Read Online Undeniable Rogue (The Rogues Club Book One) by Annette Blair - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annette Blair
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her before, though he was not even touching her there now.
“I seek your pleasure, Sabrina, not mine.”
She craned her neck to look back at the scoundrel. “Do you think that I was born yesterday?”
There, that strangled chuckle again.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Not at all,” said he, all wide-eyed and feigned innocence. “I merely find myself thinking that your not having been born yesterday is a fact for which I shall remain eternally grateful.”
As if to prove his words, he planted kisses at her shoulder, her collarbone. Unusually skillful kisses. And while his one hand played lower along her belly, in an oddly soothing yet agitating way, the other came around to cup her breast and finger her nipple, adjoining the separate actions with a charged filament of sizzling fire.
Liquid heat pooled inside Sabrina, there, where he might have stroked had she let him, spiraling to and from places where his hands, and other parts of him, met and sparked off complimenting portions of her.
Sabrina moved her legs, just to sense the full length of his, from thighs to arching feet, and when she did, she unwittingly opened for him, and he made to take advantage.
She jumped when he touched her, crying out involuntarily, and again she brought his hand back to her belly. But in the back of her mind, Sabrina knew that she was being dishonest with herself.
She had cried out at the wonder of his touch, however fleeting.
Who was this woman living inside her skin? This woman who took a man to her bed and gloried in his touch, after everything. Never mind that he was her husband, that he would care for and protect her children. Who was she?
As if he understood her sudden need to be soothed, he gentled her as he might a skittish mare, with sweet, tender words and soft amiable strokes, making her deliciously drowsy, yet amazingly alert at one and the same time.
Afraid to forego some new and momentous sensation, Sabrina refused to succumb to sleep, but neither would her treacherous past allow her to succumb to exhilaration. One seemed a waste and the other a danger. And yet, she felt as if there was something of this experience she was missing, and she coveted the unknown.
“Your grace,” she said, barely recognizing the soft, lazy voice as her own.
“Yes, Sabrina.”
How sweet her name sounded on his gifted lips. How foolish she was becoming for reasoning so. “I have never experienced anything quite like this before.”
“Never?”
Sabrina caught a suggestion of cocksure satisfaction in her new husband’s hypnotic voice, and as a result, she experienced a disgraceful surge of gratification at having pleased him.
“Do you like this new experience?” he asked, his breath against her ear, warm and shivery, raising the hair on her arms and the temperature in the room.
“Is it terribly wicked, do you think?”
“Terribly,” he said on a nipping half-chuckle against her neck. “But did you not know that wickedness is suspended in the marriage bed?”
She sighed. “Then God must surely be a man.”
She felt, rather than heard, a hint of mirth in the ripple of her husband’s chest at her back and in his weakening arms around her.
At another time she would challenge his ridiculous notion of suspended wickedness, but right now, she had rather float as talk. How amazing that his hands on her skin, almost everywhere, could feel so fine.
“Shall we remove your gown?” her undeniable rogue of a seducer asked in such a way as to insure compliance, the last traces of mirth not entirely missing yet from his voice.
“Yes,” she said, knowing herself for a weakling and wishing she cared.
Her nightrail was gone before she quite understood the forfeit. But her bridegroom had been right; every touch felt better, richer, tighter, skin to silken skin. Then his mouth covered her breast, pulling pleasure from her deepest recesses in undulating waves of pure sensation. Touching her in such a way, and in such places, as
“I seek your pleasure, Sabrina, not mine.”
She craned her neck to look back at the scoundrel. “Do you think that I was born yesterday?”
There, that strangled chuckle again.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Not at all,” said he, all wide-eyed and feigned innocence. “I merely find myself thinking that your not having been born yesterday is a fact for which I shall remain eternally grateful.”
As if to prove his words, he planted kisses at her shoulder, her collarbone. Unusually skillful kisses. And while his one hand played lower along her belly, in an oddly soothing yet agitating way, the other came around to cup her breast and finger her nipple, adjoining the separate actions with a charged filament of sizzling fire.
Liquid heat pooled inside Sabrina, there, where he might have stroked had she let him, spiraling to and from places where his hands, and other parts of him, met and sparked off complimenting portions of her.
Sabrina moved her legs, just to sense the full length of his, from thighs to arching feet, and when she did, she unwittingly opened for him, and he made to take advantage.
She jumped when he touched her, crying out involuntarily, and again she brought his hand back to her belly. But in the back of her mind, Sabrina knew that she was being dishonest with herself.
She had cried out at the wonder of his touch, however fleeting.
Who was this woman living inside her skin? This woman who took a man to her bed and gloried in his touch, after everything. Never mind that he was her husband, that he would care for and protect her children. Who was she?
As if he understood her sudden need to be soothed, he gentled her as he might a skittish mare, with sweet, tender words and soft amiable strokes, making her deliciously drowsy, yet amazingly alert at one and the same time.
Afraid to forego some new and momentous sensation, Sabrina refused to succumb to sleep, but neither would her treacherous past allow her to succumb to exhilaration. One seemed a waste and the other a danger. And yet, she felt as if there was something of this experience she was missing, and she coveted the unknown.
“Your grace,” she said, barely recognizing the soft, lazy voice as her own.
“Yes, Sabrina.”
How sweet her name sounded on his gifted lips. How foolish she was becoming for reasoning so. “I have never experienced anything quite like this before.”
“Never?”
Sabrina caught a suggestion of cocksure satisfaction in her new husband’s hypnotic voice, and as a result, she experienced a disgraceful surge of gratification at having pleased him.
“Do you like this new experience?” he asked, his breath against her ear, warm and shivery, raising the hair on her arms and the temperature in the room.
“Is it terribly wicked, do you think?”
“Terribly,” he said on a nipping half-chuckle against her neck. “But did you not know that wickedness is suspended in the marriage bed?”
She sighed. “Then God must surely be a man.”
She felt, rather than heard, a hint of mirth in the ripple of her husband’s chest at her back and in his weakening arms around her.
At another time she would challenge his ridiculous notion of suspended wickedness, but right now, she had rather float as talk. How amazing that his hands on her skin, almost everywhere, could feel so fine.
“Shall we remove your gown?” her undeniable rogue of a seducer asked in such a way as to insure compliance, the last traces of mirth not entirely missing yet from his voice.
“Yes,” she said, knowing herself for a weakling and wishing she cared.
Her nightrail was gone before she quite understood the forfeit. But her bridegroom had been right; every touch felt better, richer, tighter, skin to silken skin. Then his mouth covered her breast, pulling pleasure from her deepest recesses in undulating waves of pure sensation. Touching her in such a way, and in such places, as
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