more than the lust licking through his veins. And, as suddenly, he knew he didn't want to be corrupted. Inhaling a ragged, brutal breath, using every ounce of will bred into him by the harsh, Absarokee tradition, Hazard crushed down the overwhelming emotions driving him to take this woman and very deliberately pulled her arms from around his neck and stepped away from her.
Turning, he walked the few steps to his chair and sat down, trying with all the strength of his considerable will to concentrate on something—anything but his hunger for this woman.
Feeling instantly cold and bereft when he walked away, Blaze, her eyes, pleasure-darkened from new, powerful yearnings beating at her sanity, didn't stop to think, only acted. "Come back," she softly pleaded. Her senses, her awakened body, were reaching toward some elusive enchantment, and not knowing why she felt as she did when Hazard touched her, Blaze only knew she wanted what he was about to give her.
Hazard didn't respond. His breath, a harsh, raspy rhythm, came from deep within his chest, now that the initial suffocating feeling had passed. With an irritated grimace, he shifted restlessly on the chair but he stayed where he was, braced hard against his body's searing drive.
Blaze knew, however innocent her knowledge of these things, that he hadn't wanted to stop. Something had forced him to walk away. And she also knew with an inherent femaleness that she could undermine that resistance.
And that was when the spoiled Miss Braddock came to the fore, the impetuous Miss Braddock who had been denied nothing in her life, the imperious Miss Braddock whose blood was on fire. "Come here," she repeated, out of pique this time, unfamiliar with being spurned, a sultry petulance permeating her voice. "I want to feel you…" The sentence was left incomplete.
Jon Hazard's treacherous mind finished the thought and his hand resting on the rough tabletop clenched convulsively. "You'd better go," he growled. "Just get the hell out of here," he added gruffly, all the ethical and unethical turmoil locked hard within him.
He heard her boot heels on the floor and tensed, his knuckles pale against his swarthy skin. The visual image of her backed against the wall, naked above the waist, her breasts softly swollen under his hands, her wide eyes warm and liquid with wanting him—the vivid portrayal added inches to his arousal. "I don't want to go yet," she whispered softly, like a young girl wanting something she shouldn't have. The tone was jeunesse doree, willful, and transiently he wondered if she wasn't a hussy but some wealthy young lady fallen into disgrace.
His ambivalent musing was dramatically abridged in the following second, for her hand touched his hair.
She felt him steady himself after the initial, breath-catching shock, and as her small fingers, slender and pale, smoothed down the sleek blackness of his hair, Hazard sat unmoving, his breath almost in abeyance. Then her hand slipped down to his shoulder, her warm palm lying lightly on him, and an overwhelming sexual response poured over Hazard. He could no longer convince himself of the corruption. All he could think of her was her long legs wrapped around him.
Blaze focused on her pale fingers lying on his skin: fragile femaleness on brown male strength; the erotic contrast of brute virility beneath her fingers like a tender rose on an anvil. Then she saw Hazard Black begin, automatically, to breathe again, felt the warmth of his skin move. Would it hurt, she wondered for the first time in her life? Could she take on all that driving power and ever be the same? Why was she drawn to this uncivilized man with the terribly civilized touch of a polished courtier?
Hazard had always prided himself on picking and choosing; with his charm and physical grace, he'd always been able to. He knew how to say no when he didn't want a woman. And he shouldn't touch her, particularly not this
Turning, he walked the few steps to his chair and sat down, trying with all the strength of his considerable will to concentrate on something—anything but his hunger for this woman.
Feeling instantly cold and bereft when he walked away, Blaze, her eyes, pleasure-darkened from new, powerful yearnings beating at her sanity, didn't stop to think, only acted. "Come back," she softly pleaded. Her senses, her awakened body, were reaching toward some elusive enchantment, and not knowing why she felt as she did when Hazard touched her, Blaze only knew she wanted what he was about to give her.
Hazard didn't respond. His breath, a harsh, raspy rhythm, came from deep within his chest, now that the initial suffocating feeling had passed. With an irritated grimace, he shifted restlessly on the chair but he stayed where he was, braced hard against his body's searing drive.
Blaze knew, however innocent her knowledge of these things, that he hadn't wanted to stop. Something had forced him to walk away. And she also knew with an inherent femaleness that she could undermine that resistance.
And that was when the spoiled Miss Braddock came to the fore, the impetuous Miss Braddock who had been denied nothing in her life, the imperious Miss Braddock whose blood was on fire. "Come here," she repeated, out of pique this time, unfamiliar with being spurned, a sultry petulance permeating her voice. "I want to feel you…" The sentence was left incomplete.
Jon Hazard's treacherous mind finished the thought and his hand resting on the rough tabletop clenched convulsively. "You'd better go," he growled. "Just get the hell out of here," he added gruffly, all the ethical and unethical turmoil locked hard within him.
He heard her boot heels on the floor and tensed, his knuckles pale against his swarthy skin. The visual image of her backed against the wall, naked above the waist, her breasts softly swollen under his hands, her wide eyes warm and liquid with wanting him—the vivid portrayal added inches to his arousal. "I don't want to go yet," she whispered softly, like a young girl wanting something she shouldn't have. The tone was jeunesse doree, willful, and transiently he wondered if she wasn't a hussy but some wealthy young lady fallen into disgrace.
His ambivalent musing was dramatically abridged in the following second, for her hand touched his hair.
She felt him steady himself after the initial, breath-catching shock, and as her small fingers, slender and pale, smoothed down the sleek blackness of his hair, Hazard sat unmoving, his breath almost in abeyance. Then her hand slipped down to his shoulder, her warm palm lying lightly on him, and an overwhelming sexual response poured over Hazard. He could no longer convince himself of the corruption. All he could think of her was her long legs wrapped around him.
Blaze focused on her pale fingers lying on his skin: fragile femaleness on brown male strength; the erotic contrast of brute virility beneath her fingers like a tender rose on an anvil. Then she saw Hazard Black begin, automatically, to breathe again, felt the warmth of his skin move. Would it hurt, she wondered for the first time in her life? Could she take on all that driving power and ever be the same? Why was she drawn to this uncivilized man with the terribly civilized touch of a polished courtier?
Hazard had always prided himself on picking and choosing; with his charm and physical grace, he'd always been able to. He knew how to say no when he didn't want a woman. And he shouldn't touch her, particularly not this
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