Flirting With Ruin. Marguerite Kaye

really wanted it. She wanted him, the man who was Just Fraser. His mouth fit hers in a way that no other had. He kissed her gently, his lips warm, soft, inviting. Tempting, but not demanding, and because he made no demands, she was tempted.

      ‘You taste of the night,’ she said breathlessly.

      Fraser’s hands cupped her face. His thumb stroked the sensitive spot behind her ear she hadn’t known was sensitive. His kiss warmed her from the inside. ‘You taste of velvet,’ he replied. ‘I want to wrap you around me. So soft.’

      His words made her shiver, made her want to do as he said, enfold him. ‘So hard,’ she said, blatantly arching against him. It was the night. No, it was not just the night, it was the man. This man. He was the kind of man who would catch her if she fell. She let herself fall, just a little, and opened her mouth to him. His tongue licked into her, and the heat inside her spread, creeping down, an aching trail to her belly, to her loins.

      She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. His body was so solid. Broad shoulders, which her hands swept over, his breath a little faster on her cheek as she did so. Her own breath too, faster. His hair was thick, tangled in her fingers, coarser than her own. There was a graze of stubble on his cheek. A rasp of it on her skin. She liked it, the contrast of it. She stroked the length of his jaw. His tongue touched hers and she moaned, letting go a little more, clutching at his face, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper then deeper still until she lost track of time.

      * * *

      It was he who stopped eventually, lifting his mouth from her just enough to look at her. ‘Rosalind.’

      His voice was ragged, which was exactly how she felt. ‘Fraser.’ It was all she could manage, struggling to come back from the distant, delicious place his kisses had transported her to.

      ‘Rosalind.’

      Throaty voice, heaving chest, but he was smiling now, as if he could not quite believe this was happening. ‘Fraser?’ she repeated, smiling too.

      ‘Rosalind, this is ridiculous. I will not ravish you against the trunk of a tree, no matter how ravishing you may be.’

      There was laughter in his voice and in hers too when she spoke, for it was ridiculous, the situation, but it was also marvellous. ‘You take rather too much for granted,’ she said teasingly. ‘Even were you so inclined, I would not allow you to ravish me.’

      ‘No?’ His fingers traced the lightest of paths down her neck to her shoulder, then skimmed under the folds of her cloak to rest on her waist. He nipped the lobe of her ear. ‘Is it the situation that deters you, Ravishing Rosalind, or the company?’

      He kissed her neck. Beneath her cloak, his hand stroked up her side to cup the weight of her breast. She bit back a soft moan. Her nipples hardened in response. She leaned back against the tree trunk, arched her back just enough for her thighs to brush his, and had the satisfaction of hearing his sharp intake of breath. For once she was enjoying the wielding of power, utterly bereft as it was from any sense of answering threat. This man would not try to take what she would not give. Which made her want to give. More. A little more. ‘The situation is certainly not conducive,’ she said.

      Fraser laughed at this, though it was more of a growl, and it raised the hairs on the back of her neck in the most delightful way. ‘Yet you followed me out here willingly enough,’ he said.

      His thumb was moving over her nipple now. Despite the layers of gown and chemise and corset, she could feel it. His other hand was below her cloak too, cupping her bottom. She moved against him, the tiniest of movement, the most sinuous of touches, enough to feel the hard length of him against her. ‘I do not recall that you gave me much of a choice. Besides,’ she said, ‘I wished to take the air.’