His Lady Fair. Margo Maguire

speared his mouth with her tongue and grabbed his buttocks, grinding her pelvis against him. She pivoted, dragging him with her, and pushed him onto the chair he’d just vacated. Then she sat on him again, only this time she straddled his hips with her legs.

      “Lord Nicky…” she whined. She wriggled against him, pressing her hips to his loins. She took one of his hands and placed it on her breast, startling him when he realized he hadn’t put it there himself.

      He doubled his effort to seduce her, though she clearly required no wooing. Unaccountably irritated with himself, and with her, Nicholas rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled her gown down in order to have better access to her bountiful flesh.

      But he was pitifully unaffected by the wanton, willing female sprawled across what were usually his most sensitive parts.

      Nicholas felt smothered by her. She smelled of onions and…of something else he couldn’t quite determine. ’Twas not the pleasantest of aromas, though.

      She moaned into his mouth and detached herself enough to whisper a suggestion that they find a private place where she could show him a few tricks she knew with her tongue.

      Again Nicholas was remarkably unmoved by her proposition. In truth, he thought that if she wriggled against him once more, or tried to shove her tongue any farther down his throat, he would be compelled to dump her off his lap without ceremony.