Megan Hart - Tempted

Praise for

MEGAN HART

“Told in the heroine’s first-person viewpoint, Hart’s latest is simply terrific. Smart, ultra-spicy and thought-provoking, it will certainly delight her fans and win some new ones.”

—RT Book Reviews on Switch

“A sensual and impassioned love story, Dirty may very well become a ‘re-read’ to many readers, a ‘keeper’ to others … it was so vividly written; not for the faint of heart … Unforgettable!” —Erotica Romance Writers

“[ Broken ] is not a traditional romance but the story of a real and complex woman caught in a difficult situation with no easy answers. Well-developed secondary characters and a compelling plot add depth to this absorbing and enticing novel.” —Library Journal

“A compelling tale of love and understanding … The story is heartbreakingly familiar in its depiction of how teenage romance can shape our lives. I found myself on the edge of my seat.”

—Romance Junkies Reviews on Deeper

“Hart did it again—with Collide we get a story that is so different from your usual romance novel but still it works just perfectly the way it is. I think it is one of Hart’s strongest talents—her way to make her characters different and a bit flawed but still making them likeable. Her stories always feel so real, and for me that makes them exponentially more appealing.” —Book Lovers Inc.

MEGAN HARTis the award-winning and multi-published author of more than thirty novels, novellas and short stories. Her work has been published in almost every genre, including contemporary women’s fiction, historical romance, romantic suspense and erotica. Megan lives in the deep, dark woods of Pennsylvania with her husband and children, and is currently working on her next novel. You can contact Megan through her website at www.MeganHart.com.

Also by Megan Hart

SWITCH

DEEPER

STRANGER

BROKEN

DIRTY

NAKED

COLLIDE

Tempted

Megan Hart

www.spice-books.co.uk

To those who’ve touched my life and made me

who I am today, I say this:

A different person could have told this story, but only

the woman I am because of knowing you could

have written this book.

L ight and shadow painted him. On little cat feet, like the fog, I crept toward the bed. Tug-tugging, I slid the covers off to reveal his body.

I liked to watch him sleep, despite the way it sometimes made me want to pinch myself to prove I wasn’t dreaming. That this was my husband, my house, my life. Our perfect life. That there were good things to be had in the world, and I had them.

James stirred without waking. I crept closer to stand over him. The sight of him, all long, muscled limbs and smooth, sun-burnished skin, curled my fingers in anticipation of touching him. I held off, not wanting to wake him. I wanted to watch him for a while.

Awake, James was rarely still. Only dreaming did he loosen, soften, melt. If it was harder to believe he belonged to me when he was sleeping, it was also easier to remember how much I loved him.

Oh, I played a good game of confidence. I wore the ring and answered to the name Mrs. James Kinney. I even had the driver’s license and credit cards to prove I had the right to the name. Most of the time, our marriage was so matter-of-fact I couldn’t have disbelieved it if I’d wanted to, not when it came time to do the laundry and buy groceries, or clean the toilets, when I packed his lunches or folded his socks before putting them away. Then our marriage was solid and substantial. Granite. But sometimes, like when I watched him sleeping, the rock turned out to be limestone, easily dissolved by the slow-dripping water of my doubts.

Sunshine filtered through the tree outside our window and dappled him in all the spots I wanted to kiss. The twin dark circles of his nipples, the ridges of his ribs made sharper as he flung a hand over his head, the soft patch of hair furring his belly and meshing with the thatch between his legs. Everything about him was long and lean. Hidden strength. James looked thin, sometimes even breakable, but underneath he was all muscle. He had large, callus-fingered hands, used to working but perfectly suited for playing, too.

I was more interested in the playing as I bent over him to blow a puff of breath across his lips. Fast as sin, he grabbed me. He could pin both my wrists with one hand, and he did, pulling me onto the bed and rolling on top of me. James settled between my thighs, the only thing between us the thin fabric of my summer-weight nightgown. He was already getting hard.

“What were you doing?”

“Watching you sleep.”

James pushed my hands above my head, stretching me. It hurt a little, but then that’s what makes the pleasure so much sweeter. His free hand inched up the hem of my nightgown and found my bare thigh.

His fingertips grazed the curls between my legs as he spoke. “Why were you watching me sleep?”

“Because I like to,” I told him just before his questing fingers made me inhale sharply.

“Do I want to know why you like to watch me sleep?” His grin tipped the corners of his mouth. Smug. His fingertip settled against me, but he didn’t move it yet. “Anne?”

I laughed. “No. Probably not.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He lowered his mouth to mine but didn’t kiss me. I craned my neck, seeking to meet his lips, but James kept them a breath apart. His finger began the slow circling he knew well would drive me crazy. I felt heat and hardness on my hip, but with my hands still held fast in his grip, I could only wiggle in protest.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“Kiss me.”

James had eyes of summer-sky blue, ringed with deep navy. The contrast could be startling. The dark fringe of his lashes swept down as his eyes narrowed. He licked his lips.

“Where?”

“Everywhere ….” My reply trailed off into a sigh and then a startled gasp when he stroked me again.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

I wouldn’t, not at first, though I knew sooner or later he’d have me doing what he wanted. He always did. It helped that I usually wanted what he wanted me to want. We were well matched in that way.

James bit down into the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. “Say it.”

Instead, I writhed under his touch. His finger dipped inside me, then out, swirling gently when I wanted him to press harder. Teasing me.

“Anne,” James said seriously. “Tell me you want me to lick your cunt.”

I used to hate that word until I learned its power. It’s what men call women who have bested them. It’s what women call each other when we want to wound. Bitch has become something of a badge of pride, but cunt still sounds dirty and harsh, and it always will.

Unless we take it back.

I said what he wanted me to say. My voice was hoarse but not weak. I looked into my husband’s eyes, gone dark with lust. “I want you to put your face between my legs and make me come.”

For one moment, he didn’t move. Against my hip, his heat and hardness shifted and grew. I saw the pulse beat in his throat. Then he blinked slowly, and the smug smile spread across his mouth. “I love it when you say that.”

“I love it when you do it,” I murmured.

Then there was no more talking, because he moved down my body and lifted my nightgown to put his mouth exactly where I told him I wanted it. He licked me for a long time, until I shuddered and cried out, and then he slid up again to fill me and fucked me until we both came with shouts that sounded like prayers.