Shameless Playboy by Caitlin Crews Page B

           He
simply took her mouth with no hesitation—as if it was his, as if she was his, as if that devastating
possession was his right.
                 It
was like a bomb detonated inside of her, exploding through her limbs, white-hot
fire and spiraling need combusting again and again and again, leaving her weak.
Wanting. Her breasts ached. Her nipples hardened. Her core melted. And still he
kissed her, taking her mouth with an easy command that made her tremble against
him.
                 He
kissed with a carnal demand, a sheer, arrogant certainty, that shook Grace
almost as much as the feel of his mouth on hers.
                 Hot.
Commanding. As if her entire life had led inexorably to this moment, to the
incomparable feel of his lips against hers, sending desire swimming through her
veins like alcohol and rendering her incapable of doing anything more than
kissing him back.
                 As
if she had never done anything else. As if she would die if she did not.
                 She
raised a hand, and then forgot why as it found the rock-hard planes of his
chest, the hint of stubble on his lean jaw, each new sensation igniting a flood
of desire, each stronger and more thrilling than the last.
                 She
… forgot. Where they were. Why she was angry with him. Why she should not allow
him to angle his mouth over hers with such skill and talent, nor rake a hand
into her hair to anchor her head in place as he tasted her again and again and
again. Everything that was not Lucas was like smoke, drifting away, signifying
nothing. As if only he existed.
                 Without
lifting his mouth from hers, without giving her even a moment to breathe, to
collect herself, Lucas shifted on the small settee, his powerful arms sweeping
Grace up and over him, settling her sideways across his lap. He murmured
something she could not understand, could hardly hear over the pounding of her
heart and the wild rush in her ears, and then he claimed her mouth once more.
                 It
was too much. He was everywhere. Hard beneath her thighs, hard against her
body, and that talented, wicked mouth of his that took and took, until she
could not think at all. She could only feel the heat. The fire. The slick fit
and exquisite taste of him, expensive liquor mixed with that part that was
purely him. Pure Lucas. Sinful and delicious and capable of making her head
spin around and around while the very core of her pulsed with need.
                 One
of his hands remained laced in her hair, and on some dim level she was aware
that he was destroying her careful twist. The pins scattered at his impatient
touch and the heavy, wild curtain of her blond waves cascaded down around them,
shielding them, cocooning them. She could not find it in her to care. His other
hand stroked a lazy path from her cheek to her neck, down the stretch of her
bare arm to settle at her hip, his big hand holding her fast on one side with
his arousal stark and unmistakable on the other.
                 Grace’s
hands went to his strong, sculpted shoulders and were lost, unable to keep from
testing the stark physical power he held leashed there—the fine, chiseled lines
of his lean and muscular form. Once again, her hand crept to his cheek as if
she could hold him, understand him, make sense of him that way. As if she could
keep him there, kissing her as if he was starved for her, kissing him back as
if she had never been kissed before, as if he had switched a light on inside of
her and she could only glow. And glow.
                 She
had never felt this fine desperation, this coiling, insistent need. This fire.
She was lost in him. Undone by him.
                 And
still he made love to her mouth as if he could do so forever, as if he had all
the time in the world, as if nothing existed but the two of them.