Page 46 of His Wicked Little Christmas

He closed in until his lips brushed hers. She tasted of tea and lilies, lemon and life. “Your choice then.”

She hummed ayesand slanted her head, seizing his lips when he would have moved in gradually. Awkward, eager, remarkable. Her hunger palpable, wrapping him in gossamer strands of longing.

She was untried but not.

Tangling her hand in his hair, she slid forward, sending his body rocking back. Her breasts were full and warm against his chest. Her bountiful body within reach for the first time. Weakened, he parted his lips, engaging her tongue in play. Showing her.This.And this.She moaned, the ragged vibration trailing from his mouth directly to his hardening cock.

Without hesitation, she followed his guidance until they found a faultless fit. That moment when a kiss climbs a mountain, soars away from the people initiating it, and into the heavens. Two becoming one.

Take, his mind shouted.Take her.

Show her how wonderful it can be.

Her hairpins were easily removed until her glorious strands filled his fist. His other hand going to her waist, fingers curling around her hip in possession, bringing her off the chair and against him.

On their knees, they worshiped. She was on a quest to destroy—even if she didn’t know it. She handled him greedily, exploring. Smiling against his lips when he groaned low in his throat at her aggression.

The sensation was dizzying. Of being seduced. Coerced. Splendidly manipulated. When that had always beenhisrole. This witty, kind, intelligent American hellion was diminishing his prior experiences until they were muted images and nothing more.

She was making him forget everything but her.

The ground shifted beneath his feet, around his heart, in ways he wasn’t ready to allow. Because something about this—abouther—feltright.

Which scared the shite out of him.

Taking her face in his hands, he wrenched back, their breath pelting each other’s cheeks. “We’d better stop, Franny. I’m losing my list of reasons fornottaking you upstairs and discovering your incredible body on a medieval bed the size of a small village.”

She smirked, a cagey bit of feminine persuasion that had his cock threatening to make choices for him. Dusting her thumb across his lower lip, she added a nibble to seal the deal. “Do you want to stop? I don’t.”

Rising, he yanked her up and stepped between her legs. His handcupped the back of her head, bringing her lips to his. The kiss immediately tumbled into that magnificent spot it would never leave—not as long as they continued.

For years. Forever.

The intimate, lush space they’d created. Theus.

Dazed, he roped his arm around her waist and lifted her to the balls of her feet. His shaft met the molten valley between her thighs in a grinding, elemental, age-old dance. She clutched his shoulder, hand curving around the nape of his neck, urging him closer. Mating with clothing rumpled but in place.

He wasn’t unfastening more buttons on her gown, hewasn’t. Even if he wanted to more than he wanted to get his desk into bloody Carlton House.

Losing patience, his skin starting to tingle, he walked her back until she hit the wall, his lips sliding down her jaw as he pressed his hips to hers. He woulddiefor her body. Throw himself before her andbegfor… one… taste. Imagining her naked, and that’s what he was doing, brought him closer to doom. Sparks lit behind his lids as she wiggled against him, his cock finding a delightful temporary home nestled between her thighs.

He had the sensation. The I-could-come-soon buzz from nothing more than a kiss. Grabbing her hips, he let her feel everything she was doing to him, unable to hide his need. Unable to do a damned thing but want her.

Her head dropped back, a sigh ripping free. “Remington.”

“Chance, remember?” he murmured, his breath a tender burn over her skin. “Remington was my father.”

She pulled back enough to stare into his eyes. Hers were wide and such a vibrant golden hue it took his breath. “Only your friends call you Chance.”

He touched his brow to hers, willing his heart to slow. “How good”—he swallowed, a loud click in the night—“a friend do you want to be, Franny Shaw?”

She gazed at him, candlelight creating magic. Bathing them in gilded awareness. Desire and inevitability converged, a blistering shroud. “I want to sketch you in that medieval bed the size of a small village. Youpromised I could, after all.” She caught the edge of his mouth with her tongue, seeking admission. Rough, unsteady, and devastating. “After,” she whispered, her voice cracking with desire.

Chance’s hand closed into a fist at her hip. Drawing her skirt up, he tried valiantly not to imagine what lay beneath.

Although he was losing the battle.

He wanted her to leave this night believing she couldn’t live without him. “You know what you’re asking?”