Page 91 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 1-4

‘How can you be so sure?’ He kissed his way to her other breast. ‘Passion burns out soon enough.’ Then he drew that nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, making her gasp.

‘But love doesn’t,’ she forced out, panting.

He gave a low, bitter laugh against her skin. ‘Tell that to my mother.’

Of course. His mother, who’d loved his father but hadn’t been loved in return and so she’d left. He had no examples of love at all, did he?

Neither do you.

That wasn’t true. She’d loved her mother, but her mother had loved her father.

And loved him more than she loved you.

That was also true, and she had no answer to that. Love was painful, which was hardly likely to convince him that it was something worthwhile. At least, though, she could tell him what she wanted from their marriage, and it wasn’t that.

‘Isandro,’ she murmured huskily.

‘Stop talking,’ he said, and before she could reply, his mouth covered hers in a hot, raw kiss.

And Wren forgot what she was doing, forgot the point she was trying to make, if she’d been going to make a point in the first place, anyway. Because he was right, there was nothing more important than this, surely? To be naked in his arms, and have a right to be there. A right to kiss him back and push her fingers into the rough silk of his hair, taste the alcoholic burn of the Scotch he’d been drinking and the other, masculine flavour that was all him.

This was what she wanted. He was all she wanted and all she ever would. Perhaps, after all, being with him right now, right here, was enough.

* * *

Isandro burned. It was like that first time, on his desk, when he’d first kissed her and all he’d been able to think about was burying himself inside her.

So much for talking. She’d given in so very easily, and he couldn’t deny he’d been so deeply satisfied by that. He’d have talked if she’d insisted, but he’d weighted the dice in his favour, betting that she wouldn’t be able to resist him physically. And he’d been right.

Then again, the night in the garden had opened the door and it seemed as if neither of them were strong enough to close it again. Not that it mattered. She’d be in his bed either way eventually, regardless of what she said about love.

He’d thought of nothing else since the day before, when she’d told him that she loved him. He’d come to the conclusion that what she’d really meant was that she was as obsessed with him as he was with her, and that wasn’t love. Why would she love him, anyway? When no one else ever had? What had he done to make her love him? Nothing that he could see. Hell, he’d dragged her off a plane and was going to make her marry him, so it really wasn’t that.

But the sex was so good, so incendiary, that maybe it felt like love to her.

He knew better though. She’d been a virgin, for God’s sake. She’d had no experience with sexual obsession until she’d met him, so how would she even know the difference between that and love?

That confession had slid through him like a knife, the edge so sharp he wasn’t sure if what he’d felt was pain or something else. Certainly it had satisfied him on some deep, base level, while also making him regret that her first time had been hard and fast on a desk. Because he could do better than that.

He would do better, that was what he’d striven for.

She was here now, though, naked and in his lap, the press of her soft, hot body against his making him so hungry he could barely see straight. Her skin tasted as sweet as her mouth, her breasts pressing against his chest. He could feel the hard points of her nipples through the cotton of his shirt.

She was reaching for his buttons again, so he released his hold on her, wanting to watch her claw them open, see the hunger in her eyes as she looked at him. The hunger she couldn’t hide no matter how hard she tried.

It was there now, the light silver of her gaze darkening into charcoal as her shaking hands fumbled with his buttons. He helped her with them, because he was so hard, he hurt, and he could only hold back for so long. But then she ripped the rest of the buttons clean off, and her hands were on the bare skin of his chest, stroking him as if he were precious.

A strange ache shifted inside him. He couldn’t recall anyone touching him like that, as if he was important. As if he mattered.

She lifted her gaze to his, her face flushed, her mouth swollen from his kiss. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ she whispered, and there were hunger and awe in her eyes.

The ache tightened. Awe he was used to, hunger, too, but the combination in her eyes now felt different. As if she wasn’t looking at the King, but the man he was behind the crown.

A cold, detached man. A man only capable of hurting people.

He shoved the thought away, concentrating instead on her, sitting there naked, her pale skin flushed, her nipples hard, and the slick pink skin between her thighs on display. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Isandro clawed open the buttons of his trousers, jerking down the zip. But she reached for him, drawing his cock out from beneath his underwear, her fingers cool against his hot skin.