Alex's Angel by Natasha Blackthorne Read Free Book Online Page A

nineteen-year-old strumpet? It wasn’t likely that they would discuss literature or have a friendly political debate or commiserate about the fluctuations of the exchange.
    And no man with any blood in his veins would allow the opportunity to pass by without at least tasting that gorgeous, berry-red mouth. He’d expected the kiss to be sweetly distracting—instead it had scorched his senses.
    He glanced, perplexed, at her face, her too-thin body. Usually it took a great deal of beauty in a woman—damn near perfection—to send him to heights like that. And never over a mere kiss, unless the woman’s lips were planted somewhere else.
    God, if just a kiss could produce that kind of sensation, what would it be like to taste her cunt and make her come, to bury himself balls-deep in her body? He could lose himself completely. And he hungered to lose himself, to forget himself and all the bitter corruption in his soul.
    The intensity of his anticipation made his mouth go dry.
    But it had probably been a fluke or a product of his extreme ennui.
    He’d better try it again to make certain.
    He cupped her face and she looked up at him, her eyes huge, luminous pools of sherry. The open hunger there sent an answering surge of desire slicing through him but he suppressed it. It never served a man’s purposes to come at a woman like a ravening beast.
    He touched his lips to hers again and applied steady, gentle intensity. She began to kiss him back, pressing her lips against his with heated softness. There wasn’t anything unexpected in such a response—nothing special—yet his heart began to pound and his cock grew longer, harder.
    Who the hell was this girl?
    What was she going to be to him?
    He slipped his hand down to her collarbone and gently gripped there. The feel of her pulse, rapid and strong, sent a thrill through him.
    The carriage came to a stop. He lifted his lips from hers and released her. A bittersweet aching swelled in his chest. A reluctance to let her go. How novel the sensation was. He sat back in the seat, so bemused by his own strange mood that when the carriage door swung open it startled him.
    He shook himself and climbed out of the carriage. Then he turned back and offered his hand to Emily. Poised on the seat, she looked out of the open door at the imposing red-brick building with her mouth agape.
    “That’s City Tavern ,” she said, voice strained.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Well, I can’t go in there.”
    “Come on, Emily—surely you’re not that shy.” Alex grinned and gave her a wink. And waited.
    She placed her hand tentatively into his. He clasped it tightly and gave it a firm tug. She pulled back, her eyes widening slightly.
    “Oh no, my girl—there’s no escape now.”
    Her eyes grew wider and she bit her lip. But he sensed that she would not pull back now. He could feel it in the way her hand relaxed, in the warmth of her gaze holding his. He laughed. “I won’t let you go now, even if you beg.”
    Her thick, dark lashes veiled her eyes. His gaze dropped to the pulse beating frantically in her neck. And the cold night air didn’t matter—he was bone hard. Harder than ever for her. He drew her gloved hand up to his mouth, then pressed his lips to it, harshly this time.
    His driver coughed delicately. Alex laughed wryly to himself. It was a fairly sad state of affairs when one’s servants had to remind one of social standards. He lowered her hand but did not release it.
    “Come, let’s go inside before my driver has an apoplexy.”
    She let him help her down and he led her to the stately stone steps. There were several patches of brown ice. Tobacco spit.
    “Have a care,” he said, trying to direct her around it.
    She glanced down and lifted her skirts. A few tantalising inches of plain white petticoat and slim, well-shaped ankles in dark grey stockings showed.
    Most gentlemen would have looked away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from her pretty display. When had he ever declined