He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her into him with an unyielding strength. She’d been unmistakably seized.
He brought his lips and hot breath close to her ear. “And once I have you bound and helpless, how should I take you? Missionary? From behind? Against the wall?” He pulled back to face her. “Or all ways?”She inched her legs further apart, and nodded.
She wanted to know what his body would feel like under her hands. Her palms slid, almost as if under someone else’s control, under his jacket until she embraced his waist. His jacket, now parted on either side of her, left only a thin shirt and her dress between her belly and the ridges she felt across his abdomen. She was right about what she’d imagined under his suit.
Her inexperience demanding to be overturned intrigued him. She’d called him a gentleman. He was. When shown a door, he’d been taught to open it.
Most politicians’ voices dripped with air kisses and firm handshakes, affable and approachable, telling you what you wanted to hear. But Jonathon Brond had an edge. The man didn’t hide the power in his voice.
I’m not a notch on a belt.”“You could never be a notch, London Chantelle. You’re the whole belt, sugar.