Read Online Betina Krahn by Make Me Yours (v5.0) - Free Book Online
Authors: Make Me Yours (v5.0)
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boning flared in his mind. Punishment indeed. The silk in his vision slid…the corset loosened…blue eyes burned and wine-sweetened lips beckoned…tempting and accusing him. Hypocrite. Denying himself in the name of duty. Denying her in the name of his own damnable—
With a growl he sat upright, slammed his hat on the seat, and in one swift move was across the coach and grabbing her by the shoulders. He pulled her to him and smothered her shocked “What—oh—” with a blistering kiss that softened into an exploration as it went on and on…warming, absorbing, caressing…until her resistance melted and his sanity and self-possession were unrecognizable lumps simmering in a stew of desire.
Somewhere in the throes of it, he sank onto one knee in the foot well and leaned into her, trapping her legs between the seat and his body. Her mouth fitted itself to his, drawing him closer and deeper into the kiss. Sweet—her lips were faintly sweet, just as he had recalled—and moist and warm.Her silky tongue was tentative at first in its movements, then more assured, as if she were remembering how to cast that particular spell.
Her shoulders were firmer under his hands than he would have expected, and that thought fired his curiosity about the rest of her. Shapely and strong; the combination surprised and intrigued him. Suddenly everything in the images he’d conjured—bare skin and taut nipples and reddened lips—belonged to her. And there she was at his fingertips, warming to him, willing to—
A snuffling snort and some movement on the seat beside them punched through the steam in his senses. He drew back the same instant she did and in a heartbeat was braced against the opposite seat, breathing hard, his skin too tight and his muscles twitching in protest.
The snoring Mercy smacked her lips dryly in her sleep and shifted so that her cheek lodged against the wall of the coach. He could barely swallow as he watched the old girl settle back into sleep. Relieved, he yanked down his vest and made himself meet Mariah’s questioning look.
Her eyes were wide and her lips were swollen from his kiss. Without a single hair out of place, she managed to look tousled and ready for more. This—this desire, this turmoil—was what it would have been like if he had kissed her that night.
“Now you know,” he managed, struggling to justify his impulse.
If the avowed motivation for his action shocked her, she hid it well.
“So I do. It seems the prince is quite a kisser.” She responded after a moment with a tight little smile and coolly raised her pad and began to make notes. As she concentrated, the tip of her tongue emerged to stroke her kiss-reddenedlips—the very territory his had covered moments earlier. Sweet Jesus. He slammed his eyes shut against the sight.
She was making notes on his kiss.
6
M ARIAH had time as the coach wound through the chilled countryside to recover her determination to ignore Jack St. Lawrence’s arrogance. And attractions. Which were sprawled with masculine aplomb in front of her.
He was so smug in his male autonomy. No one told him who to bed. How could he possibly understand how demeaning it was for a woman to be considered available for use by a man, even a prince?
As unappetizing as the thought of passion with the portly prince was, it was the marriage part that really stung. A part of her had begun to hope that a new love would walk into her inn and into her life…someone who could make her heart sing and body yearn…someone with whom she could share bed and board and the passing years. But the prince’s insistence that she marry for his convenience put that dream out of reach forever.
She thought of Thomas Bickering. How likely was he to be tall, clean-limbed and athletic looking, with thick, run-your-fingers-through-me hair and a simmering gaze that made her body hot and tingly? Not very.
If only she could go back to her simple life and her uncomplicated hopes.
But she knew
With a growl he sat upright, slammed his hat on the seat, and in one swift move was across the coach and grabbing her by the shoulders. He pulled her to him and smothered her shocked “What—oh—” with a blistering kiss that softened into an exploration as it went on and on…warming, absorbing, caressing…until her resistance melted and his sanity and self-possession were unrecognizable lumps simmering in a stew of desire.
Somewhere in the throes of it, he sank onto one knee in the foot well and leaned into her, trapping her legs between the seat and his body. Her mouth fitted itself to his, drawing him closer and deeper into the kiss. Sweet—her lips were faintly sweet, just as he had recalled—and moist and warm.Her silky tongue was tentative at first in its movements, then more assured, as if she were remembering how to cast that particular spell.
Her shoulders were firmer under his hands than he would have expected, and that thought fired his curiosity about the rest of her. Shapely and strong; the combination surprised and intrigued him. Suddenly everything in the images he’d conjured—bare skin and taut nipples and reddened lips—belonged to her. And there she was at his fingertips, warming to him, willing to—
A snuffling snort and some movement on the seat beside them punched through the steam in his senses. He drew back the same instant she did and in a heartbeat was braced against the opposite seat, breathing hard, his skin too tight and his muscles twitching in protest.
The snoring Mercy smacked her lips dryly in her sleep and shifted so that her cheek lodged against the wall of the coach. He could barely swallow as he watched the old girl settle back into sleep. Relieved, he yanked down his vest and made himself meet Mariah’s questioning look.
Her eyes were wide and her lips were swollen from his kiss. Without a single hair out of place, she managed to look tousled and ready for more. This—this desire, this turmoil—was what it would have been like if he had kissed her that night.
“Now you know,” he managed, struggling to justify his impulse.
If the avowed motivation for his action shocked her, she hid it well.
“So I do. It seems the prince is quite a kisser.” She responded after a moment with a tight little smile and coolly raised her pad and began to make notes. As she concentrated, the tip of her tongue emerged to stroke her kiss-reddenedlips—the very territory his had covered moments earlier. Sweet Jesus. He slammed his eyes shut against the sight.
She was making notes on his kiss.
6
M ARIAH had time as the coach wound through the chilled countryside to recover her determination to ignore Jack St. Lawrence’s arrogance. And attractions. Which were sprawled with masculine aplomb in front of her.
He was so smug in his male autonomy. No one told him who to bed. How could he possibly understand how demeaning it was for a woman to be considered available for use by a man, even a prince?
As unappetizing as the thought of passion with the portly prince was, it was the marriage part that really stung. A part of her had begun to hope that a new love would walk into her inn and into her life…someone who could make her heart sing and body yearn…someone with whom she could share bed and board and the passing years. But the prince’s insistence that she marry for his convenience put that dream out of reach forever.
She thought of Thomas Bickering. How likely was he to be tall, clean-limbed and athletic looking, with thick, run-your-fingers-through-me hair and a simmering gaze that made her body hot and tingly? Not very.
If only she could go back to her simple life and her uncomplicated hopes.
But she knew
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