Need a few kisses today? Why not? Here is Charles Winters!
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Excerpt, THE LYON WHO’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS, Copyright, Cerise DeLand, 2026. All rights reserved.
“Blythe,” he whispered her name in that rough bass that made her tingle, “you are engaged in discussions with the Black Widow of Whitehall.”
She closed her eyes, but melted in his warmth, her head swirling in his subtle cologne—and his surprising knowledge of the Widow.
He put a hand to her chin. “Look at me. Tell me why you’d go to see her.”
He was too alluring, too much man to refuse. She could stand here and lie to him, prevaricate, drag this out to a delayed, yet still sordid conclusion. But she would not.
“You know what I did. I asked her to arrange marriage for me.”
He stared into his eyes. “To just any man?”
She would not answer and see the fire of distaste flare in his gaze.
“Whoever he is, do you know this man?’
“I know him. He does not know me. But he knows of me.”
“So from what I understand, Mrs Dove-Lyon arranges marriages of those in need of fortune. Or redemption. Or restitution to society.”
She shook her head, frustrated, caught by his charm and his demand. He had learned all this from O’Neill and Duggan, she supposed.
His lips were on her ear, the hollow beneath, her jaw, her cheek. His voice came to her from the realms of her own bottomless despair. “What is your reason to marry, my darling?”
He was too near, too sweet, too persuasive. He knew how he eroded her resolve.
She could not kiss him. But he was the only man whom she could never refuse.
Her arms went around his shoulders. Her fingers twined in his silken hair. Her lips met his, soft, firm, wild. Once was not enough. Twice was surrender. On the third time, he crushed her close, his lips taking all of hers, his need of her all she had remembered, all she could not forget.
His hand went to her nape and held her still as his mouth and tongue took her to a new haven of need. “You cannot marry anyone but me.”
She gasped, maybe to answer, but she never had a chance.
“You love me,” he growled. “Always have.”
At once, she was off her feet, in his arms as he carried her to the chaise longue. He laid her down, hovering over her for more kisses, more possession.
She should never let him go!
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