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Blurb:
Furious at the betrayal of her once-loyal woodsman, Queen Cressida intends to make him pay. But Nicholas turns the tables, determined to thaw Her Royal Majesty with the heat of a passion she cannot resist.
Genre/theme: Fantasy, Fairytale
Copyright © AUTHOR, 2016
Excerpt:
There was no place for him in her life now.
She swallowed the lump in her throat at the thought,
at the regrets screaming through her. They were as pointless as her frail,
withering hope.
Her hands were red with cold. Surely that was the
only reason she turned away from him and stormed over to the hearth. Trembling,
only a tad, she held her palms closer to the licking warmth. He followed, stood
behind her. Far too close. Heat rolled off him in waves, bathing her back.
“Cressida.” Oh, how did he do that? His voice, a low
rumble, resonated through her, sending an echoing twinge through her barren
womb. “Your clothes are damp. You should take them off.”
She spun around with a squawk of indignation.
Oh dear. Perhaps she shouldn’t have done that. He
was so close, the tips of her breasts scraped over his bare chest. Her nipples
pinged with delight at the contact.
Drawing in a sharp breath, she stepped back.
Again he followed.
And then, before her mind could process his
intention, he put his large hands to her waist and lifted her, spinning her
around to settle her in the chair by the fire. He knelt before her and flipped
the hem of her velvet dress up onto her knees. Shock, outrage and an illicit
brand of anticipation warred within her, making her utterly incapable of speech
or movement.
Slowly, he slipped her shoes from her feet. And her
stockings. Then he cupped each foot in his warm grasp. Rubbing. Stroking.
Stoking some long-dead fire in her belly.
“Stop that,” she hissed, attempting to yank away. He
did not allow it.
But then, truth be told, she didn’t want to yank
away. Dear Lord, it was exquisite, the firm caress of his knowing fingers on
her tender flesh.
What a pity it was wholly inappropriate. She should
make him stop.
“Your feet are like ice.”
“It’s cold outside,” she muttered. “I just marched
through a blizzard.”
“Hmm.” He bent his head. His hot breath trickled
over her toes. She squirmed, tried desperately to hold in a moan. “I noticed
that.” He glanced up and their gazes met. “You came to chastise me, to punish
me for my defiance.”
“Yes.” All right. Perhaps she hadn’t needed to snap.
But now he was trickling his fingertips over her instep and at the seam of her
toes. It was delicious, but far too much to bear.
“I also noticed you came alone.”
“And?” She succeeded in wrenching her foot from his
grasp.
He found the other.
“I thought it…interesting that you didn’t bring your
Royal Guard.”
“I— I…” She hadn’t bothered to rouse them. She’d
been too infuriated.
“As though you wanted to be alone with me.” His
expression tightened. Gone was the subservient minion. All of a sudden, he was
once again the dark and dangerous boy who once had held her down and kissed
her. Teased her. Mercilessly. His fingers rose higher, massaged her calves.
Then, when she didn’t protest—couldn’t, in fact—they rose higher.
Slowly, he drew her knees apart.
“Do you remember the games we played, Cressida?”
Oh. Oh. She remembered. She’d never forgotten. Never
stopped aching.
Sounds hot. :)
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