The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

Trentham closed the distance between them, his stride slow, a large, infinitely predatory figure; not for an instant did she doubt he was watching her. His face remained in shadow, until, halting close behind her, he lifted his gaze and met hers in the glass.

His eyes locked with hers.

His hands slid around her waist, closed, held her.

Her mouth was dry. “Are you really interested in conservatories?”

His gaze drifted down. “I’m interested in what this conservatory contains.”

“The plants?” Her voice was a thread.

“No. You.”

He turned her, and she was in his arms. He bent his head and covered her lips, as if he had the right. As if in some strange way she belonged to him.

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. Gripped as he parted her lips and surged in. He held her anchored before him as he savored her mouth, unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world.

And intended taking it.

The engagement made her head spin. Pleasurably. Warmth spread beneath her skin; the taste of him—hard, male, dominant—sank into her.

For long moments, they both simply took, gave, explored. While something within them both tightened.

He broke the kiss, lifted his head, but only enough to draw her closer yet. His hand, spread across her back, burned through the fine silk of her gown. He looked into her eyes from beneath heavy, almost slumbrous lids.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

She blinked, valiantly struggled to reassemble her wits. Watched him watch her attempt it. Requesting enlightenment on what his next step would be would assuredly be tempting fate; he was waiting for the question.

“Never mind.” Boldly, she reached up and drew his lips back to hers.

They were curved as they met hers, but he obliged; together they sank back into the exchange, let it draw them deeper. He drew back again.

“How old are you?”

The question feathered across her senses, into her mind. Her lips throbbed, hungry still; she brushed them across his.

“Does it matter?”

His lids lifted; their gazes touched. A moment passed. “Not materially.”

She licked her lips, looked at his. “Twenty-six.”

Those wicked lips curved. Once again, danger tickled her spine.

“Old enough.”

He drew her to him, against him; once again he bent his head.

Once again she met him.

Tristan sensed her eagerness, her enthusiasm. That much, at least, he’d won. She’d handed him the situation on a platter; it had been too good to pass up—another chance to build her awareness, to expand her horizons. Enough at least so that next time he sought to distract her sensually he’d have some chance of success.

She’d snapped out of his hold too easily that afternoon, evaded his snare, shaken free of any lingering fascination far too readily for his liking.

His nature had always been dictatorial. Tyrannical. Predatory.

He came from a long line of hedonistic males who had, with few exceptions, always taken what they’d wanted.