Once Upon a Kiss by Tanya Anne Crosby Page B

velvety
softness around his shaft. Even now, the mere thought came near to unmanning
him where he sat, and he wasn’t certain whose was the greater sin: Graeham’s
for sending the wench to begin with, hers for tempting him so sorely, or his
own for succumbing so easily.
    He didn’t have to think on it long; it was his.
    Because even now, he wanted her.
    Even now.
    It twisted his gut, revolted him.
    “Wash yourself and be damned!” she charged him,
hurling the rag at him furiously and turning to flee.
    It smacked him full in the face and he reacted
instinctively, surging from the water in a black rage and catching her at once,
jerking her back wrathfully.
    Against his better judgment, he held her too
close.
    The scent of her tormented him.
    The feel of her burned him.
    His body reacted violently. Gritting his teeth, he
warned, “’Tis said, demoiselle, that if one plays with fire... one gets burned.
You are straying dangerously close to the flame.”
    She lifted her chin defiantly. “You do not
frighten me,” she said fiercely, struggling to free herself.
    “Nay?”
    “Nay. I know you are beholden to your brother. You
would do naught to harm his bride. Now, unhand me,” she demanded. “You are
wet—and you are wetting me!”
    He lifted a brow. “You think I would not behave
with dishonor, demoiselle?”
    “I know you would no—”
    He thrust her violently away. She stumbled
backward, tripping upon the bed. “Then you know nothing,” he snarled, following
her and leaping upon her, pinning her to the bed before she could rise.
    “You are wet,” she protested, panting, gasping for
breath. “Get off!”
    Water dripped from him, soaking her bliaut.
Against his will, his eyes took in the damp fabric at her breast, the way her
nipples strained against it, uplifted, heaving, tempting him, teasing. “I would
venture, demoiselle—” His gaze returned to her face “—a soaking is
the least of your concerns just now.” He met her sapphire gaze with abject
honesty.
    “Let me be!”
    Let her be? The bloody seductress. She squirmed and bucked against
him as though she meant to entice him. And she succeeded, for a madness claimed
him in that instant. A madness like never before, too aware was he of the soft
body twisting beneath him. Seizing a handful of her hair, he thrust her head
backward into the bed, forcing her still, and then, unable to help himself, he
covered her mouth with his own, pressing his lips full against hers, his mouth
closed, his lips trembling, some part of him still painfully aware that he
could not give in to his desire.
    For the love of Christ, she was his brother’s bride.
    He muttered a curse through clenched teeth, but
the word was barely recognizable—more a savage snarl. Quaking, his mouth
covering hers, pressing until his teeth cut against the inside of his own lips,
he saw his brother’s image rear up before him, and he dared not part his
traitorous lips, dared not kiss her intimately. He lay there atop her, instead.
His eyes closing, he shuddered with an impossible determination to restrain
himself. Shuddered with need.
    His sex was full between them, evidence neither of
them could deny.
    He didn’t bother trying. She whimpered, and he
murmured feverishly against her lips, “Tell me now that you are unafraid,
demoiselle.” How could she not be, when he was suddenly terrified of himself?
His eyes speared her. “Tell me, too, that you are unaffected,” he heard himself
demand, his voice strange to his ears.
    She said nothing, merely stared, wide-eyed.
    But she didn’t deny him. God...
    He prayed she would.
    Damn him, but he could not help himself. She
didn’t deny him. His desire too great to withstand, he thrust his tongue into
the depths of her mouth, reveling in the sweet, heady taste of her, if only for
the merest instant... the briefest... most extraordinary instant. He was lost.
    It would be so easy to give in to the madness, to
lift up her skirts and bury himself