Read Torch: The Wildwood Series Online
Authors: Karen Erickson
Torch: The Wildwood Series (18 page)
Tate kissed her before she could finish the sentence, swallowing her words, her laughter, the contented sigh that escaped when his tongue tangled with hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, pressing her body against his, and he gripped her hips, setting her away from him and wincing when he saw the smudges on her skirt.
“Got you dirty,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I like it when you make me dirty,” she said with another sigh, the little smile curling her lips making his cock twitch. Even though he was filthy and hungry and exhausted, he still wanted her.
Had a feeling he’d always want her.
“Hmm, I bet.” He kissed her again, unable to resist her lips, though he made sure not to touch her too much. “Come home with me,” he murmured against her lips when they broke apart.
“I thought you’d never ask.” She leaned in and brushed her lips to his cheek. “I mean it. I don’t have a ride.”
Tate frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Delilah dropped me off about an hour ago. West was keeping me updated on your progress home.” She grinned. “I was kind of scared you’d turn me down.”
“Never.” He grabbed hold of her and kissed her thoroughly, forgetting all about his dirty clothes and hands, forgetting everything but the taste of Wren’s lips and the little sounds of pleasure she made when he swept his tongue inside her mouth. “Now that you’re here, I’ll never let you go.”
“Really?” Her voice squeaked, and she pressed her hands against his chest, her fingers fiddling with the collar of his uniform shirt.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Really.”
W
REN SKIMMED HER
fingers across Tate’s bare chest in lazy circles, first around one nipple, then the other, before running through the small patch of dark hair that was in the middle of his chest. She could touch him like this forever and never get tired of it. He probably wouldn’t get tired of it either.
That low, sexy murmur she just heard rumbling in his chest was proof.
They’d been home for hours, and in that time, Tate had taken a shower, with her help. Afterward, they’d called in a pizza order, and she’d given him a blow job while they waited. They ate dinner and hung out, until his wandering hands landed between her legs, and now they were in bed. Naked. After a rather vigorous bout of sex.
“I’m so tired,” he practically groaned, his eyes firmly closed. She stared at his thick, dark eyelashes, sort of hating him for a quick moment because he had the eyelashes of her dreams. There was not enough mascara in the world to give her those same results. “You’re keeping me awake.”
She poked him in the side with her index finger, making him swerve away from her. “I told you already that you don’t need to stay awake on my account.”
“But you keep touching me.”
“So?”
“So someone likes that.”
“Someone should just go to sleep,” she suggested.
“He can’t.”
She laid her head back on his warm chest, trying to smother her laughter. “Why not?”
“This is why.” He reached for her hand and slipped it under the covers, her fingers brushing against his very hard cock.
“Oh.” The laughter died in her throat, and her blood heated. “Um, that’s a problem.”
“I know.” He sighed, gently forcing her fingers to curl around his length. “You need to help me.”
“I do, huh?” She started to stroke him very slowly, from root to tip, earning a soft moan for her efforts. “How’s that?”
“It’s working,” he said, his voice tense.
“Good.” She kept up the slow pace, pressing her thighs together when he jerked the sheet back and exposed them. She watched in fascination as she continued to stroke him, marveling that he was so big, so thick, and so hard after they’d just had sex—when? Not even twenty minutes ago?
Maybe fifteen.
“You’re like the Energizer Bunny,” she said.
“I just keep going and going?” He cracked his eyes open and peered up at her.
“Exactly.” She released her hold on his cock and cradled his balls. “You really want to do this all over again?”
“With you, it’s easy. I think whenever I’m around you, this is going to be a natural state.” He pointed down at his erection.
Wren laughed and shook her head. “That’s going to be a big problem.”
“I know.” He sounded so serious. “You know what that means, right?”
“What?”
“That you belong to me.” He paused. “And I belong to you.”
Her heart threatened to crack wide open and spill all over the place. Oh, she was well on her way to falling in love with this man, if that last declaration wasn’t enough already. “That has a nice ring to it,” she said, sounding choked up.
Maybe because she was choked up.
He touched her cheek, tilted her face up so their mouths were perfectly aligned. His breath feathered across her lips, and she closed her eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Before she could answer him, he kissed her.
That was answer enough.
Have you read the other fun, steamy romances in the Wildwood Series?
Be sure to 1-click West and Harper’s story . . .
As well as Lane and Delilah’s story . . .
Available now from Avon Impulse!
USA Today
bestselling author
KAREN ERICKSON
writes what she loves to read—sexy contemporary romance. Published since 2006, she’s a native Californian who lives in the foothills below Yosemite with her husband and three children. She also writes as
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Monica Murphy. You can find her at
www.karenerickson.com
.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.
The Wildwood Series
Give in to your Impulses . . .
Continue reading for excerpts from
our newest Avon Impulse books.
Available now wherever ebooks are sold.
A B
ACHELOR
L
ORDS OF
L
ONDON
N
OVEL
by Charis Michaels
by Tracey Livesay
A
N
A
MERICAN
V
ALOR
N
OVEL
by Cheryl Etchison
An Excerpt from
A Bachelor Lords of London Novel
By Charis Michaels
Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes has a painful secret. At fifteen, she was abducted by highwaymen and sold to a brothel. But two days later, she was rescued by a young lord, a man she’s never forgotten. Now, she’s devoted herself to save other innocents from a similar fate.
Bryson Courtland, Viscount Rainsleigh, never breaks the rules. Well, once, but that was a long time ago. He’s finally escaped his unhappy past to become one of the wealthiest noblemen in Britain. The last thing he needs to complete his ideal life? A perfectly proper wife.
B
ryse.
He had introduced himself as Bryson that night, so long ago, and despite her residual horror, she had clung to the sweet intimacy of that introduction. She’d devoted years of foolish fantasies to guessing whether those close to him referred to him as Bryson or Bryse or perhaps Court . . .
She looked up at him.
Bryse
. And now she knew. Now she was being invited to become one of those people close to him.
Cowardice compelled her to back away and retake her seat. “Forgive me, my lord.” She spoke to her knees. “I don’t know what to say, and that is a rare circumstance, indeed.”
“I would also speak to your aunt,” he assured her. “It felt appropriate to suggest the idea of a courtship to you first.”
She laughed, in spite of herself. “I’d say so. Unless you wish to court my aunt.”
“I wish for you,” he said abruptly, and Elisabeth’s head shot up. It was almost as if he knew she needed to hear it again, and again, and again.
I wish for you
.
He crouched before her chair, spreading his arms, putting one hand on either side of her chair, caging her in. “How old are you, Elisabeth?” he asked.
“How old do you think I am?” A whisper.
“Twenty-six?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “No. I am the ripe old age of thirty. Far too old to be called upon by a bachelor viscount, rolling in money.”
“Or”—he arched an eyebrow—“exactly the right age.”
She laughed and finally looked away. And she thought he’d been handsome at nineteen. Her stomach dropped into a dip. She reminded herself to breathe.
“Why me?” she asked, looking out the window. “Why pay attention to
me
?”
His voice was so low she could barely discern the words. “Because I think you’d make an ideal viscountess.”
An ideal what?
Hope became a living, pulsing thing in her chest. It became her very heart. She fell back in her seat and closed her eyes, but the room still swam before her.
He went on, “You are mature, and intelligent, and poised. And devoted to your charity, whatever it is.”
A thread of the old conversation. She sat up, determined to seize it before he could say another thing. “I’ve just told you what the charity is.”
“You spoke in vague generalities that could mean a great many things. I let it go because I hope for more opportunities to learn.”
Elisabeth breathed in and out, in and out. She bit her bottom lip again. She watched his gaze hone in on her mouth.
She closed her eyes. “My lord.” She took a deep breath. “Rainsleigh . . . Bryson.” She opened her eyes. “If your far-reaching goal is to earn an esteemed spot in London society, you’re going about it entirely the wrong way. My charity is . . . unpopular, and no one has ever asked to court me before. It’s really not done.”
“Why is that?”
Because I have been waiting for you
.
The thought floated, fully formed, in her brain, and she had to work to keep her hands from her cheeks, to keep from closing her eyes again, from squinting them shut against his beautiful face, just inches from her own, his low voice, his boldness.
“I’m very busy,” she said instead.
“Then I will make haste.”
“Is this because of last night? When I . . . challenged your dreadful neighbor?”
The corner of his mouth hitched up. “It did not hurt.”
“It’s very difficult for me to stand idly by when I hear a person misrepresented.”
“And to think I was under the impression that you could barely abide my company. Your defense came as a great surprise.”
“Oh . . . I am full of surprises.”
“Is that so?” His words were a whisper. He leaned in.
She had the fleeting thought:
Dear God. He’s going to kiss me
. . .
An Excerpt from
By Tracey Livesay
Tracey Livesay makes her Avon Impulse debut with a sparkling and sexy novel about a woman who will do anything to fulfill her dreams . . . but discovers that even the best laid plans can fail when love gets in the way.
C
helsea Grant couldn’t tear her gaze away from the train wreck on the screen.
She followed press conferences like most Americans followed sports. The spectacle thrilled her, watching speakers deftly deflect questions, state narrow political positions, or, in rare instances, exhibit honest emotions. The message might be scripted but the reactions were pure reality. If executed well, a press conference could be as engaging and dynamic as any athletic game.
But watching this one was akin to lions in the amphitheater, not tight ends on the football field. Her throat ached, impacting her ability to swallow. She squinted, hoping the action would lessen her visual absorption of the man’s public relations disaster.
He’d folded his arms across his chest, the gesture causing the gray cardigan he wore to pull across his broad shoulders. The collar of the black-and-blue plaid shirt he wore beneath it brushed the underside of his stubbled jaw.
When he’d first stepped onto the platform, she’d thought he was going for “geek chic.” All he’d lacked were black square frames and a leather cross-body satchel. Now she understood he wasn’t playing dress-up. These were his everyday clothes, and as such, they were inappropriate for a press conference, unless he was a lumberjack who’d just won the lottery.
Had someone advised him on how to handle a press conference? No, she didn’t think so.
Any
coaching would have helped with his demeanor. The man stared straight ahead. He didn’t look at the reporters seated before him. He didn’t look into the lenses. He appeared to look over the cameras, like there was someplace else he’d rather be. His discomfort crossed the media plane, and her fingers twitched where they rested next to her iPad on the acrylic conference table.
A female reporter from an entertainment news cable channel raised her hand. “Mr. Bennett?”
The man turned his head, and his gaze zeroed in on the reporter and narrowed into a glare. Chelsea inhaled audibly and leaned forward in her chair. His eyes were thickly lashed and dark, although she couldn’t determine their exact color. Brown? Black? He dropped his arms, and his long, slender fingers gripped the podium tightly. The bank of microphones jiggled and a loud piercing sound ripped through the air. He winced.
“How does it feel to be handed the title by David James?” the reporter asked, her voice louder as it came on the tail end of the noise feedback.
The camera zoomed in and caught his pinched expression. “Right now, I feel annoyed,” he responded sharply.
“Annoyed? Aren’t you honored?”
“Why should I be honored?”
“Because
People Magazine
has never named a non-actor as their sexiest man alive.”
“An award based on facial characteristics is not an honor. Especially since I have no control over the symmetry of my features. The National Medal of Technology. The Faraday Medal. The granting of those awards would be a true honor.”
The camera zoomed out, and hands holding phones with a smaller version of the man’s frustrated image filled the screen. Flashes flickered on the periphery, and he rubbed his brow, like Aladdin begging the genie for the power to disappear.
“How does one celebrate being deemed the most desirable man on the planet?” another reporter asked.
“One doesn’t.” His lips tightened into a white slash on his face.
“Is there a secret scientific formula for dating Victoria’s Secret models? Didn’t you used to be engaged to one?” A male reporter exchanged knowing looks with the colleagues around him. A smattering of chuckles followed his question.
“Didn’t she leave you for another model six weeks before the wedding?”
“So you’re single? Who’s your type?”
“What’s your perfect first date?”
“Can you create a sexbot?”
Questions pelted the poor man. The reporters had found his weakness: his inability or unwillingness to play the game. Now they would try to get a sound bite for their story teaser or a quote to increase their site’s click-through rate. The man drove his fingers through his black hair, a move so quick and natural she knew it was a gesture he repeated often. That, and not hair putty, probably explained the spikiness of the dark strands that were longer on the top, shorter on the sides.
“This has nothing to do with my project,” he snapped, then scowled at someone off-camera.
Chelsea glanced heavenward, grateful she wasn’t the recipient of that withering look.
