Despite the unshakable attraction between them, Maeve and Lucian are uninterested in love and marriage; especially since they hate one another and couldn't think of a worse match.
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London, 1815
Maeve Langston's aversion to the opposite sex has...
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Maeve was feeling too much, too fast. It was impossible to think properly, every part of her body focused on the man pressed against her.
Lucian had kissed her like a starved man, pushed where she so desperately wanted him. When he had let go of her a little, her brain seemed to have gained back some functions, and she was realizing what they were doing, how wrong it all was. But also, how right it all felt. The illicit nature of what they were doing was crossing all boundaries. Breaking the rules had never felt so good.
He had asked her to wait for him, and she didn't know what to say. She didn't want to belong to him. Their futures couldn't be joined, because she didn't want to have a man in hers. But she wanted this, this passion, this desire. He had to take care of that hunger possessing her, or she would surely go mad with it. She didn't know what to do, hated that nebulous state, hated not being able to form coherent thoughts.
"Promise you will wait for me. Only for me," he demanded, his voice imperious.
He accompanied his words with a push forward, pressing his manhood harder on the pulsating flesh between her legs. She gasped at the sensation, but despite it, something inside of her rebelled. He couldn't order her around. He had no right to. He was nothing to her.
She summoned all the courage and strength she had in her to shake her head. "No."
He seemed to have been expecting this answer because he looked down at her, a devilish smile was painted on his face. She should have worried, but the next thing he did robbed her of all rational concerns. He pressed himself on her, retaking her mouth, invading it with his tongue, kissing her with everything he had. Bending slightly, he reached behind one of her thighs to lift her leg and place it on his hip, opening her more for him. She moaned in his mouth when he pushed on her core from this new angle. This hard part of him, rubbing like this on her most intimate of places, seemed so forbidden, so taboo, that it added to the pleasure.
Unable to resist the temptation, she tightened her arms around his neck, delirious with need, giving back as much as she was receiving. He started an implacable roll of his hips, pressing on her in rhythm, and all she could do was hold on to him. She didn't know what was happening to her. The sensations were overwhelming, her need increasing with each roll of his hips. She was now moaning unabashedly in his mouth, her own hips following his. An urgency was growing inside of her until it became all that mattered.
She felt as if it was reaching its peak, when he stopped moving, preventing her from any movement too. She whimpered, desperate to satisfy the ache, and he pulled away to look at her intently.
"Please," she implored, ashamed to be reduced to the baseness of begging him. His eyes were dark, watching her carefully, observing her every reaction.
"Promise, Maeve," he asked again, reminding her why he was doing all this.
She shook her head stubbornly, trying to stay strong. With a smile, he gave her a firm thrust. She cried at the flash of pleasure that ran through her, and she felt her eyes fill with tears of frustration.
