Her leg was wrenched higher, sensation soared, and she was lost…
Scorched as rapture ripped through her, nothing left untouched, and she cried out, eyes slamming shut, flame over water as the whole damn world blazed.
At her gasped name, she dragged open her lids, to watch Hugh as his chest rippled, every muscle taut as his hips thrust with savage possession, his head rearing, a shudder, eyes closed as he roared his own pleasure to the inferno they’d lit.
Ragged breaths meshed. Time slowed. Hands clasped, and although Hugh’s shoulders slumped, his hips still ground in leisure.
Then his lips searched for hers – tender and soft as ash.
He shifted to nuzzle her neck, her skin now sensitive as petals, and she quivered, felt his lips curve, but before she could take another breath, his hands gripped her waist and that muscled body rolled so she was draped atop him like a concubine to some decadent king.
Although Amelia was the one to feel decadent, lying upon this elegant bed with Hugh, the scent of roses and cinnamon mingling. She swept a hand over his chest and down his arms, a low rumble – like that of a lion at midday rest – emanating from him.
Never had she felt so…replete, and her hand continued to wander the ridges and flaws, the brawn and scars, the chronicle of this man’s life.
But she was not alone. For Hugh’s broad palms also wandered her back and then derrière, rough fingers circling upon her skin, and she realised the fire within had not been wholly doused.
With every caress, it caught and sparked.
She lifted to her elbows and gazed down.
His hair was tousled, skin glistening.
Their gazes met. Intimate. As one.
And he growled low words.
“Our fire still rages, Amelia. The night is young…”
