Ravishing the Heiress ft-2
Page 23
“Quite to the contrary. I cannot excuse such failure. Not in the least. You will somehow summon the enthusiasm or I shall be on the earliest train headed south.”
“And if I do manufacture enough false zeal to satisfy you?”
“Then I shall say nothing to anyone of Mr. Martin.”
“Your word?”
“Your word that the kiss will be more debauched than any you’ve pressed upon Mr. Martin.”
“You are a pervert, Hastings.”
He smiled again. “And you are just the sort of woman to appreciate one, Miss Fitzhugh, whether you realize it or not. Now here is what I want you to do. You will seize me by the shoulders, push me against the wall, reach your hand in under my dressing gown—”
“I feel my bile rising already.”
“Then you are ready. Onward. I await your assault.”
She grimaced. “How I hate to spoil a perfect record of repelling you.”
“Nothing lasts forever, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. And remember, kiss me passionately. Or you’ll have to do it again.”
She might as well get it over with.
She closed the space that separated them in two big strides and gripped him by the sleeves of his dressing gown. Instead of pushing him backward as he’d instructed—as if she’d allow him to dictate the specifics of her ordeal—she yanked him toward her, fastened her mouth to his, and imagined herself a shark with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth.
Or perhaps she was a minion of the underworld, her mouth a swelter of burning acid and sulfur fumes, devouring his soul, savoring all the idle immoralities he’d committed in his lifetime as a palate cleanser between courses of more substantial sins.
Or a Venus flytrap, full of delicious nectar, but woe was he who thought he could dip a proboscis inside and sample her charms. Instead, she would digest him in place, the stupid sod.
Vaguely she sensed something hard and smooth against her shoulder blades. They’d been in the middle of her room, why was she being pressed into a wall? And why, all of a sudden, was she the one being devoured?
The muscles of his arm were tight and hard beneath her hands. His person was as tall and solid as a castle gate. His mouth, instead of tasting like a furnace of greedy lust, was cool and delicious, as if he’d just downed a long draught of well water.
She shoved him away and wiped her lips. She was panting. She didn’t know why she ought to be.
“My,” he murmured. “As ferocious as anything I’ve ever imagined. I was right. You do want me.”
She ignored him. “Your word.”
“I will say nothing of Andrew Martin to anyone, you may depend on that.”
“Leave.”
“You will invite me into your room someday.”
“When they hold skating parties in hell.”
“Sooner than that. Much, much sooner.” He smirked. “Good night, my dear. You were well worth the wait.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: 33e4456e-1709-4aba-8198-e615d23fe817
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 27.9.2013
Created using: calibre 1.5.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Sherry Thomas
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