Don’t Tempt Me by Sylvia Day
With her fingers curled desperately around the edge of the table before her, Marguerite Piccard writhed in the grip of unalloyed arousal. Gooseflesh spread up her arms and she bit her lower lip to stem the moan of pleasure that longed to escape.
â€œDo not restrain your cries,â€ her lover urged hoarsely. â€œIt makes me wild to hear them.â€
Her blue eyes, heavy-lidded with passion, lifted within the mirrored reflection before her and met the gaze of the man who moved at her back. The vanity in her boudoir rocked with the thrusts of his hips, his breathing rough as he made love to her where they stood.
The Marquis de Saint-Martinâ€™s infamously sensual lips curved with masculine satisfaction at the sight of her flushed dishevelment. His hands cupped her swaying breasts, urging her body to move in tandem with his.
They strained together, their skin coated with sweat, their chests heaving from their exertions. Her blood thrummed in her veins, the experience of her loverâ€™s passion such that she had forsaken everythingâ€”family, friends, and esteemed futureâ€”to be with him. She knew he loved her similarly. He proved it with every touch, every glance.
â€œHow beautiful you are,â€ he gasped, watching her through the mirror.
When she had suggested the location of their tryst with timid eagerness, heâ€™d laughed with delight.
â€œI am at your service,â€ he purred, shrugging out of his garments as he stalked her into the boudoir. There was a sultriness to his stride and a predatory gleam in his dark eyes that caused her to shiver in heated awareness. Sex was innate to him. He exuded it from every pore, enunciated it with every syllable, displayed it with every movement. And he excelled at it.
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