One Naughty Night. Joanne Rock

a blazing firestorm that bowled her over before she was even horizontal.

      Chills radiated down her spine as his fingers massaged their way through her hair to her scalp and the sensitive back of her neck. Her breasts pressed more urgently against his chest, craving the same attentive touch.

      As the back of her leg finally grazed the bed she’d been searching for, Esme was more than ready to topple them on to it. She caved into the taupe-colored duvet, dragging him along with her so that they never broke their kiss.

      He landed on top of her with a soft thud, his hands breaking their fall as she knew they would. Something about his very nature, some old-fashioned sense of nobility suggested he would go to great lengths to protect her, to take care of her.

      Tucked beneath him, she felt utterly safe and yet deliciously vulnerable at the same time.

      Easily shouldering her way out of her dress, she bared her breasts to brush across his chest. Hunger for him curled through her, bold and brazen and demanding to be fed.

      He groaned above her, as if her attempt to get naked had tortured him on some sexual level. Esme prayed it was torture in a good way as her body seemed to undulate beneath his on pure sexual instinct.

      “Oh my, it’s so good,” she murmured between kisses as her hand ran down the length of his body to seek the rest of him that she hadn’t yet explored. All of him was steely and hard, edgy and muscular. She wanted to explore every inch. “I need you, Hugh.”