Page 60 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

And then his lips were on hers, a soft nip, a deep draught. A claiming of her every sense, the slide of his tongue against hers, patient and clever, his fingers dragging up her jaw to tighten in her hair. His forest scent, the gentle growl of his breath sending shivers down her thighs. He deepened the kiss as if he could not get enough. She fisted her hands through his shirt and dragged him closer still.

When her nails scraped through the hair of his chest, he lifted her higher against the wall, gripping her thighs. She tightened her legs around him, his hardness pressing to her quim through her thin nightdress, now pulled tight at her knees. She rocked a little until she was gasping and he was groaning into her mouth and along her throat. He nipped at her collarbone with his teeth, sucked at the sensitive skin of her breasts above her neckline.

He used his teeth to pull the ribbon’s bow at the top of her stays, loosening them for his tongue and his lips and then his fingers, pulling her breasts free. She should have felt exposed, embarrassed. She only felt needy. She wanted more. More and more.

She squirmed desperately and he smiled against her, amused, fond, stern. She couldn’t say how she knew all of that from the brush of his lips, but she did. “Stop moving,” he scolded her. “Or I’ll think you don’t want me to touch you.”

She stilled, hissing out a breath. “I should have known you’d be dictatorial. You just love rules, don’t you?”

“You’ll love them too.”

“Ha. You—”

“Are you uncomfortable, Sorcha?”

So patient. So diligent. “Only because you’re teasing me.” Her lips tingled and her center was like molten glass.

“And do you want me to stop?”

She pressed her lips together defiantly. She wanted him to stop the way she wanted the house to fall down on her ears. But she didn’t want to say it.

And he knew it.

“Sorcha,” he murmured in that fond, stern voice she was beginning to love. It made her want to squirm harder. Made her feel achy and wet and desperate. “I need you to answer me. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” When he rewarded her with a rock of his hips, his hardness pressing into her bud, unexpected and electrifying, she gasped. She could not help herself.

“What was that? I can’t quite hear you when you pout.” The scratch of his beard along her jaw nearly undid her.

She narrowed her eyes at him even as pleasure and arousal kindled in her core. She tried to kiss him, to grind against his cock, to make him as wild as she felt.

He pinned her tighter to the wall and merely waited with that infamous patience of his.

She couldn’t touch him. He wasn’t touching her.

It was torture.

What made it marginally more bearable was the fact that he was as affected as she was. His cheekbones were ruddy, his breath ragged and rumbling in his chest. His cock jutted, trapped between their bodies. “You’re going to pay for this,” she promised. Later.

“I look forward to it.”

She tried once more. “You have too many rules.”

“I already marked you without asking, however well intentioned my motives might have been,” he said roughly, tenderly. “Then you were cursed, dragged into Lycan affairs. Fell right into a betrothal. All without making the choice. And I know how that feels.” His voice dropped, went deeper. “So now you choose.”

She had not considered that he could arouse her with simple words alone. Her nipples tightened. Her quim pulsed with need. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His smile was crooked and charming and bright. “Thank God for that.”

And then he was kissing her again, claiming her mouth, her throat, the sensitive spot behind her ear that only he alone had ever excavated. Every part of her body responded. He lowered his head, baring her breasts fully to close his lips over a nipple with one long, hot suck of his mouth. She made a sound she had never made before, heat shooting into her core.

“That’s it,” Aidan murmured, swirling his tongue over her nipple before sucking again. And again. Each pull made her gasp, made her back arch, her fingers clench in the thick muscles of his arms. He hummed in approval, sliding his hand under the hem of her nightdress, bunched at her knees. He dragged his palm up her thigh, fingers brushing teasingly over her hip, the juncture of her leg, and, finally, the softest brush over her quim. She whimpered, trying to get closer.

His laugh, as he moved his mouth to her other breast, was diabolical. She nearly fell into her release right then and there.

“Ah, not yet,” he murmured. Another lick, another hot pull. “I want to feel you come on my fingers, Sorcha. And you’ll come hard.”

She whimpered. She wanted to touch him everywhere, use her tongue and her teeth on all that sun-warmed, scarred skin. She wanted to lick his tattoo but was still trapped against the wall. He was intent on her pleasure as if it were his own. He finally, finally glided between her folds, soft and slick for him, desperate for his touch. He slid one finger in slowly, deeply, then another until she stretched around him. He circled her bud with his thumb, learning the pressure that made her buck, using it mercilessly against her, his mouth still pulling at her breast.