The Dangerous Love of a Rogue by Jane Lark

her neck where her pulse flickered.
    When his fingers slid into the fabric and gripped her breasts, she shivered again.
    Oh dear Lord . A sweeping sensation plunged down to the place between her legs. She ached for him there.
    He eased one breast free, then his lips brushed her nipple before covering it and then sucking it; cradling her nipple on his tongue.
    Her bones dissolved and her fingers clasped in his hair, as she watched the mirror image above them.

    This was wicked, but delicious; the sensations intoxicating.
    Her breath came in pants. He made her body ignite.
    Still sucking her breast, his hands slid to her hips, and began lifting her dress.
    Cold realisation drenched her, he was not going to stop. He did not simply expect kisses. “No.”
    Her fingers, slid from his hair, gripped his shoulders and pushed him away. “No.” She had not completely lost all sanity.
    His gaze cut through the darkness, meeting hers, his heavy breaths echoing against the glass. “Mary.” His fingers unclenched, letting her dress fall.
    But when she would have stepped back his hands slipped to cup her buttocks, and pulled her closer still.
    A column within his trousers pressed against her stomach through their layers of clothing. “See what you do to me.”
    Her grip on his shoulders urged him away. “Let me go.”
    “You have no need to be afraid of me.” His hands slid back to her waist then fell as he stepped back.
    Her fingers shaking, Mary righted her bodice and lifted her short sleeves, unable to look at him.
    “I would not hurt you.” His voice hit a hard tone.
    Fear and wariness slashing at her foolish soul she met his gaze. What if her instinct had been wrong? She had good cause not to trust him. It was not only John who thought ill of him, he was an outcast, ignored by most.
    “For God sake, Mary.” His pitch lifted to anger.
    Her chin titled defiantly. She had to stop this before it became too late to turn back. “I will not meet you again.”
    “I did not hurt you.” Irritation brimmed in his voice.
    “I know you did not.” She stepped back – away. This was the end. “I did not say you did, but I cannot… I will not meet you again. I won’t hurt my family. I cannot keep betraying their trust.”
    “Then what are you doing here?”

    “I came to tell you… I would not—”
    “You took your time saying no. If that was your intent. You came to be made love to…” he growled.
    Mary held up a hand, to ward him off. “Love is not involved in this. I may be innocent, but I am no fool either, Lord Framlington. You may convince me you are attracted to me but you will not persuade me this has anything to do with love.” At least not on your part.
    That was her downfall. She’d let him take liberties because she did love him.
    * * *
    Silver moonlight caught in Mary’s eyes.
    Pain shone there.
    He’d said he would not hurt her, but he had. That cut at him. He thought of Caro… and himself as a child…The only time when perhaps he could compare his feelings to understand Mary’s. He never wished to hurt Mary.
    Damn, he was unused to women with a heart – a woman who knew love. A woman who’d been surrounded by it her entire life.
    His error glared him in the face. He should not have wooed her with passion. It was not her body he had to persuade – it was her heart. She wanted to be loved. Of course she did.
    “Andrew,” he stated bluntly.
    Why had he given her his full name?
    Her chin tilted higher, reminding him of her brother’s stubborn countenance.
    How the hell do I make her love me?
    “What?” Her tone rang sharp and challenging.
    She did not even know his name. He’d wooed her physically and not even let her in so far as to tell her his name.
    His voice dipped to a calmer conciliatory pitch. “My name is Andrew, although most people call me Drew.”

    “Oh.” She looked confused. Perhaps she also realised how many favours she’d allowed him without even knowing his name.
    “Say