A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) by Kathleen Bittner Roth

breath hitched. There was no mistaking—she was as desirous of him as he was of her!
    And she was right, at her age and being of independent means, she could do whatever she pleased. Her potent words had agitated his mind all night. She had two weeks left here, three if he could talk her out of that damnable wedding, so why not remove all restraint and get each other out of their systems before going their separate ways? Images flashed through his mind of the two of them together—her naked hips pressed against his, her bare breasts…
    He was going to kiss her. He needed to kiss her.
    She shook her head. Just barely. “No. Don’t touch me,” she whispered. And then she was off the settee and dashing for the door.
    He followed, aware he didn’t want her anywhere but beside him. “What’s wrong with being touched?”
    Gads, am I possessed? He caught up with her and swung her around, that strange need growing at a frenzied pace. He froze when his hands clutched her shoulders. The heat of her scorched his fingers.
    She was right, he shouldn’t have touched her, because once done, he couldn’t let go. She was opium to an addict. Before he knew it, he’d backed her up against the door, pressed his palms onto the smooth wood on either side of her and caged her.
    Wide-eyed, she stared up at him. Her pupils dilated, and she drew a shuddering breath.
    A wave of exhilaration infused him. “You desire contact, don’t you? That’s the reason you ran off, isn’t it? You want to be touched as much as I crave touching you, and it scares you to death.”
    “You are mad.”
    “Only about you.” He bent his head closer to her, his words growing heavy on his tongue. “You, madam, are afraid you cannot handle a kiss—or anything else that might transpire between us, aren’t you?”
    “You are arrogant.”
    “Try something else.” They stood so close he could feel her breath, ragged when it fell against his mouth. He allowed his lips to part to catch more of her sweet scent. “I have a proposition for you,” he murmured, “I won’t kiss you if you promise not to go to the wedding.”
    “I…I shall not make such…a foolhardy promise.” Her staccato words were filled with heat and vibrancy.
    Emboldened by the desire emanating from her, he bent closer still, until he only had to speak in a whisper to be heard. He studied her mouth. He wanted her. God, he wanted her—right here, right now, and touching her was like finding his way home—at last. “Because you want the kiss, or because you are a stubborn fool?”
    His voice rasped in his throat and now he had to force the words off his tongue. “Go on, tell me you don’t want me to kiss you. That you don’t want me for other things.”
    Her hands came to his chest, as if to push him away, but her fingers merely splayed against him. Her lips quivered as though she tried to speak and couldn’t. Then her head fell back against the door, and her eyes half closed.
    …
    “Suri.” She heard him sigh as his warm mouth closed on hers. For an instant, she was thrown back in time. But then the taste of him touched her tongue—cinnamon, cardamom and fennel—and she was in the moment again as he leaned into her and the heat of his body penetrated through the thin fabric of her sari.
    Ten years of yearning for something—for someone she’d formed into a fantasy, collided with reality. He was here, holding her, kissing her—and yes, it was even better than before— my God!
    The same kind of heat that pressed against her built between her thighs. She rose on her toes, aching to get closer. One hand slid from his chest to knot in his hair, a mindless movement. She moaned into his mouth and clutched her other hand to his broad back, pulling him so tight against her, she didn’t know the difference between his skin and hers.
    Closer, she wanted closer, desperate to ease the sensation that built from erratic flickers to a steady thrum. No wonder lovers risked all to sin. No