Page 8 of Cocky August Rake

She never wanted a man.

Not like this.

Not with this sharp, frantic ache beneath her skin. Not with every sensible thought scattering the moment he touched her.

When her fingers found the fastening of his falls, he caught her wrist.

“Hold fast.”

There was command in the words, but strain beneath it.

Rose looked up at him.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His fingers tightened around her wrist.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“Tell me plain.”

“I want this.”

His jaw flexed.

“I want you,” she said. “I ain’t frightened of you, and I don’t want you gentle.”

For one suspended moment, he did not move.

Then he released her wrist.

“Take what you want, then.”

Rose unfastened him slowly—not to torment him, not to play some clever game, but because her hands had suddenly become unsteady. When she freed him, he stared down at her as though he could not quite believe what she had done.

He was hard beneath her palm. Thick. Hot. Alive in a way that made something low in her body clench.

The man made a broken sound and bent to kiss her again.

His mouth found her throat. Her shoulder. The tops of her breasts as he tugged her bodice down with impatient but reverent hands.

Rose arched against him.

“Touch me,” she said.

He froze.

Then his hand slid beneath her skirts.

Not bold. But tentative. Careful.

His fingers traced the inside of her thigh, moving higher, but when they reached the heat between her legs, he went still.

For one suspended moment, his hand rested there. His breath came harsh against her neck, but he made no attempt to move.