The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

Her breath slowly strangled. “What other tendencies?” She got the words out before her voice grew too weak—anything to gain a few more seconds…

His gaze drifted lower; her breasts swelled, ached. Then he raised his lids, looked into her face. “Those tendencies you’ve been running from, trying to avoid, but nevertheless enjoying for the past several weeks.”

He shifted closer; his coat brushed her bodice, his thigh touched hers.

Her heart thudded in her throat; desire spread like wild-fire beneath her skin. She looked into his face, at his thin, mobile lips, felt her own throb. Then she lifted her gaze to his mesmeric hazel eyes—and the truth broke over her. In all that had passed between them, all they’d shared to date, he hadn’t yet shown her, revealed to her, all.

Revealed, let her see, the depths, the true breadth of his possessiveness. Of his passion, his desire to possess her.

He reached for the ties of her cloak, with one tug had them free; the garment slid to the floor, pooling behind her. She’d worn a simple, deep blue evening gown; she watched his gaze roam her shoulders, frankly possessive, frankly hungry, then once more he met her gaze. Raised one brow. “So…what will you give me? How much will you yield?”

His eyes were locked with hers; she knew what he wanted.

All.

No reservations, no restrictions.

Knew in her heart, knew by the leaping of her senses that in that they were matched, that regardless of any ideas to the contrary, she was and would always be incapable of denying him exactly what he wanted.

Because she wanted it, too.

Despite his aggressiveness, despite the dark desire that smoldered in his eyes, there was nothing here for her to fear.

Only enjoy.

While she finished paying his price.

She moistened her lips, glanced at his. “What do you want me to say?” Her voice was low, her tone unashamedly sultry. Meeting his eyes, she arched a haughty brow. “Take me, I’m yours?”

A spark to tinder; the flames flared in his eyes. Crackled between them.

“That”—he reached for her; hands spanning her waist, he drew her uncompromisingly flush against him—“will do nicely.”

Bending his head, he set his lips to hers, and whirled them straight into the fire.

She parted her lips to him, welcomed him in, gloried in the heat he sent pouring through her veins.

Gloried in his possession of her mouth, slow, thorough, powerful, a warning of all that was to come.

Lifting her arms, she wound them about his neck, and abandoned herself to her fate.

He seemed to know, to sense her total and complete surrender—to him, to this, to the heated moment.

To the passion and desire that spilled through them.

He raised his hands and framed her face, anchored her as he deepened the kiss. Melding their mouths until they breathed as one, until the same pounding rhythm had laid siege in their veins.

With a low murmur, she pressed to him, wantonly inciting. His hands left her face, drifted down, curving about her shoulders, then boldly tracing her breasts. He closed his fingers, and the flames leapt. She shuddered, and urged him on. Kissed him as hungrily, as demanding as he was. He obliged, his fingers finding the tight peaks of her nipples and squeezing slowly, excruciatingly, tight.

She broke from the kiss on a gasp. His hands didn’t stop; they were everywhere, kneading, stroking, caressing. Possessing.

Heating her. Setting fires beneath her skin, making her pulse rage.

“This time, I want you naked.”

She could barely make out the words.

“With not a stitch to hide behind.”