She twined her tongue with his. Met and matched every bold stroke.
Moaning, Lucy gripped the fabric of his shirt, her nails biting through the cloth into his chest.
The primitive beast within him roared awake. With a savage growl, he kissed her until her back bowed. His fiery enchantress arched beneath him, her body moving in perfect concert with his. The quivering cry of his name didn’t make it past her damp, well-loved mouth—he devoured it.
“So bloody beautiful,” he rasped, dragging a trail of kisses along her throat. “So damn perfect in every way.”
His praise set her off.
She arched her back completely.
Groaning, Arran bent her until she lay spread out before him like some forbidden Yuletide feast.
Panting his name, Lucy reached up and twined her long, calloused fingers around his neck. She dragged his mouth back to hers. The hold she had on Arran was tender but powerful—a warrioress of Sparta’s hands, capable and confident.
All the while, their tongues twisted and tangled like ivy. Arran glided a hand along the gentle curve of Lucy’s waist, lower to the generous flare of her hips, then down to her supple thigh.
Lucy moaned and bucked her hips against the hard line of his erection.
He used his tongue like a brand, mating his mouth with hers. Marking her.
Possessing her. Wanting—dangerously—to keep her.
Through the thick, hot haze of desire, his captain’s instincts sparked. A sound—small, distant—cut through.
Sucking in great, heaving breaths, Arran wrenched himself away from the only place he wished to be.
All his senses snapped to alert. Lucy lay sprawled, her arms flung to either side, cheeks flushed, generous breasts rising and falling, confusion heavy in her desire-dazed gaze.
Catching her eye, Arran lifted a finger to his mouth. Silent.
Fear and horror flickered through Lucy’s confusion.
She started to push herself upright. Arran caught her and set her on her feet.
While Lucy frantically and silently smoothed her skirts and combed her fingers through those magnificent midnight coils, Arran went to investigate.
He pressed his ear to the door, straining for sound.
Only the dull, suffocating hush of midnight met him.
Still, he hesitated. Then, slowly, he eased the panel open and ducked his head outside.
Arran swept his gaze along the corridors intersecting with the kitchens.
Empty.
Reassured they hadn’t been discovered, he closed the door with a noiseless click.
Reality crashed over him—what they had done, what he had taken, what he had wanted to keep taking.
Shame dragged his eyes closed.
Somehow, he found it within himself to face her.
Lucy’s heart-shaped features were contorted with regret. The sight hit him like a fist to the gut. Of course, she regretted their embrace. She should.
She was good. Honest. Everything he was not.
