Page 56 of Sinful Temptation

“Kiss me,” she murmured, lowering her head to catch his lips beneath hers. They watched each other, both heavy-lidded and drowsy-eyed, and she caught the groove of his dimples as he smiled, and the pink of his tongue before it slipped into her opening mouth.

Ah, God.

She thrust her own tongue and sucked him deeper, desperate to get him inside her skin and to be inside his. His mouth was slick and minty, and he used every part of it to drive her wild, nipping with his teeth, rubbing with his tender lips and searching with his tongue.

His hips, meanwhile, surged against hers, unerringly hitting that delicious spot between her thighs. His hands held her locked in place, giving her no way to hide from the rising pleasure. She writhed, needing to spread her legs and take all of him inside her, and needing it now.

If he knew it, he didn’t care.

“Tony, please,” she murmured, digging her nails into his nape.

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

“What else?”

“Please touch me.”



Those eyes gleamed up at her again, laughing now. “Can you be more specific?”

Damn him for making her say it. Why did she have to expose every single part of herself? “Do you want me to draw you a map?”

“I have a pen.”

Frustration made her smack him hard on the sculpted slabs of his chest, and he laughed and kissed her again, holding her as she tried to alternately beat him to death and squirm free.

Naturally, he didn’t let her go.

Still holding her around the waist, he stood and pressed her back onto the sofa, toppling over on top of her until they were pressed together from head to foot and nothing was funny anymore.

They stared at each other, both panting and startled by the sudden intimacy of the contact. He nipped at her mouth again, but his gaze went to the top of her head. His hands followed.

Oh, God. She knew what was coming.

“Do we need this?” he wondered, tugging at the wig.

Yes, she wanted to say. That wig was a defense that protected her. When she wore it, she didn’t have to see a cancer victim in the mirror, nor did she have to endure the pitying stares of strangers when she walked down the street.

Without it, she was… What was she?

Naked? Vulnerable? Mortal?

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, gently tugging the wig and dropping it to the floor as though it was a meaningless collection of fibers, rather than one of the things that kept her sane and normal. “I don’t want hair. I just want you.”

To her pained embarrassment, she felt her face crumple, and there she went with the tears during sex. Again. But Tony didn’t seem to mind short, curly hair only a quarter inch longer than a buzz cut, and he didn’t mind the waterworks, either.

He stared down at her, his face dark and unreadable, and kissed both eyes and both temples. The bridge of her nose. Her forehead. The tip of her chin, and then finally—sweetly—her mouth.

She arched her back, relaxing and melting into the sofa.

Into him.

Into herself.

When he raised his head again, his lips were slick and swollen, and his eyes were also wet. “Where should I touch you?”

Oh, thank God. The rising need had taken her far beyond hesitation or shyness, and she couldn’t show him fast enough.

Taking the hand that was still cupping her face, she kissed his fingertips and then lowered it down between them. He shifted a little to one side, and she bent one knee so that the bottom of her skirt rose up to her bare thighs. Moving together, they reached for the waistband of her silky panties, and she lifted her butt so that he could slide them off her legs.

When he’d tossed the panties onto the floor, he skimmed his hands up under her skirt again, brushing his knuckles over the sensitized flesh between her legs until her hips arched. He answered this unspoken invitation by stroking his fingers in her creamy cleft, sending delicious spirals of pleasure to her belly and engorged nipples.


He rubbed her again and again, his touch rhythmic and unerringly running over her aching sex, and she rose and fell against him, involuntarily reaching for her pleasure—

“You know,” he said, withdrawing his hand just when one more stroke would have sent her jackknifing into ecstasy, “I think I’ll start…here.”

Ann Christopher Books | Billionaire Romance Books |