Page 105 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Hungrily, he drank in the sight of her shapely limbs and imagined himself shoving them apart and lying between them and pumping himself inside her until he filled her with his seed.
Her innocence had snared him from the start—a virginal offering of the gods Wingrave had, for far too long, rejected. Not anymore. Never again.
The fabric clenched in her bloodless fingers slipped. Helia hurriedly readjusted her grip.
“Anthony?” She stared at him with big, luminescent eyes. “What are ye—”
With the heel of his foot, he kicked the door closed behind him and stalked toward her.
An emotion somewhere between fear and desire flitted across her gaze, and he reveled in male primality.
“Mine,” he proclaimed in guttural tones.
Those crimson eyebrows, as fiery as Helia’s spirit, nearly touched the lady’s hairline.
“You are mine,” he repeated, this time infusing steel within that avowal so there could be no doubting she belonged to him and only him.
Her chest hitched.
“You love those words, Helia,” he growled, and gently caught her by the nape. “Because youknowyou belong to me.”
“I belong to no one, Anthony.” She caught her lower lip and leaned into his touch; her body’s easy surrender to him made a liar of Helia, but her fight further fueled his lust.
“No,” Wingrave whispered.
He swept his gaze over her flushed, freckled cheeks. Even those light-brown, tan, and red specks set her apart from every other banal, dull-featured lady who’d ever walked amongst Polite Society.
“You don’t belong to anyone.” Wingrave tightened the grip he had upon her. “Me, Helia,” he repeated. “You belong tome.”
You belong to me.
Anthony’s possessive declaration, which stripped Helia of ownership of self and put it squarely in the hard, unforgiving hands of society’s darkest lord and wickedest rake, should repel her.
Instead, she felt resurrected from the ashes of her recently broken life, and reborn anew for the male dominion he’d declared over her.
For so very long, she’d yearned to be his, and knowing he shared a like hunger for her stripped her of pride, and God forgive her, Helia was all too content to surrender and submit in the ways he demanded.
In this moment, with his body arced over her partially bent frame, everything from his words to the way his big, powerful body towered over her granted Anthony supremacy.
Still, however, there existed enough shreds of self-control and pride within Helia that she managed to resist him.
She scrambled up onto her knees so that she could meet Anthony’s gaze.
The feather mattress dipped under her shifting weight and proved her foe as it abetted the marquess’s attempt of mastery over Helia.
She, however, would not bend.
Helia laid her palms upon Anthony’s hard, broad chest. The heat of him pierced all the way through his lawn shirt and burned her palms with the delicious warmth of his sinewy body.
Reflexively she curled her fingertips into him; her nails dug into that material and left crescents upon it.
Anthony’s muscles jumped under her touch, and she reveled in the knowledge that she, a small woman, impotent in so many ways, should wield this power over him.
“I want ye, Anthony,” she said softly.
A charged, savage shadow flickered across his gaze.
“But I’ll be no man’s mistress, Anth—”
