Compromised by the Prince's Touch by Bronwyn Scott

Author:Bronwyn Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2017-10-06T14:11:05+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Klara’s fingers dug into the rough wood of the stall wall, her body seeking purchase against the onslaught of Nikolay’s mouth at her breast, at her navel, at her core. When had she lost control of this seduction? Had she ever had control? Perhaps she was humouring herself that a man like Nikolay ever allowed himself to be led. And yet, wasn’t this what she’d come for? To find pleasure? To know something of the mysteries of passion? To know something of him—a man who could deliver on those mysteries. That was too simplistic. She’d come for more than that. His fingers skimmed the wet, sensitive folds guarding her core, teasing them apart for his tongue as it flicked over the nub hidden inside.

‘Ohhh...’ Her gasp was a barely veiled moan of the most primal sort. She could feel his thumbs pressing hard into the flesh of her hips, holding her steady for his feast of tongue and tastes. She was a ball of contradictions. She wanted to urge him to hurry. Wherever they were going, she was desperate to get there and yet she wanted to beg him to linger, to torment her further.

When she’d imagined tonight and what she meant to do when she got here, she had not possessed the imagination for this, for what it meant to be laid bare in both flesh and feeling. Her only consolation was that she wasn’t alone. He nuzzled her, a groan escaping him as he lapped at her folds, licking and lingering, teasing her towards something, an unknown but instinctive summation of this torturous pleasure. Nikolay would not be rushed. He was in control and he was intent on putting off satisfaction for them both as long as possible. Gratification delayed, the ultimate dilettante’s delight.

He murmured Russian love words, maybe dirty words that she didn’t understand, against her core, his breath coming in jagged rasps, his hands hard at her hips. She’d have bruises there in the morning. She wouldn’t mind those marks. They would be reminders of what had passed between them in the night, proof it wasn’t all a hot dream.

He did something wicked with his tongue, sending an intense thrill through her and she was nearly there. She gripped the barn wall, starting to thrash. A final sob, more cry than moan, escaped her and she let herself shatter, exhausted, replete, the emotions of the day held at bay for a while, as pleasure swept her cares away into forgetfulness. In this dark pleasure there was no more horror of the kill pen, no more thought of the horses she couldn’t save, no more political agendas that tested her loyalties, no more ballrooms and sordid proposals that bordered on blackmail from a man who saw her as an alliance to be made, wealth to secure, a trophy to carry on his arm.

As horrifying as the kill pen had been, the day had held other horrors: Amesbury’s threat, his demand that she not see Nikolay for lessons.

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