Of their own volition, her arms went up to loop around Mr. Dettrick’s neck, hanging on desperately. If she released him, she’d fall in a heap.
Cradling her head with long fingers, he tipped it back, his lips tracing down her neck and over her collar bone, dipping to the edge of her dress and sliding over the tops of her breasts. Had he really passed his tongue there? His mouth moved slowly back up, leaving a trail of fire on her skin. He kissed her again, coaxing her lips apart with his tongue. Cecily shivered, her breath catching in her throat.
He administered another long drugging kiss, thrusting into her mouth. She touched the tip of her tongue to his, feeling its rough texture. She wondered if she’d faint.
He raised his head abruptly, and she struggled languorously up from her trance, as deep and sweet as floating in a pool of warm honey. Gradually she registered voices, speaking in shocked tones. She turned her head toward the doors into the dining parlor, a few feet from where they stood entwined. She shook her head to clear it and looked up at Mr. Dettrick, who glared back at her with narrowed eyes, much resembling an enraged Lucifer dislodged from heaven.
A Propensity for Passion
By Martha Farabee
Copyright 2011 by Martha Farabee