The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden

Author:Elisa Braden [Braden, Elisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elisa Braden
Published: 2016-04-28T18:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Go on, then. Take what you want. I suspect there is little I can do to dissuade you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, regarding a tempting morsel dropped unexpectedly at his feet.

Charlotte was glad she wore nearly nothing, for she had never felt such feverish heat. One moment, she was laughing at something he’d said—she could scarcely recall it—and the next, his hands were digging into her hips, yanking her body flush against his. The man was like sun-scorched stone, hot and hard and foreign. Clenching her muscles on a gasp, she settled her lips where they demanded to be—on his throat, caressing and breathing against his skin. Why, she could not say. Everything was instinct and sensation and reaction. Her breasts were fire, the ache between her thighs a pulsing, living thing.

His swallow rippled against her lips, his breath panting and damp against her ear. “Naked. I need you naked. Now.”

She nodded and clasped his head tighter, clenching greedy fingers into silky sable strands and rubbing her body against his like a cat arching into a stroke. Something tugged at her hair, and then it was loose, falling cool across her shoulders and back.

Hard hands gripped her waist, pushed at her. But she did not want distance. Not even an inch. She wished to feel her nipples flattened and pressured against him. She wished to feel that long, mysterious ridge stroke harder against her unrelenting ache.

“Charlotte,” he growled against her ear. “I’m going to tear this gown from you if you do not remove it.”

She ground herself against him, whimpering at the blissful, unsatisfying pleasure. His hands slid from her waist to her back and into her hair. His fingers tightened and forced her head back. She opened her eyes. Shivers rippled up her spine as blazing turquoise ran from her lips to her throat.

Then his mouth fell upon hers, lips grinding, a honey-sweet tongue invading and stroking and playing. She drank of him like someone who had never had more than a drop. Head spinning, need spiraling, she thrust her tongue against his. She knew she was doing it wrong, for her motions were jerky and desperate, nothing like his controlled, rhythmic, pleasurable dance.

A rumble inside his chest vibrated through her breasts, echoed against her lips. Fingers brushed her upper spine, tracing the line of her gown’s edge. They gripped. Muslin tore. Her gown split to her waist.

His hand cupped her nape, holding her in place. His mouth left hers with a jerk.

“Chatham,” she panted. She did not know what came next. But he did. He clasped her wrists and pulled her arms from around his neck, thrusting her an arm’s length away. Within seconds, he had drawn his shirt over his head and tossed it ten feet across the room.

Then, her eyes feasted. Heat ballooned inside her belly until she had to soothe it with her palm, pressing flat against her abdomen.

He was perfection. A chest that had once been long and thin had thickened and hardened into marble-like swells dusted with sable hair.

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