Consequence Of The Greek's Revenge. Trish Morey

told her this wouldn’t stop with a kiss. But he was giving her the choice—stop now or go on.

      In the end, it was no choice at all. ‘So kiss me,’ she said.

      And he made a sound, guttural and deep, a sound of triumph mixed with need that rumbled straight to her veins and turned her blood to bubbles as he pulled her close and his lips met hers. Warm lips. Surprisingly soft and yet firm. Engaged in a sensual dance with hers. Slow. Gentle. Teasing. Deeper. Repeat.

      Her knees turned weak. She reached for him, needing an anchor to steady herself, finding a rock as her hands tangled in the folds of his shirt and found his hard body beneath. Her fingers embraced his sculpted torso and she heard a sound like a whimper and realised it had come from her.

      But he was glorious. Muscled and hard beneath her seeking fingers. Thirsty fingers, drinking in the ridges of bone and tight bunches of muscle as his mouth made magic on hers. While his long-fingered hands scooped down the sides of her head, to her shoulders, leaving trails that felt like sparks under her skin and that scorched a path all the way down via peaking nipples, to where an aching heat pulsed between her thighs.

      And even as she pressed her body closer to his, closer into his kiss, she knew this was all kinds of reckless, because she knew there was no way this was stopping with a mere kiss.

      And she wanted it.

      She wanted it all.