Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1.50)

Furious, Laurel wrenched one hand free and slapped him hard across the cheek. He made no move to avoid the blow, but his eyes, stormy grey, darkened in the moment before he caught her wrist in one hand and fisted his other into the tumbling mass of her hair, tugging back her head for his kiss.

She had never been kissed on the mouth before. He captured hers with contemptuous ease. His tongue pushed between her lips and possessed her mouth, and the shock snatched the air from her lungs and the strength from her struggling limbs.

Patrick smelt hot and angry, he smelt of musk and man and his mouth tasted of coffee and brandy and of him. His teeth nipped at her lower lip and she shuddered as the pull on her hair bowed her back so he could drag his teeth down the tendons of her throat, a low, possessive growl vibrating against her skin.

Her anger built and burned and then, as he came back to her mouth, sucking her tongue into his, it flared up into pure heat, aching desire. Oh, lord, he knows what he is doing and he is so good at it…. Shocked out of shyness, every inhibition unshackled by rage, Laurel pressed against the hard body that had captured her, pressed against the thrust of Patrick’s erection. He froze.

‘Laurel?’ He lifted his head and looked down at her, his eyes questioning. She had the impression that women did not often leave Patrick Jago confused.

‘Yes,’ she whispered with reckless courage. She wanted this man, needed him. She was afraid, although not of him. Of herself, perhaps. The fear itself was arousing, as though they were about to embark on a dangerous adventure together.

Patrick let his hand trail down her breast, and the nipple peaked and hardened under his palm. He pulled her to him with his other hand, cupping the soft weight, fretting the tight bud with the ball of his thumb.

‘Yes,’ she whispered again. ‘Patrick…yes.’ The touch of his hands tormented her breasts. They felt heavy, swollen. His touch was almost pain, almost unbearable, sending shafts of sensation down into her belly where there was heat and a strange aching desire. ‘It feels so…strange.’

‘Trust me,’ Patrick murmured, even as the torture made her moan and writhe. ‘Can you trust me?’ Their eyes met and she saw the heat that simmered behind his. Laurel nodded.

He put her from him and she lifted her hands to her aching breasts in a futile gesture of shyness, shamefully wanting to rub, to stroke, to ignite those feelings again as Patrick untied his neck cloth and began to unbutton his shirt.

‘Help me,’ he said, his voice harsh with an urgency that she did not mistake now for anger. Laurel put up her hands to push the shirt from his shoulders. They wanted to linger, to cling to him as she leaned into the protection of his body, yet she also wanted to touch all of him. She slid her palms down his chest, imitating what he had done to her, and his eyes darkened and clouded as she flicked at his nipples, catching her breath as they tightened in reaction. So much to learn…

She had never been so close to an unclothed man before. She had not expected such well-defined muscles. What, she wondered, biting her lip as she took in the elegant power of his torso tapering to slim hips and the slide of muscle under his skin, did he do to be so fit?

Clothed in his good, plain, unobtrusive coat and breeches, he looked gentlemanly but not dominating—no doubt that was part of his investigator’s cover. But now, so close and so male, she began to realise why she had been so drawn to him in Martinsdene. Was that all it was, a basic feminine recognition of masculine sexuality and strength? Laurel swallowed. All? That was not the word for the way he drove the breath from her lungs.

His hands went to the fall of his trousers and her eyes followed his hands. There was no disguising his erection, the press of hard flesh straining against the thin evening breeches.

I should close my eyes, she told herself as she stared, wide-eyed as he stripped off the garment. She knew her anatomy, the facts of life; she thought she knew what to expect, but it was still a revelation to see the living body. Close your eyes, she told herself, forcing them up, but all that achieved was the discovery that she could not keep them from descending again to follow the hair on his chest tapering down to the thick curls around his manhood.

His very erect manhood. Laurel swallowed, not knowing whether it was apprehension or desire. Both, she realised. I want to touch him, feel him. I want to kiss him…there. I shouldn’t want this, but I do. I want it to be Patrick.

She knew she was blushing, knew she was trembling, but there was no doubt in her mind that this is where she wanted to be, with this man.

‘Come here,’ Patrick said, a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘Probably best not to look.’

He drew her in close, his body hot and hard against her softness. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts, rubbing the already tight nipples into impossibly sensitive knots. Against her belly she felt him stir in the tangle of coarse hair, the hard length of flesh alive and blatant with its heat and its threat…its promise.

He was so aroused. Just as I am, she thought, shaken by the realisation that she could feel like this.

‘Oh, God. You’re killing me,’ he muttered.

He must be able to feel her excitement, she was sure. He was no innocent and her body was trying to mould itself to his. As she rubbed her breasts wantonly against his chest, she could not help rocking into the hardness of his straining erection.

He caught her up suddenly, whirled her round and dropped her so that she landed face down on the bed.

He followe

d her, his weight pressing into her thighs, his legs straddling hers. She felt him seize the hem of the tattered shift, tear it away, and cooler air swept over the hot skin of her back. Something brushed her buttocks and she realised it was his erection.

She arched upward, brushing against him and he groaned and fell forward so that her buttocks ground into his groin. His weight was thrilling, arousing. She had thought it would be frightening to be trapped beneath the weight of a man when he made love, but it was not. At least, it was not when the man was Patrick.

He bit her shoulder, a nip that sent sensation coursing through her, and she gasped, struggling under him, trying to part her legs, wanting to be able to turn and hold him, kiss his mouth, have him soothe the ache that was building inside her, transforming her body into something that was urgent, slick with moisture, tight with impossible demands.

At last, oh, please… His knee was pressing between her legs, forcing them apart, and she yielded instantly, trembling beneath him. But then he went still, his body over hers, for what seemed an age. ‘Patrick?’ she whispered.

What was he waiting for? Had she done something wrong? The apprehension that had been drowned in passion and sensation began to creep back. He was large and heavy and male and now she was remembering all the whispered gossip about lovemaking, all the tales the wide-eyed village girls told. Did she really want to do this? Only it was Patrick…

Chapter Three