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Authors: Karen Hawkins
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landed. She put her hands on the edge of the chair and tried to right herself, but William’s arms came to rest on her, one just below her bottom and the other over her back.
Marcail grasped William’s calf and tried to push herself upright, but he held her tight. Had any other man held her thusly, she would be concerned for her safety, but while angry, no flicker of fear touched her. He would never purposefully hurt her. He was far too protective of his own sisters to ever cross that line.
Still, she wouldn’t tamely accept being held in such a ridiculous position. She twisted so she could see him.
“Let me up!” she demanded, pushing with all of her strength, but to no avail.
“I warned you there would be a cost if you made this difficult.”
“William, don’t you dare—”
His hand rested on her bottom, warm through her skirts.
She stilled, her heart beating an odd rhythm against her breastbone. She was a mish mosh of emotions, frightened by the ease with which he wielded power over her, angry with her own inability to dismiss him, and infused by an odd yearning at the feel of his hands on her.
At one time, she’d felt she would never get enough of his touch, an illness she thought she’d cured. But had she?
His hand cupped her bottom through her skirts, and then slid gently down her legs.
She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. “William …” She clenched her teeth over the rest of the sentence, her ears burning with the husky yearning she’d heard in her own voice. She wished he’d … what? What did she want?
He reached her ankle and slowly caressed it, sending a shiver through her. Her body began to ache, craving that touch even as she flinched from it.
He flipped up her hem and she realized that his hold had slackened and she could rise if she wished to. But she remained where she was. Sheer, pure desire held her in place as she quivered for his touch.
He slowly slid his hand up the back of her leg, pausing to cup her calf.
She shivered as the air hit her bare leg. “William, I’m not going to—”
He pushed her skirt and chemise up, the cooler air tickling the skin on her now-exposed bottom. She was instantly aware of William’s physical reaction as his cock pressed against her stomach.
She froze on the brink between frustration and fascination. It had been so long since a man had touched her—years. In fact, the last man who had touched her had also been the first, William Hurst.
Her cheeks burned as she realized her inclination was to squirm more, to entice him, to tease him until he satisfied her longings. Did she dare do it? Would it work? Or was he—
“You haven’t changed much over the years.”
Marcail closed her eyes, trying to force the waves of desire down. After a moment, she managed to grit out, “Neither have you.” She indicated his stiff cock by rocking her hips.
William almost groaned at her motion. Damn it, I’m supposed to be in charge here! He’d lost his temper when he’d pulled her across his lap and he’d fully intended to spank her for her sins. But somehow, having her prone across his lap, her luscious form within reach, had completely wiped his mind of everything—why he was here, all the pain she’d caused in the past, everything except how exquisitely well she fitted to him.
How could he have forgotten how his body reacted to hers? How it had always reacted? How, even now, years later and many painful hurts ago, he couldn’t stop his cock from yearning to sink into her softness.
It was weakness on his part that made him continue with his “punishment,” though he was no longer sure which of them he was now torturing—himself or her?
His hand came to rest on her bare bottom, but this time he cupped her bared skin, sliding in slow circles as if to rub away the sting he’d once thought to inflict.
Marcail’s heart leapt in her throat as she shivered through and through.
“Marcail, you stubborn woman.” He continued to rub her bottom
Marcail grasped William’s calf and tried to push herself upright, but he held her tight. Had any other man held her thusly, she would be concerned for her safety, but while angry, no flicker of fear touched her. He would never purposefully hurt her. He was far too protective of his own sisters to ever cross that line.
Still, she wouldn’t tamely accept being held in such a ridiculous position. She twisted so she could see him.
“Let me up!” she demanded, pushing with all of her strength, but to no avail.
“I warned you there would be a cost if you made this difficult.”
“William, don’t you dare—”
His hand rested on her bottom, warm through her skirts.
She stilled, her heart beating an odd rhythm against her breastbone. She was a mish mosh of emotions, frightened by the ease with which he wielded power over her, angry with her own inability to dismiss him, and infused by an odd yearning at the feel of his hands on her.
At one time, she’d felt she would never get enough of his touch, an illness she thought she’d cured. But had she?
His hand cupped her bottom through her skirts, and then slid gently down her legs.
She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. “William …” She clenched her teeth over the rest of the sentence, her ears burning with the husky yearning she’d heard in her own voice. She wished he’d … what? What did she want?
He reached her ankle and slowly caressed it, sending a shiver through her. Her body began to ache, craving that touch even as she flinched from it.
He flipped up her hem and she realized that his hold had slackened and she could rise if she wished to. But she remained where she was. Sheer, pure desire held her in place as she quivered for his touch.
He slowly slid his hand up the back of her leg, pausing to cup her calf.
She shivered as the air hit her bare leg. “William, I’m not going to—”
He pushed her skirt and chemise up, the cooler air tickling the skin on her now-exposed bottom. She was instantly aware of William’s physical reaction as his cock pressed against her stomach.
She froze on the brink between frustration and fascination. It had been so long since a man had touched her—years. In fact, the last man who had touched her had also been the first, William Hurst.
Her cheeks burned as she realized her inclination was to squirm more, to entice him, to tease him until he satisfied her longings. Did she dare do it? Would it work? Or was he—
“You haven’t changed much over the years.”
Marcail closed her eyes, trying to force the waves of desire down. After a moment, she managed to grit out, “Neither have you.” She indicated his stiff cock by rocking her hips.
William almost groaned at her motion. Damn it, I’m supposed to be in charge here! He’d lost his temper when he’d pulled her across his lap and he’d fully intended to spank her for her sins. But somehow, having her prone across his lap, her luscious form within reach, had completely wiped his mind of everything—why he was here, all the pain she’d caused in the past, everything except how exquisitely well she fitted to him.
How could he have forgotten how his body reacted to hers? How it had always reacted? How, even now, years later and many painful hurts ago, he couldn’t stop his cock from yearning to sink into her softness.
It was weakness on his part that made him continue with his “punishment,” though he was no longer sure which of them he was now torturing—himself or her?
His hand came to rest on her bare bottom, but this time he cupped her bared skin, sliding in slow circles as if to rub away the sting he’d once thought to inflict.
Marcail’s heart leapt in her throat as she shivered through and through.
“Marcail, you stubborn woman.” He continued to rub her bottom
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