Page 99 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses

She would simply never let him know the real power he held over her.

He choose that moment—as if he sensed her retreat—to pull the ties of her corset and tug the material lower, exposing her breasts to his expectant fingers, his ravenous mouth. Cool air puckered her nipples, then his lips arrived, warming her to the depths of her soul.

And shattering her control.

Arching into his body, she complied, reason rushing out, need rushing in. Need her body remembered even if her mind didn’t want to. Images that felt foreign, as if they belonged to someone else. Fevered sighs, tortured sounds of longing. The scrape of stubble against her skin...his tongue circling, flicking over her nipple...her fingers splayed across his lean belly...sliding lower, tracing the trail of hair...his hands plucking at her corset...it dangling, falling to the floor...his lips, moist and desperate, licking, sucking, moving lower.

She moaned in anticipation.

He came up for air, gasping. “Princess...the shades are drawn, but....” He gazed into her eyes, dipped his head, and captured her lips again.

She wanted to climb inside him, have him climb inside her. Her pulse pounded in her head, her heart in her chest. Loud, unsteady. Curling her arm around his neck, the one beneath his shirt circled his waist. Quivers shook the muscles in his back, shook the arms that held her. Moist skin. Hot. Sliding, bending, his hips met hers and began a deliberate grind, his tongue matching the rhythm. He tasted of mint and man. So good.

He slid his hands to her buttocks and lifted, nestling himself between her tender folds. A ragged sound crawled from his throat as he kissed her, teeth and tongue and lips. She mimicked his movements until they rocked together in perfect accord. His passion did not frighten her; every move he made left her aching.

Made her wish again, desperately, for that damned tiny bed of his.

“The door” —he sucked her bottom lip between his teeth— “isn’t locked.” His hands rose to her bared breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples in time with the cadence of his hips.

She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and began unfastening his fly. “Closed. The office is closed. No one” —she freed one button— “no one will come in.” Trembling, she worked hard on the next.

He reared back, chest heaving. A moist sheen covered his jaw; his eyes glowed, deep blue and wild. Releasing a shuttered breath, he searched her face. “Thank God,” he whispered and grasped her hand, pulling her, stumbling, behind him. Into a cramped room filled with faded newsprint and the smell of ink. He lifted her, placing her on a desk shoved against the wall. With a swift kick, he closed the door and half-turned, crushing his mouth to hers before she could anchor her heels on the wooden drawers.

“I want you,” he said against her lips, his hands rising to cup her jaw. His fingers quivered, tensed against her skin. “So damn much. God, I can’t tell you how much.”

With a sigh of agreement, she slipped his braces from his shoulders. His crisp cotton shirt followed. She wanted to purr, wanted him to growl. Tried to make him by streaking her nails across his chest. His heartbeat hammered beneath her palm. Three hard thumps. “Take...me...then.”

And she meant it.

He dropped his brow to hers. The tantalizing scent of soap clung to his jaw. “I don’t want to make a mistake...with you. I can’t think clearly. I never expected to be with you, like this, again.”

She could not bear to imagine how troubled, or how sincere, he sounded. If she had to endure life without the man she loved, why not take one final, beautiful memory with her?

Not willing to waste another moment, she decided to play dirty by sliding her hand into his gaping trouser fly. Through a paltry woolen layer, he pulsed, hard and long. She traced the rounded tip, rubbed her thumb over the swollen vein ridging the back. She remembered, oh, she remembered. Knew how to push him over the edge before he realized what hit him. Or had time to deny what he wanted.

What they needed.

“Jesus, Princess.” His hands yanked fistfuls of skirt, petticoat, and chemise to her waist. Splaying her legs wide, he cupped her bottom and drew her close, flush. He rubbed himself against her, rocking back and forth, on his feet from heel to toe.

A faultless, two-pieces-of-a-puzzle fit.

Her toes curled inside soft leather. All else faded in a flurry: fevered touches, ardent moans, the whisper of cloth crushed between damp, grinding skin, the creak and wobble of the desk.

“Now,” he said, bending to draw her nipple between his teeth. “I need you now, Princess, before....” His words faded into vague, meaningless murmurs, muffled against the plump mound.

He shuddered when her fingers curved around his buttocks, nails digging deep. She acted on instinct alone, her hands going to his hips as she trailed kisses along his temple and the curve of his cheek. Salt and soap blossomed on her tongue. “Now, love,” she said, realizing it exited her lips as a desperate plea.

He lifted his head, his hair tickling her lips, the tip of her nose. He found her mouth, distracted, bracing his knees against the desk, fiddling with his trousers. She felt the brush of a hard knuckle, the press of metal buttons—a sharp contrast against heated skin—then, his erection sprang free, nudging her thigh. Pausing, his piercing blue gaze searched her face, dipped to her breasts, lifted.

He’s beautiful, she thought, raising her hand, tracing the angry scar on his brow, skimming her thumb across his lips. He turned his head, pressed a soft kiss to her wrist, black hair glistening against his flushed cheek.

His fingers moved between her legs, seeking, probing. She gasped and arched as he slid a finger inside, arranging a gentle, steady rhythm. Gripping his arms, she dropped her head to his shoulder and drew a ragged breath scented with the mix of their bodies. “Please,” she heard herself say, leg climbing higher, locking in place just below the rounded curve of his buttocks. Pulling, she urged him closer.

God, she was wet. Slick. Near to peaking. She whimpered, her lips moving against his neck. With impatient jerks, she propelled him forward. He laughed, loving her uninhibited exuberance.

As always, loving her.

Afraid he would hurt her—recalling her delicious tightness—he forced his mind, his body, to go slowly. He tipped her hips and guided himself through crisp hair and moist folds, until he met her center. Squeezing his eyes shut, he thrust, inch by inch—a disciplined glide along a sleek canal. Her hands tensed around his arms, her head dropped to his shoulder. Soft mews vibrated in her throat as he came to rest, hip to hip.