One Scandalous Kiss (29 page)
Read One Scandalous Kiss Online
Authors: Christy Carlyle
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Christy Carlyle’s next breathtaking Accidental Heirs novel,
ONE TEMPTING PROPOSAL
Becoming engaged? Simple. Resisting temptation? Impossible.
Sebastian Fennick, the newest Duke of Wrexford, prefers the straightforwardness of mathematics to romantic nonsense. When he meets Lady Katherine Adderly at the first ball of the season, he finds her as alluring as she is disagreeable. His title may now require him to marry, but Sebastian can’t think of anyone less fit to be his wife, even if he can’t get her out of his mind.
After five seasons of snubbing suitors and making small talk, Lady Kitty has seen all the ton has to offer . . . and she’s not impressed. But when Kitty’s overbearing father demands she must marry before her beloved younger sister can, she proposes a plan to the handsome duke. Kitty’s schemes always seem to backfire, but she knows this one can’t go wrong. After all, she’s not the least bit tempted by Sebastian, is she?
Available November 2015
Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on,
Christy Carlyle
writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.
Give in to your Impulses . . .
Continue reading for excerpts from
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A
B
RIGHTWATER
N
OVE
L
By Lia Riley
By Tiffany Clare
A
B
ROKE AND
B
EAUTIFUL
N
OVEL
By Tessa Bailey
An Excerpt from
A Brightwater Novel
by Lia Riley
Bad boy wrangler Archer Kane lives fast and loose. Words like
responsibility
and
commitment
send him running in the opposite direction. Until a wild Vegas weekend puts him on a collision course with Eden Bankcroft-Kew, a New York heiress running away from her blackmailing fiancé . . . the morning of her wedding.
“A
rcher?” Eden stared in the motel bathroom mirror, her reflection a study in horror. “Please tell me this is a practical joke.”
“We’re in the middle of Nevada, sweetheart. There’s no Madison Avenue swank in these parts.” Archer didn’t bother to keep amusement from his answering yell through the closed door. “The gas station only sold a few things. Trust me, those clothes were the best of the bunch.”
After he got out of the shower, a very long shower which afforded her far too much time for contemplating him in a cloud of thick steam, running a bar of soap over cut v-lines, he announced that he would find her something suitable to wear. She couldn’t cross state lines wearing nothing but his old t-shirt, and while the wedding dress worked in a pinch, it was still damp. Besides, her stomach lurched at the idea of sliding back into satin and lace.
She’d never be able to don a wedding dress and not think of the Reggie debacle. She couldn’t even entirely blame him, her subconscious had been sending out warning flares for months. She’d once been considered a smart woman, graduated from NYU with a 4.0 in Art History. So how could she have been so dumb?
Truth be told, it wasn’t even due to her mother’s dying wish that led her to accepting him, although that certainly bore some influence. No, it was the idea of being alone. The notion didn’t feel liberating or “I am woman, hear me roar.” More terrified house mouse squeaking alone in a dark cellar.
She clenched her jaw, shooing away the mouse. What was the big deal with being alone? She might wish for more friends, or a love affair, but she’d also never minded her own company. This unexpected turn of events was an opportunity, a time for self-growth, getting to know herself, and figuring out exactly what she wanted. Yes, she’d get empowered all right, roar so loud those California mountains would tremble.
Right after they finished laughing at this outfit.
Seriously, did Archer have to select pink terrycloth booty shorts that spelled
Q
&
T
in rhinestones, one on each butt cheek? And the low-cut top scooped so even her small rack sported serious cleavage.
Get Lucky
emblazoned across the chest, the tank top was an XS so the letters stretched to the point of embarrassment. If she raised her hands over her head, her belly button winked out.
As soon as she arrived in Brightwater, she’d invest in proper clothes and send for her belongings back home. Until then . . . time to face the music. She stepped from the bathroom, chewing the corner of her lip. Archer didn’t burst into snickers. All he did was stare. His playful gaze vanished, replaced by a startling intensity.
“Well, go on then. Get it over with and make fun of me.” She gathered her hair into a messy bun, securing it with a hair elastic from her wrist she found in her purse.
“Laughing’s not the first thing that jumps to mind, sweetheart.”
Her stomach sank. “Horror then?”
“Stop.” He rubbed the back of his neck, that wicked sensual mouth curving into a bold smile. “You’re hot as hell.”
Reggie had never remarked on her appearance. She sucked in a ragged breath at the memory of his text.
Bored me to fucking tears.
“Hey, Freckles,” he said softly. “You okay?”
She snapped back, unsure what her face revealed. “Tiny shorts and boob shirts do it for you?” She fought for an airy tone, waving her hand over the hot pink “QT” abomination and praying he wouldn’t notice her tremble.
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Short shorts do it for all warm-blooded men.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, thumbing her ear. He probably wasn’t checking
her
out, just her as the closest female specimen in the immediate vicinity.
He wiggled out of his tan Carhart jacket and held it out. “You’ll want this. Temperatures are going to top out in the mid-forties today. I’ve stuck a wool blanket in the passenger seat and will keep the heat cranking.”
Strange. He might be a natural flirt, but for all his easy confidence, there was an uncertainty in how he regarded her. A hesitation that on anyone else could be described as vulnerability, the type of look that caused her to volunteer at no-kill rescue shelters and cry during cheesy life insurance commercials. A guy like this, what did he know about insecurity or self-doubt? But that expression went straight to her heart. “Archer . . .”
He startled at the sound of his real name, instead of the Cowboy moniker she’d used the last twenty-four hours.
His jacket slipped, baring her shoulders as she reached to take one of his big hands in hers. “Thank you.” Impulsively, she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but he jerked with surprise and she grazed the appealing no-man’s land between his dimple and lips.
This was meant to be a polite gesture, an acknowledgment he’d been a nice guy, stepped up and helped her—a stranger—out when she’d barreled in and given him no choice.
He smelled good. Too good. Felt good too. She should move—now—but his free hand, the one she wasn’t clutching, skimmed her lower back. Was this a kiss?
No.
Well . . . almost.
Never had an actual kiss sent goose bumps prickling down her spine even as her stomach heated, the cold and hot reaction as confused as her thoughts. Imagine what the real thing would do.
An Excerpt from
by Tiffany Clare
From the moment Amelia Grant accepted the position of secretary to Nicholas Riley, London’s most notorious businessman, she knew her life would be changed forever. For Nick didn’t want just her secretarial skills . . . he wanted her complete surrender. And she was more than willing to give it to him, spending night after night in delicious sin. As the devastatingly insatiable Nick teaches her the ways of forbidden desire, Amelia begins to dream of a future together . . .
W
hy hadn’t she just stayed in bed? Instead, she’d set herself on an unknown path. One without Nick. Why? She hated this feeling that was ripping her apart from the inside out. It hurt so much and so deeply that the wounds couldn’t be healed.
Biting her bottom lip on a half-escaped sob, she violently wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. Nick caught her as she fumbled with the lock on the study door, spinning her around and wrapping his arms tightly around her, crushing her against his solid body.
She wanted to break down. To just let the tears overtake her. But she held strong.
“I have already told you I can’t let you go. Stay, Amelia.” His voice was so calm, just above a whisper. “Please, I couldn’t bear it if you left me. I can’t let you leave. I won’t.”
Hearing him beg tugged at her heart painfully. Amelia’s fists clenched where they were trapped between their bodies. There was only one thing she could do.
She pushed him away, hating that she was seconds away from breaking down. Hating that she knew that she had to hold it together when every second in his arms chipped away at her control.
“You are breaking my will every day. Making me lose myself in you. Don’t ask this of me. Please. Nick. Let me go.”
If she stayed, they would only end up back where they were. And she needed more than his physical comfort. He held her tighter against his chest, crushing her between him and the door like he would
never
let her go.
“I told you I couldn’t let you go. Don’t try to leave. I warned you that you were mine the night I took your virginity.”
Tilting her head back, she stared at him, eyes awash with tears she was helpless to stop from flowing over her cheeks. “Why are you doing this to me?”
The gray of his eyes were stormy, as though waiting to unleash a fury she’d never seen the likes of. “Because I can’t let you go. Because I love you.”
His tone brooked no argument, so she said nothing to contradict him, just stared at him for another moment before pushing at his immovable body again. Nick’s hand gently cradled her throat, his thumb forcing her head to lean against the door.
“I’ve already told you that I wouldn’t let you walk away. You belong to me.”
Her lips parted on a half exasperated groan at his declaration of ownership over her.
“How could I belong to you when you close yourself off to me? I will not be controlled by you, no matter what I feel—”
Before she could get out the rest of her sentence, Nick’s mouth took hers in an all-consuming kiss, his tongue robbing her of breath as it pushed past the barrier of her lips and tangled with her tongue in wordless need.
Hunger rose in her, whether it was for physical desire or a need to draw as much of him into her as possible was hard to say. And she hated herself a little for not pushing him away again and again until she won this argument. Not now that she had a small piece of him all to herself. Even if it wouldn’t be enough in the end.
Without a doubt in her mind, she’d never crave anything as badly as she craved Nick: his essence, his strength,
him
.
Her hands fisted around his shirtsleeves, holding him close. She didn’t want to let go . . . of him or the moment.
His touch was like a branding iron as he tugged the hemline of her dress from her shoulders, pulling down the front of the dress. The pull rent the delicate satin material, leaving one breast on display for Nick to fondle. His hand squeezed her, the tips of his short nails digging into her flesh.
Their mouths didn’t part once, almost as if Nick wanted to distract her from her original purpose. Keep her thinking of their kiss. The way their tongues slid knowingly against the other. The way he tasted like coffee and danger. Forbidden. Like the apple from the tree he was a temptation she could not refuse.
His distraction was working.
And his hands were everywhere.
An Excerpt from
A Broke and Beautiful Novel
by Tessa Bailey
In the final Broke and Beautiful novel from bestselling author Tessa Bailey, a blue collar construction worker and a quiet uptown virgin are about to discover that the friend zone can sometimes be excellent foreplay . . .
D
ay one hundred and forty-two of being friend-zoned. Send rations.
Russell Hart stifled a groan when Abby twisted on his lap to call out a drink order to the passing waiter, adding a smile that would no doubt earn her a martini on the house. Every time their six-person “super group” hung out, which was starting to become a nightly affair, Russell advanced into a newer, more vicious circle of hell. Tonight, however, he was pretty sure he’d meet the devil himself.
They were at the Longshoreman, celebrating the Fourth of July, which presented more than one precious little clusterfuck. One, the holiday meant the bar was packed full of tipsy Manhattanites, creating a shortage of chairs, hence Abby parking herself right on top of his dick. Two, it put the usually conservative Abby in ass-hugging shorts and one of those tops that tied at the back of her neck. Six months ago, he would have called it a
shirt
, but his two best friends had fallen down the relationship rabbit hole, putting him in the vicinity of excessive chick talk. So, now it was a halter top. What he wouldn’t
give
to erase that knowledge.
During their first round of drinks, he’d become a believer in breathing exercises. Until he’d noticed these tiny, blond curls at Abby’s nape, curls he’d never seen before. And some-fucking-how, those sun-kissed curls were what had nudged him from semierect to full-scale Washington-monument status. The hair on the rest of her head was like a . . . a warm milk-chocolate color, so where did those little curls come from?
Those
detrimental musings had led to Russell questioning what else he didn’t know about Abby. What color was everything else? Did she have freckles? Where?
Russell would not be finding out—ever—and not just because he was sitting in the friend zone with his dick wedged against his stomach—
not
an easy maneuver—so she wouldn’t feel it. No, there was more to it. His friends, Ben and Louis, were well aware of those reasons, which accounted for the half-sympathetic, half-needling looks they were sending him from across the table, respective girlfriends perched on their laps. The jerks.
Abby was off-limits. Not because she was taken—thank Christ—or because someone had verbally forbidden him from pursuing her. That wasn’t it. Russell had taken a long time trying to find a suitable explanation for why he didn’t just get the girl alone one night and make his move. Explain to her that men like him weren’t suitable friends for wide-eyed debutantes and give her a demonstration of the alternative.
It went like this. Abby was like an expensive package that had been delivered to him by mistake. Someone at the post office had screwed the pooch and dropped off the shiniest, most beautiful creation on his Queens doorstep and driven away, laughing manically. Russell wasn’t falling for the trick, though. Someone would claim the package, eventually. They would chuckle over the obvious mistake and take Abby away from him because, really, he had no business being the one whose lap she chose to sit on. No business whatsoever.
But while he was in possession of the package—as much as he’d
allow
himself to be in possession, anyway—he would guard her with his life. He would make sure that when someone realized the cosmic error that had occurred—the one that had made him Abby’s friend and confidant—she would be sweet and undamaged, just as she’d been on arrival.
Unfortunately, the package didn’t seem content to let him stand guard from a distance. She innocently beckoned him back every time he managed to put an inch of space between them. Russell had lost count of the times Abby had fallen asleep on him while the super group watched a movie, drank margaritas on the girls’ building’s rooftop, driven home in cabs. She was entirely too comfortable around him, considering he saluted against his fly every time they were in the same room.
“Why so quiet, Russell?” Louis asked, his grin turning to a wince as his actress girlfriend, Roxy, elbowed him in the ribs. Yeah. Everyone at the damn table knew he had a major thing for the beautiful, unassuming number whiz on his lap. Everyone but Abby. And that’s how he planned to keep it.
