Midnight's Wild Passion

As she battled to form a demand to release her, she watched his face change. The softness ebbed, all trace of vulnerability evaporated. She knew him well enough to understand that the emotional truth of that kiss would displease him mightily. Ranelaw didn’t readily reveal his heart to anyone, yet that kiss had hinted at a deeper, sweeter connection between them than mere lust.

A deeper, sweeter connection that clearly he had no intention of acknowledging.

This time the intent in his face wouldn’t be gainsaid. His lips parted hers and he slid his tongue inside. She gave a stifled denial and pushed at his shoulders. He was taut and unyielding under her hands. It was like trying to move a great, sun-warmed monolith.

Horror swamped her as she realized she might have missed her chance to save herself. If she kept fighting, he’d stop. She doubted he’d force her. He wasn’t a complete brute.

Even now when Ranelaw displayed a single-minded determination that should appall her, her blood pulsed hot and hard. His unbridled passion filled her with forbidden excitement. Some perfidious voice in her head whispered that if she let him take her, it wouldn’t be her fault. He’d made it impossible to escape.

She muffled that wicked, wicked voice and shoved him again. But never had Ranelaw seemed so large, so invincible. He leaned closer, no matter how she squirmed to create some space. He crushed her against the tree trunk until she could hardly breathe. Or perhaps desire constricted her lungs.

She felt herself toppling toward surrender.

Her tongue tangled with his, stroked the soft underside, the rougher upper surface. She explored the hard edges of his teeth, the cushion of his l

ips. He had wonderful lips, firm and full and sensual. He could seduce her with his mouth alone.

Through the mist of arousal, she realized he did exactly that. His hands remained braced beside her.

With a groan, he raised his head. His hunger for her was unconcealed, but she’d swear other, more complex reactions lurked behind the wall she saw in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked shakily. Her heart constricted with fear and distress. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” A muscle jerked in his cheek as he surveyed her under heavy eyelids. His hard, glittering eyes and bruised face conveyed a satanic air for all that his voice descended to a seductive purr. “Stop fighting me. We both want the same thing.”

She flinched as though he’d hit her. For a bewildered, devastated moment, she stared at him. “Why are you angry? What have I done?”

“That’s the first time you’ve sounded like a silly virgin, Antonia. The games have been enjoyable but time has come to pay your forfeit.”

“Never,” she vowed, curling her fingers into claws and aiming for his face. Trapped between his body and the tree, she didn’t have room to slap him although she’d dearly love to.

His soft laugh whispered along her veins like a drug. Like it always did. He caught her hand before it made contact. She wriggled to bring up her knee, but he easily maneuvered her into powerlessness. “No, sweeting. You’ve done enough damage.”

“Obviously not,” she hissed through her teeth, hating her helplessness. “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance.”

Crammed so close, she felt the pulsing power of his erection against her belly. Once she’d doubted that he felt genuine interest in her. She doubted no longer.

Although she tried to resist, he lowered her hand to her side and, pinning her with his weight, curled his other hand over her breast. His touch was skillful, quickening her desire. To her humiliation, her nipple hardened against his palm. She bit back a whimper of shamed enjoyment.

“Give it up, Antonia. You know you can’t win.”

She growled and strove again to wriggle free. No use. He raised her skirt and she felt cool air on her stockinged leg, then on the bare thigh.

Blank unreality paralyzed her.

This couldn’t be happening. Lord Ranelaw wasn’t about to take her without ceremony against a tree. She wasn’t standing acquiescent, letting him tug at her clothing.

“Stop,” she gasped, stretching down with a shaking hand to prevent him lifting her skirt higher. “For pity’s sake, stop.”

“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, easily evading her. He stroked her leg before slipping his hand between her thighs.

She gasped with shock and unwilling pleasure when those clever fingers penetrated the slit in her drawers and found her wet heat. He released a deep sound of satisfaction, feral in its intensity. Now they both knew she was aroused, however she protested.

She moaned as he stroked her, unerringly finding her center. Sensation shuddered through her and her hands formed fists in his shirt.

“Yes.” He spoke the word in a drawn-out hiss of appreciation.

Swirling response rose when he pressed again. She closed her eyes and panted while her faltering sense of survival screamed that she must flee. Now. Before he had her flat on her back and begging.