A Season of Seduction by Jennifer Haymore Page A

steady. His sex, growing ever harder against her thigh. She squirmed against it, seeking it as she sought his touch. Light from the candles danced across his broad shoulders, making them shine bronze.
He was so beautiful. And his eyes were dark with want, brimming with lust. His lips were parted with need, his breath releasing in harsh rasps that drowned out the sound of her own exhalations and filled the room with his desire.
Yet he didn’t push her down and make her his. He worked her slowly, patiently, until she whimpered. Her fingernails scored his shoulders. Her body shuddered from head to toe. The feeling—oh, it was beautiful and wicked and so heady she thought she might burst. It was a glowing sun of pleasure expanding within her, sending exquisite flames licking through her veins.
“Oh,” she whispered on a moan. “Oh.”
His fingers tightened over her, the pressure increasing. He pressed on that sensitive area, and she squirmed away, gasping, “Too much.”
She would crawl out of her skin if he continued. He didn’t. He gentled his fingers, tracing circles around that too-sensitive spot. Still, he studied her, watched her closely.
He was learning her body, she realized. Learning what made her groan, what made her squirm. What made her come.
He slipped a finger inside her, and she sucked in her breath and pushed her forehead onto his shoulder. She trembled as he moved inside her, learned about her most secret places, her unspoken desires, the places that made her sob with a need for release.
“Come for me, sweetheart. Come when you’re ready.”
His fingers pumped deep within her. She thought she might be torn apart, or that she might scream, or yell at him to stop or go harder, faster, do something to free her, to release the tension that had built so tautly inside her that her skin prickled with the need for relief.
She heard the roar of blood through her veins, her own harsh breaths, and his rasping exhalations overlapping both.
With a gut-wrenching sob, she came. The hot, tight ball condensing within her suddenly burst, exploded into a million sparks of agonized pleasure that shot through every nerve in her body. She froze, unable to move, to speak, to breathe, as it rushed through her, more powerful than any physical sensation she’d ever experienced.
He didn’t stop. He stroked her through the powerful orgasm as her body clutched his fingers like a vise. She began to shake, her hands grasping at his back, trying to find purchase, and finally gripping his shoulders again. He was her lifeline. He kept her grounded, whole, kept her from falling completely apart.
“My God,” she heard him say, as if from a distance. “My God, Becky…”
The contractions in her body slowly began to recede, and his expert fingers continued to keep her from falling, bringing her down gently back onto the soft sheet.
She was gasping, she realized. Loudly. Sweat—or was it tears?—caked a strand of hair to her cheek. Fresh tears leaked from her lids, and he kissed them away. “Don’t cry. Please, sweetheart, don’t cry.”
A loud creak sounded from just outside the doors that led to the sitting room, and Becky froze. Jack jerked into action. He pulled away from her, tearing himself out of her grip and throwing the covers over her, hiding her body.
The doors banged against the inside walls as they opened. Assorted gasps reached Becky’s ears. Panic surged, a cacophony in her head. Still in bed beside her, his torso bare but the sheet pulled up over his waist, Jack turned to the doorway.
She clutched the bedcovers to her neck.
“Rebecca!”
Oh, God. It was her brother’s voice.

Chapter Four
F our years ago, Garrett might have yanked out a gun and shot Jack on the spot. But Becky’s brother was a changed man, a calmer, happier one, less likely to jump into action without thought. His wife had come far in taming him.
Nevertheless, a powerful undercurrent of violence resonated in his voice.
Becky turned to the door