Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

He had never wanted anything, any woman, as he wanted Emily.

He was a man on fire, in desperate need of possessing her, and he took her mouth with a hunger that had been building inside him from the first moment.

She made a little sound.

Protest? Dio!

Despite what he was, who he was, he had never taken a woman who didn’t want him. If he had to let her go, if he had to stop kissing her…

It wasn’t a whisper of protest.

It was a sweet, soft cry of need and he groaned, took her face in his hands and changed the angle of the kiss, took it deep, deeper until the taste of her flooded his senses.

She slid her hands under his jacket, felt the thunder of his heart against her palms.

He wrapped his arms around her, his hands cupping her bottom, and lifted her against him.

She gasped at the feel of his erection pressing against her.

He told himself to slow down. He was out of control, going too fast. Much too fast. He had to slow things down.

But how could he?

Her tongue slid against his. Her hips rocked against his. Her arms locked around his neck; her head fell back and he buried his mouth in the hollow of her throat, tasted the dampness of her skin, felt the throb of her pulse beneath his lips.

“Cara,” he said, his voice low, hot, dangerous. “Cara mia, wait.”

She stiffened in his arms. “Don’t you want this? Oh God, Marco, I didn’t—”

“I want this more than I have ever wanted anything. But—”

“But?”

“But you deserve more. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She made a sound that might have been a laugh.

“The only way you could hurt me would be if you stopped.”

Her words sent a shudder through his body.

He lifted her higher. She wrapped her legs around his hips. He felt her dress ruck up, felt the hot core of her against him. One big hand cupped her bottom; his fingers spread, curving over her thong.

She gasped.

He muttered one raw, potent oath and tore the scrap of silk away.

She whispered something as his hand swept across bare skin, satin smooth, silky, hot.

So hot.

Not just there.

Here, he thought, closing his eyes as he moved his hand between her thighs. Dio, she was hot here, as well. And wet. So wet…

He parted the soft folds of her femininity. Found the bud that flowered within. Closed his eyes as she shuddered and cried out.

She was responsive to his every caress. So responsive that he had to grit his teeth and fight what he felt welling inside him. Could a man come just from this? From the taste of a woman’s mouth, the scent of her arousal, the sound of her cries?