banquet for two, is it not?’ She lightly pinched his nipple between her fingernails.

      His eyes glazed. His chest expanded on a quick breath. ‘It is.’ His voice sounded ragged.

      ‘Then I would taste, too.’ She let her hands wander over the smooth contour of his shoulders, felt the slight tremble deep in his bones as he held himself still, looking down at her face. Desire warmed his eyes, while restrained power tensed his jaw. Control.

      A man with a will of iron.

      Her fingers traced the contours of the arms bracketing her head against the pillows; her palms warmed to the heat of his blood beneath the satiny smoothness of his skin. A pulse beat in his strong neck, a hard beating throb that echoed in her own veins.

      Once more she raised herself up, but not to take, to give. She licked along the artery. Blue blood for the son of a duke. She nuzzled against his neck, sweeping her tongue across the salty skin, sucking and nipping. His breathing roughened. Not so much in control as he would have her think.

      She nibbled his earlobe and breathed into his ear.

      He groaned and pressed closer, encouraging her tongue deep into the orifice. Controlling again. Demanding.

      She pulled away.

      ‘Witch,’ he muttered. ‘Will you torment me?’

      ‘No more than you torment me,’ she whispered.

      He took her mouth in a hungry plundering kiss.

      Strength surrounded her, his body a wall she could see nothing beyond. It filled her vision, and her mind. He was powerful male. Beside him, she seemed feeble.

      Vulnerable.