Page 30 of The Princess and the Rogue

A teasing smile hovered at the edges of his mouth. “How can I put this? Although enthusiastic, it lacked… polish. Technique.”

Her mouth fell open, and he chuckled softly. “Now, don’t get offended, but when it comes to kissing, I’m afraid you could do with a little practice.”

What conceit! Did he critiqueallhis partners in such a way? Anya couldn’t decide whether to be insulted or entertained. She settled for sarcasm. “And I suppose you’re an expert on the matter?”

“I’ve had some experience, yes.” His gaze dropped to her lips and a hot flush swept over her skin.

“Are you offering to be my tutor?” She’d meant to sound dry and cynical, but to her dismay, it came out breathless instead.

His gaze flashed back to hers, and she found herself drowning in the abyss of his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, utterly serious. “I am.”

Anya threw caution to the wind. She lifted her chin in haughty, regal challenge. “All right then, Mr. Wolff. Show me.”

A flare of triumph flickered across his face. He lifted his hand to cradle her nape, his eyes never leaving hers, and a shiver skittered down her spine. He used the pad of his thumb to tilt her chin up, and Anya parted her lips in anticipation as he leaned closer. The sandpaper-roughness of his jaw as it brushed against her cheek was both alien and thrilling.

His lips found hers. When he skimmed the sensitiveflesh of her lower lip with his teeth, Anya almost groaned. She felt him smile against her mouth. He kissed her again, softly to ease the sting, and his tongue slid out to taste.

Her heart gave an irregular jolt. She opened to his silent demand, granting him access to her mouth, and his fingers tightened on the back of her head in silent approval. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

He kissed her slowly, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world. His tongue tangled with hers, a glorious advance and retreat, a voluptuous slip and slide of breath and skin that made her feel like she’d had one too many glasses of champagne. In the small, still-functioning part of her brain, Anya dizzily acknowledged that Sebastien Wolff wasn’t just a good kisser; he was an expert, a virtuoso.

She surrendered to the red-hot darkness with delight. Excitement coiled low in her belly, stoked by his wicked, talented mouth. Who’d have thought his lips would be so soft, so delicious? She slid her arms around his neck and pressed closer, greedy for more. Her breasts squashed against the hard plane of his chest as she tangled her fingers in his thick hair.

With a groan that reverberated through her body, he dropped his hands to her upper arms and pulled away. He rested his forehead against hers.

“That, Miss Brown, is a definite improvement.”

His breath was as unsteady as her own, and Anya felt a little spurt of feminine triumph. The attraction wasn’t all one-sided, then.

“Come to my room.” His voice was an octave lower than usual, all gravel and smoke. It made her toes curl in her slippers. “Let me show you the rest.”

The pop of a champagne cork and a raucous cheerfrom below pulled her back from the brink of insanity. Anya took a step back, amazed and rather appalled by the fever he’d ignited so effortlessly.

“No! I can’t. I’m… Good night, my lord.” She turned and fled down the stairs.

To her relief, he let her go.

Back in her room, she cooled her burning cheeks with her palms. She’d been so close to saying yes. True, they were practically strangers, but there was no denying the attraction between them.

Anya fell onto the bed, utterly confused. Her whole life she’d cherished the romantic dream that she would save herself for a husband, for the man she’d choose as a lifelong partner. She wanted someone she could respect and love. Someone who would share the responsibilities of running the family estates, and who’d make her laugh during the mind-numbing ceremonial functions she was expected to attend at court.

Her pickiness in choosing a husband had been acceptable—even expected—of a wealthy Russian princess. But she wasn’t that princess anymore. She was an ordinary citizen, an exile. A twenty-two-year-old secretary-companion with little money and even fewer marriage prospects.

Sebastien Wolff could never be associated with permanence, but if she wanted anaffaire, he was the perfect solution. He wasn’t pretending to have any deeper feelings for her other than a healthy physical magnetism. He was making no promises except to provide her with an unparalleled sexual experience.

Why had she refused him? She should have taken what he was offering and satisfied her curiosity to know the pleasure Charlotte’s girls insisted could be had between a man and a woman.

Anya expelled a long, frustrated breath and tried to calm her racing heart.

What was Wolff thinking now? Was he cursing her name? Would he go off to somewhere like Haye’s and slake his lust with a more willing partner?

She told herself she didn’t want to know.

Chapter 14.

Seb took a deep, calming breath and willed his iron-hard erection to subside.

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