Read Online The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) by Chasity Bowlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chasity Bowlin
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veins, flowing hotter and thicker beneath every sweep of his hand. He made her burn and no matter how much she resisted, they both knew it.
Clenching her fists at her sides, Abbi ignored the yearning, the ache building inside her. She forced herself to lie there, accepting his attentions, but never returning them, never assuaging her curiosity about the silken texture of his skin, the firmness of muscle or the heat that emanated from him.
Michael felt the slight withdrawal. He knew, at some point, her infernal brain had begun to work again telling her the million and one reasons that existed for her to deny him. He reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it until he could see her stocking clad legs. Her legs were long and shapely, her rounded thighs tapering to firm calves and narrow ankles. He reached down and removed her shoes, before drawing her knees up. He lifted her right leg gently, drawing it up until he could clasp her foot in his hand. With the pad of his thumb, he stroked firmly from the arch of her foot up to her toes and back. He massaged her foot with firm but gentle pressure, all the while he played at the bounty of her breasts with his lips and tongue.
Her breathing became progressively more labored. Whether she relented or not, he knew that she craved him, even if her reason bid her to deny him. A small, doubting part of him thought that might have to be enough to sustain him. He moved his hand from her foot to her ankle, still using soft, gentle strokes.
Gradually, he worked his way up her calf and then her thigh. His own breathing had become ragged by then. His erection had progressed to the point of agony. He was so hard that he ached. The lush, silken heat of her body called to him. He longed to sink into her, to ease them both, in the same way that he longed for breath. It was simply necessary. As his hand brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, she placed her hand over his, halting his progress.
“Your eight minutes have run out,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly, and there was a breathlessness to it that only added to his misery.
“You’re really going to stop now?” he asked, incredulously. While he’d acknowledged the possibility that it might happen, he couldn’t quite fathom the reality of it. Of course, the truth of how little blood was actually flowing to his addled brain was undeniable. Thinking was not a priority at the moment. He knew that she wanted him that she had enjoyed every touch.
“Yes, I really am,” she said, and extricated herself from his arms. That her knees trembled slightly as she rose did not offer any appeasement.
“Good night, my lord,” she said, moving towards the door without sparing him a backward glance.
In his bed, his body aching and needy; Michael stared at the door in utter dismay. The possibility of it had existed for him, but the reality was unfathomable. She had truly walked away. It should have hurt his pride or at the very least nicked his ego. He was still too dumbfounded to process it fully.
Angry, frustrated, and randier than an adolescent boy, he glared at the clock on the bedside table before hurling it across the room. Though it smashed against the hearth, the destruction did nothing to ease his misery. There was only one thing to do. Like any untried youth, he faced the less than satisfying prospect of seeing to his own sexual satisfaction.
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his body on fire and his mind numb. A line from the Merchant of Venice entered his mind then, ‘Lovers ever run before the clock’. It was shockingly apropos considering that his wedding night had turned into a farce.
Chapter Seven
The following morning, Michael was still in a foul mood. That his new wife appeared quite chipper as she went about her daily chores only aggravated him further. When he saw her carrying clothes down to wash,, his temper got the better of him. “We have servants for that!” he
Clenching her fists at her sides, Abbi ignored the yearning, the ache building inside her. She forced herself to lie there, accepting his attentions, but never returning them, never assuaging her curiosity about the silken texture of his skin, the firmness of muscle or the heat that emanated from him.
Michael felt the slight withdrawal. He knew, at some point, her infernal brain had begun to work again telling her the million and one reasons that existed for her to deny him. He reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it until he could see her stocking clad legs. Her legs were long and shapely, her rounded thighs tapering to firm calves and narrow ankles. He reached down and removed her shoes, before drawing her knees up. He lifted her right leg gently, drawing it up until he could clasp her foot in his hand. With the pad of his thumb, he stroked firmly from the arch of her foot up to her toes and back. He massaged her foot with firm but gentle pressure, all the while he played at the bounty of her breasts with his lips and tongue.
Her breathing became progressively more labored. Whether she relented or not, he knew that she craved him, even if her reason bid her to deny him. A small, doubting part of him thought that might have to be enough to sustain him. He moved his hand from her foot to her ankle, still using soft, gentle strokes.
Gradually, he worked his way up her calf and then her thigh. His own breathing had become ragged by then. His erection had progressed to the point of agony. He was so hard that he ached. The lush, silken heat of her body called to him. He longed to sink into her, to ease them both, in the same way that he longed for breath. It was simply necessary. As his hand brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, she placed her hand over his, halting his progress.
“Your eight minutes have run out,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly, and there was a breathlessness to it that only added to his misery.
“You’re really going to stop now?” he asked, incredulously. While he’d acknowledged the possibility that it might happen, he couldn’t quite fathom the reality of it. Of course, the truth of how little blood was actually flowing to his addled brain was undeniable. Thinking was not a priority at the moment. He knew that she wanted him that she had enjoyed every touch.
“Yes, I really am,” she said, and extricated herself from his arms. That her knees trembled slightly as she rose did not offer any appeasement.
“Good night, my lord,” she said, moving towards the door without sparing him a backward glance.
In his bed, his body aching and needy; Michael stared at the door in utter dismay. The possibility of it had existed for him, but the reality was unfathomable. She had truly walked away. It should have hurt his pride or at the very least nicked his ego. He was still too dumbfounded to process it fully.
Angry, frustrated, and randier than an adolescent boy, he glared at the clock on the bedside table before hurling it across the room. Though it smashed against the hearth, the destruction did nothing to ease his misery. There was only one thing to do. Like any untried youth, he faced the less than satisfying prospect of seeing to his own sexual satisfaction.
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his body on fire and his mind numb. A line from the Merchant of Venice entered his mind then, ‘Lovers ever run before the clock’. It was shockingly apropos considering that his wedding night had turned into a farce.
Chapter Seven
The following morning, Michael was still in a foul mood. That his new wife appeared quite chipper as she went about her daily chores only aggravated him further. When he saw her carrying clothes down to wash,, his temper got the better of him. “We have servants for that!” he
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