Moving so quickly he took her unawares, St. John caught her waist and nape in his large hands and tugged her into his body. “I noticed you are no longer fucking him.”

For a moment his rough possession and the harsh edge to his crude speech startled her into silence. Then she found her voice.

“Are you mad?” she asked breathlessly, panting softly within the unyielding prison of her corset, her parasol dropped to the leafy floor.

The day was warm, but that was not what sent heat racing across her skin. As had happened before, nerve endings flared to painful life at the feel of his arms around her. The mass of her skirts forced her off balance, their chests touching, but yards of material separated his thighs from hers. That did not alter her knowledge that he was aroused. She did not have to feel his cock to know it was erect for her. She could see it in his eyes.

And when he kissed her, she could taste it.

Closing her eyes, Maria told herself to ignore the feel of his lips against hers. Soft, with a brushing touch of the tip of his tongue. But the taste of him-dark and dangerous-was delightful and she indulged, opening to him, and was rewarded with his soft rumble of approval.

He took her mouth as if they had all the time in the world. As if a bed were nearby and he could deliver on the promises made by his deep licks. There was something about the way he handled her, both harsh and tender, that affected her deeply. He stole what he wanted by force, but in a gentle manner so completely at odds with his approach.

For long moments, she allowed him to intoxicate her, her senses reeling behind her closed eyelids. His thumb circled lazily at the back of her neck, an easy rhythmic caress that made her back arch and her toes curl. Her nipples ached, her lips trembled. The quivering in her belly was reflected in her hands, forcing her to cling to his coat to hide the depth of her reaction.